Just Like It Sounds

Since I magically acquired additional vacation days at my “real” job, I took one today to stay home and catch up on some work for my second job (the “unreal” one).

The phone rang and I got up to answer it. The caller ID displayed “Unknown caller,” so I was pretty sure it was a telemarketer, but I was bored and answered it anyway.

Turns out it wasn’t a telemarketer, but a surveyor. I had a hard time understanding the woman on the other end of the line, who sounded like she had an adenoid problem, but I gathered she wanted to collect some information about how I get my news. I consented, and she asked the first question.

“What county do you live in?”
“Washtenaw,” I replied.
“Where?” she asked.
“Washtenaw County,” I said.
There was a pause. “Could you spell that please?”
I spelled Washtenaw.
There was a pause.
“Just like it sounds,” I said, which is exactly what D. said to me when I said “Huh?” before I moved here.
She was clearly nonplussed, but remained professional. “That’s all the questions I have. Thank you for your time.”
“Thanks!” I said brightly, and hung up. At least it was some amusement for the day.

I think there is an unwritten rule that every place must have names designed to separate the natives from the tourists, the residents from the outsiders. Back in the Greater Johnstown Statistical Area, your pronunciation (or mispronunciation) of Conemaugh Hospital and Menoher Boulevard could mark you as an in or an out, a person with roots there or a newcomer.

In my various moves around the midwest, I’ve blundered into several of these myself. The Native American place names are understandable, but it’s the slaughtered European cities that crack me up most. Versailles and Cadiz are not pronounced the same way in oHIo as in France or Spain. I never imagined Milan could be MY-lan. But after a year, I’m learning my Michigan patois. Maybe soon I’ll qualify for townie status.

Just don’t get me started on Saline.