Tomato, Tomahto
While on the ski trip to Park City, UT, I went on a mining tour of the mountains. I soon learned that in its heyday, to the dismay of the prospectors, silver was the gold in these hills and, as the price of silver dropped, the mining industry lost its luster. The mines were gradually abandoned. Decades later, however, their descendants stumbled upon gold of a different nature: snow. With average annual snowfall over 350 inches, skiing has become a thriving industry making Park City one of the largest ski areas in the US.
During this annual club trip to the west, except for a couple from Wisconsin, almost everyone I met on the lifts was from along the east coast: Florida, North Carolina, New Jersey, to name a few. Not surprising—the Rockies are known for high mountains, great ski resorts and a big attraction to snow-deprived east coasters.
After meeting the mining tour guides at the base and a quick introduction of the inquisitive group, we got on our skis, put our goggles on, and headed into the mountains to see the relics of the old mines. A tardy young lady joined the group and sat next to me on the lift. “Paula,” she said, “from Toahno.” Through the face mask and over the background noise, what I heard—I was pretty sure that’s what I heard—was a familiar place close to me in Virginia, Toano. How about that! I thought. Toano. I’ve wanted to visit that little town off I-64 several times, but I’ve heard there’s nothing there to see: one traffic light and a few fast-food stores.
When I started yapping about our club and how many of us were on this trip, I was surprised to hear she didn't know anything about the Peninsula Ski Club of Virginia (PSC). How could that be? Toano is practically next door. I brushed off the thought, having seen stranger things in my years. And so, like any diehard PSC member, I put on my sales pitch helmet, told her all about our friendly club, and invited her
to join us at our next monthly meeting, pizza on us.
Whatever of her face I could see under her helmet and through the goggles—mine and hers—was a picture of confusion and amusement, with a thin smirk. The more I talked, the clearer it became that she didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. PSC? Hampton? Club meeting? Compelled to clarify, she turned toward me, pulled down the mask that was covering her mouth, and said, “I’m from Toahno?” That’s when I heard a hint of a British, maybe Australian, accent in her voice, not a southern twang as I had expected. To clarify the puzzled look on my face, she figured she’d better reiterate, but this time, the way those of us not from her neck of the woods would say it, “To-Ron-To,” emphasizing the “r” and “t”.
“Oh! Toronto!?”
She nodded.
I felt silly and laughed.
She laughed too.
I shook my head. Toahno, Toano. Toahno, Toronto. ARGH! When will they learn to speak proper American!?
Skiing down, I hummed to the old song, “I say tomato, you say tomahto. Tomato, tomahto, …”
Mahyar Malekpour, March 2025