Street Wise

Among the many things that separate the girls from the boys, besides Brazilian bikini waxes, is the way the genders navigate.

All homo sapiens have a built-in GPS in their noses, in the form of a small magnetite deposit found in the ethmoid bone, located between the eyes and behind the schnozz, that helps them find the North Magnetic Pole. Men, however, seem to have a larger lump than women (in the South Magnetic Pole, too), which is why they have a better overall sense of direction. It also accounts for why, on the occasions they do get hopelessly lost, they’re so damned reluctant to stop at a gas station and ask for directions.

Women, on the other hand, prefer to find their way using landmarks and street signs, which is no easy feat if you’re driving on Long Island, a region that shows an astonishing lack of imagination when it comes to getting creative with location names.

In my neighborhood, there’s a residential street called South Long Beach Avenue which, if taken to its end, brings you to Waterfront Park overlooking Freeport Bay. However, a few miles west is Long Beach Avenue, a heavily-trafficked retail/commercial strip that will eventually lead you to the barrier island of Long Beach, known as “The City By the Sea.” I cannot tell you how many times, during my frequent constitutionals through the 'hood, I’ve been stopped by some hapless driver looking for the “other” Long Beach Avenue. The town fathers have even erected a sign at the first major intersection alerting drivers of the following: “Long Beach Avenue, Oceanside, 2 ½ miles” with an arrow pointing west. Here’s an idea for these bureaucratic big daddies. Why not just rename the bloody street and end the confusion once and for all?

This is not just an aberration. The same scenario plays itself out in the next town over, where two streets named “Grand” (one a residential “boulevard,” the other a main “avenue”) are a mere three blocks apart. Whoever is responsible for this set-up has a less than grand vocabulary.

Unfortunately, this drought of designations is even worse when it comes to Long Island’s towns. The best (or worst) example is the “Islips” which encompass Islip (proper), East Islip, Central Islip, Islip Terrace (huh?) and West Islip, which is divided from its sister burgs by West Bay Shore and Brightwaters. (Brightwaters also divides West Bay Shore from North Bay Shore and all the other Bay Shores. Get the drift?)

Once, when my sister and I were small, we giggled as my Mom drove through an area of that seminal suburban village, Levittown, sporting street names such as Griddle, Saucer and Cotton. A few years later, but this time egged on by “mary jane,” I giggled once again when my cousin drove me through a part of Merrick known as “Tiny Town” because of its Lilliputian-sized domiciles. (Unfortunately, we didn’t see any Munchkins, just normal-sized residents giving our smoke-filled car the stink eye.)

Granted these are silly names, but I’d rather lose my way searching for the wildly creative than the mind-numbingly commonplace.