Confessions from a 60-mph speed demon

BY CASEY COSTON

Since relocating to Cincinnati from Detroit last April, I have been asked often how the two cities stack up.

As an inveterate booster of Detroit, I am quick to note that the two are really apples and oranges ... perhaps even apples and, um, star fruit. Be that as it may, however, in the interests of venting my spleen (without compensation, I might add), I will add my two cents' worth (and not a penny more).

For starters, Cincinnati is much more polite and genteel than Detroit. This is basically what we call the "nice" factor, and, upon first arriving, I immediately had to at least try to ratchet down my meanness quotient accordingly. Gruff, rude, boorish behavior, wildly gesticulating motorists yielding 9 irons and withering sarcasm are really just standard defense mechanisms in Detroit, a city that many fail to realize possesses immense natural beauty and unparalleled architecture.

One only needs to point to the roadways, where Cincinnati maintains a shockingly high level of decorum that, when compared to Detroit, is like comparing "Thomas the Train" to "Death Race 2000." Even now, despite my ample adjustment period, when returning home at night (and only on a scant four-mile stretch of I-75 North out of downtown), I am astounded at the seemingly unconcerned, sloth-like pace being logged on the roadway. Not due to any traffic gridlock, mind you, but rather just your standard "going-50-in-the-left-lane" type of Sunday driving that strikes this Motor City veteran as a potential federal offense (most likely under the Patriot Act) and borderline treasonous.

My constant slaloming in and out of traffic at mediocre speeds has resulted in the self-dubbed nickname, "60-mph speed demon." In Detroit, such a phenomenon does not exist, unless you're in a school zone, a parking lot or driving on a congested downtown sidewalk.

Another culture shock in the Cincinnati area when compared to Detroit is a single area code. In Southeast Michigan, you may encounter no less than five different area codes, with more on the way every day.

Although it's a huge pain in the ass, there is an upside to the plethora of area codes which plagued me whilst residing in the metro Detroit region. To wit: My experience here in Cincinnati, both on the home phone as well as the cell, have provided me with solid empirical evidence that fewer area codes (as is the case here) lead to an exponential increase in the number of wrong numbers, and recidivist wrong-number dialers at that. I am compiling statistics on this with a report to be released next year, which I will forward to the City Council.

While I have additional observations on such undoubtedly scintillating topics as regional specialty cuisine, sports and panhandling, I will hold those in reserve until my next regularly scheduled spleen-venting. Until then, you can find me weaving in and out of traffic on 75 whilst answering wrong numbers on my cell phone.

Casey Coston, an attorney, lives in North Avondale.