Initially posted in…I forget. Definitely re-posted on 2.14.21:
The following true-life encounters occured during the Santa Barbara Film Festival. The first happened in 2020; the second in ’15 or ’16. It follows that most of what happens during my annual SB visits is uneventful; we only pass along the stand-out stuff.
Story #1: I was in the checkout line at Ralph’s on Carillo. A giggly party girl and her friends were buying four huge bottles of something alcoholic. Either the booze was pale yellow or the bottles were tinted that way. Didn’t see a label or sticker.
I asked the checkout guy, “What is that stuff?”
“Bocca,” he said.
“Bocca?” I repeated. I thought it might be some exotic liqueur. “Never heard of it.”
Actually I had in The French Connection — Tony Lobianco’s Brooklyn-based heroin dealer was named Sal Bocca. Roy Schieder: “Our friend’s name is Bocca. Salvatore Bocca. They call him Sal. He’s a real sweetheart.”
The girl and her pallies paid for the Bocca, and the guy packed the bottles in ordinary paper bags, which struck me as insufficient given their size and weight.
“How do you spell that?” I asked. The checkout guy ignored my request, but he looked at me sideways. “You never heard of Vocca?”
“No,” I insisted while offering a half-shrug of apology. Ping. “Oh, you mean vodka?”
“Yeah, man…vocca.”
“Oh, sorry. I misunderstood. Sorry.“
In fact, the checkout guy, who was (and undoubtedly still is) of Latin descent and spoke with a slight accent, was pronouncing his vees like bees. I learned that in Spanish class when I was 15. When you say “vamonos,” for example, the vee is pronounced as a blend of vee and bee.
Which partially explains the confusion. But vodka is pronounced “vahdkuh” and this guy was delivering too much of an “oh” sound. So just between us, it was mostly his fault. I’ve been saying the word “vodka” my entire life so don’t tell me.
Story #2: I was staying for a night (Saturday) at the Cabrillo Inn. I awoke around 6:30 am. I naturally wanted my usual cup of morning mud. There was no coffee-pot heater in the room so hot tap water would have to suffice. I turned on the faucet and waited. And waited. Didn’t happen — never even turned warm.
So I dressed and went downstairs with my day-old paper cup and my Starbucks Instant and strolled into the complimentary-breakfast room.
Some 50ish guy (a tourist from Chicago, he later explained) was standing inside and giving me the once-over. Two women were preparing things; they weren’t quite ready to serve. All I wanted was some hot water so I asked for that. In a minute or two, they said. I nodded and waited.
The Man From Windy City thought I had somehow overstepped.
Chicago guy: “Why don’t you ask the hotel manager?”
Me: “What’s he gonna do?”
Chicago guy: “That’s what he’s here for.”
Me: “What’s he gonna do, push the emergency hot-water button?”
Chicago guy: “He could get an engineer to fix the pipes.”
Me: “At ten minutes to seven on a Sunday morning? Yeah, that’s a possibility.”
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