The Californian with his bulk, his beauty, his
boast and his blague descending on New York is very like the native of
the Midi who with similar qualities, is always taking Paris by storm.
Marseilles, the chief metropolis of the Midi, has a famous promenade -
less than half a dozen blocks, packed tight with the peoples and colors
and odors of two continents - called the Cannebiere. The Marseillais,
returning from his first visit to Paris, remarks with condescending
scorn that Paris has no Cannebiere. Of course Paris has her network of
Grand Boulevards but - So the Californiac patronizingly discovers that
New York has no Market Street, no Golden Gate Park, no Twin Peaks, no
Mt. Tamalpais, no seals. Above all - and this is the final thrust - New
York is flat.
Somebody ought to invent a serum that renders the victim immune.
Some day medical journals will give the same space to the victims of
California hospitality that they now allot to victims of Oriental
famines. For with Californians, hospitality is first an instinct, then
an art, then a religion and finally a mania. It is utterly impossible to
resist it, but it takes a strong constitution to survive. Californians
will go to any length or trouble in this matter; their hospitality is
all mixed up with their art instinct and their sense of humor.
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