Everywhere I go, people ask if I am going through “culture shock.” After all, there is a big difference between living in Louisiana, where I was born and raised, and residing in the Uintah Basin. While it is true that there are some major differences in topography, climate and culture, I wouldn’t say that I’ve experienced any real “shock.” Yes, I do miss the Southern cuisine.
People are people just about anywhere you go. The bean burritos at Taco Bell taste the same whether you buy them on Highway 40 or along Interstate 10. Navigating through the aisles of Super Wal-Mart in Vernal is no different from rolling through the store with the same name on Tchoupitoulas (pronounced Chop-ah-too-lis) Street in New Orleans. Government entities in the Basin do most of their important business in executive (closed-door) sessions, just as they do elsewhere in the country.
The women here are pretty, just as they are in Louisiana. There must be some French blood in the mix around here, although you’d never tell from looking at names in the local phone book. I can’t find a Thibodaux in any of the phone books my bosses have given me, but there is a Boudreaux listed in nearby Rangely.
I do, however, have one major beef with the Basin. Like other cities and towns in Utah, the streets have no names. And that throws me off.
I know the number-grid system is not complicated, but it’s foreign to me. I’m sure there’s a reason why so few of the streets have real names — I don’t even want to know what the excuse is, for it will seem much less logical than giving a street its own identity with a harmless and unique name.
Where I come from, we go overboard with street names, and they don’t always roll off the tongue. In New Orleans, many streets are named after Greek muses (“Melpomene,” “Terpishore,” “Erato”) and historical figures (“Iberville,” “Bienville,” “Jackson”). Then there are the more common names, signifying things you might see in the neighborhood (“Magnolia,” “Oak,” “River,” “Canal”).
For a few years in the late 1990s I lived on Marengo Street, a name I always loved. Marengo was an Italian town where Napoleon won a famous battle, and he later named his horse after the victory. Actually, I lived on the corner of Marengo and Danneel. Who was Danneel? Some say she was one of Napoleon’s many girlfriends. He and Empress Josephine had an odd relationship.
A few houses away from mine was the home of Congressman Bill Jefferson. You may have read about him in the news last year when he was convicted in federal court of bribery and all sorts of shady stuff. The feds raided his Washington, D.C., house in 2005 and found $90,000 cash, wrapped in foil and stuffed in food boxes, in his freezer. Cash in the freezer — a dead giveaway that he was up to something bad.
I always liked Jefferson when I lived near him on Marengo and I can fondly recall riding my bicycle past his house every morning. I’d wave and yell at him — “Hey Congressman!” — and he’d smile and wave back before sliding a big briefcase into his Lincoln Continental. I’d go to the coffee shop and read the newspaper and he’d go to his office and do things that congressmen do. I bet we both wish we could rewind the clock back to those simple times when neither of us was saddled with debt, and the azaleas on Marengo Street were in full bloom.
But … back to the street names. It would be so much more interesting if we had them. Wouldn’t you rather live on Primrose Lane than 290 North, 700 East? I know I would.
—editor@vernal.com
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