Secret surprises: S.F.’s signature acts of kindness

From South Ozone Park, Nurse Vivian and I had to take the Q10 bus to get to the Q37 to get to the Kew Gardens subway station to transfer from the local to the express in order to get to Manhattan. We referred to Manhattan as “the city,” a faraway land that was the true Big Apple.

Same thing at Notre Dame. Didn’t matter that South Bend, Ind., was the only other portage route between the Great Lakes and the Mississippi, all Domers referred to Chicago as “the City.”

I’ve only ever been there twice, but from Baton Rouge on down, Cajuns refer to New Orleans as “the city.” What I liked about the Big Easy was that they had their own language. People called each other “cher.” Dogs like our Bandit would be called Caydoodles. To “fais dodo” means to go out dancing.

These unique terms describe the people of the city, that their philosophy is “laissez les bon temps rouler” — let the good times roll.

My particular favorite is “lagniappe,” which is a mix of Spanish, French and the Quechua word for “a little something extra.”

That little something extra is a surprise, a 13th doughnut in your dozen at Dynamo’s, or an amusebouche you didn’t expect at Dark Horse Tavern.

Which brings us to San Francisco, or, if you know it well, Frank. When Brian and I looked for a home, we found one in the Outer, Outer, Outer, Outer Excelsior, which is just barely, by one block, inside the limits of San Francisco but is, indeed, in “the city.” No offense to Oakland, but Oakland is “the town,” and we had done our time in the outskirts. We wanted our chosen family to live in this chosen city.

Does the land shape our vocabulary or does our vocabulary shape our land? San Francisco might not have as colorful a vernacular as New Orleans, but there are words I never heard until I moved here. I cannot tell you exactly where or how. “Tore up” and “out of pocket” are phrases that you might only pick up if, like me, you work in criminal rehabilitation. Nurse Vivian would have scowled if she’d heard me utter “hella,” and only if you have ever shivered at a Giants game do you truly understand “June Gloom.”

But there’s another word we need in the argot of the Bay Area: a term for a surprise that comes with a mystery.

Three recent examples: a box of dark chocolate cranberry cookies from Pacific Cookie that arrived at our door. At work the next day, two shopping bags left on my desk containing four prayer shawls, one knitted for each Fisher-Paulson. Eight thousand stitches and no name attached. That same week, after I mentioned typewriters in my column, an Amazon package arrived with the book “Uncommon Type” by Tom Hanks. Anonymous.

Sometimes I know that the surprise Moët and Chandon came from my fairy godsister, the mustard from Mayor Kay, or the sourdough from the Roof Cow’s Mom.

But those prayer shawls and books remain enigmas. And I love a good mystery, but I still want to get out my thank-you cards.

This kind of thing does not happen in Hoboken. The only thing I ever found by my door there was a death threat teddy bear, left by my ex-Mafia ex-boyfriend. No, this is a San Francisco value, and we need a name for it. Amanda would call it a tzedakah. For many folks, it’s Secret Santa. Maybe we could call it Surreptitious Sanfran? Faceless Frank?

But even without the perfect sobriquet, each of us can make surprises happen. Take a 20 out of your ATM and hand it to a person without a home. Bake two soda breads and leave one for the neighbor. Pick poppies and yellow rockets in McLaren Park and make a bouquet.

We are not the City of Angels. That’s south of us, and I hear they have a baseball team. We are the City of Samaritans, with seraphim who leave us crayons and roses.

It’s that secret and enigmatic generosity that makes us “the city” that we are.

This kind of thing does not happen in Hoboken. The only thing I ever found by my door there was a death threat teddy bear, left by my ex-Mafia ex-boyfriend.