Over the course of Spring Break in Costa Rica, my friends and I encountered a cornucopia of interesting people. Delayed for nine hours in Newark Airport during Snowstorm ’07: The Sequel, we met individuals from across the world, all equally agitated by our airline’s unstellar service and eager to swill back Beast at the airport bar. This column has already brought me far too many legal headaches, so I won’t say which airline it was.

In the airport, our conversations with other travelers were heavy on the syrupy empathy, as those between complete strangers in yucky situations tend to be, so there’s no point in trying to reënact each one in painful detail in the pages of this newspaper. Occasionally, an agitated traveler would lash out at me, mistaking my friendliness for an attempt to swindle him. It was Newark, after all, a French woman reminded me. I had better watch my back.

But the one thing that was universal to every interaction which lasted longer than 30 seconds was the, “Where are you from?” In a snowed-in airport, this shouldn’t be confused for genuine interest — what you’re trying to do is see whether you’ve had it worse than the person you’re speaking to. “I’m from New Jersey” was often met by “I’m from Wisconsin, so we slept on the airport floor and have been eating Cheez Whiz for three days.” This kind of talk quickly proved annoying, but it’s better than the usual “What exit?” response, so I took it in stride.

We were four lively lads with snorkels and surfboards, and most people could tell that we were college students. Someone asked if I knew their daughter, who went to college in Texas, because of “that face thing.” Others inquired as to what college we attended, what we were studying and whether or not we were drunk at the time (because hey, we’re in college, that’s all we do). In fairness, we were on Spring Break, and I’d been hitting on a comely young geisha standing next to the customer service counter, so I let it go.

When we told people we were Cornellians, many people smiled knowingly and said “Oh, Ithaca.” I can’t really explain this reaction. The smile was always toothy, reminiscent of Mike Greenbaum ’06. But what confused me was why these Average Freaking Chumps were smiling so smugly when they heard we were from Ithaca.

This prompted me to consider what makes Ithaca so special and so recognizable to people outside the “10 square miles surrounded by reality” with which Cornellians have a unique love-hate relationship. East Hill Plaza is very special. Dryden is very special. But what makes Ithaca more recognizable than say, Peoria, Illinois? I conjured up the spirit of the late Calvin Coolidge to help me in my quest. Coolidge was known as America’s Spring Break President, mostly because of his fondness for sleeping and creepy hitting on co-eds in Acapulco.

“Cal,” I called, my voice brimming with tension as I addressed the heavens from a Newark Airport bathroom stall, “What is it that makes Ithaca so special?” Coolidge put down his moonshine — he was president during Prohibition, after all — and answered: “Look to the streets, and you will find your answer.”

The streets, I thought. What’s on the streets of Ithaca? They’re poorly paved and pathetically potholed, but do people really know that? Is he trying to get me to write a column about Ithaca’s absurd set of parking restrictions, which have mysteriously forbidden us from parking in certain places from 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. and recently ensnared Sun columnist Jeremy Siegman ’09 in their nefarious net? Maybe C-Cool hit one too many speakeasies.

Then I realized: It’s Ithaca’s unique culture of stop sign protest. Driving around Ithaca, I’ve noticed many creative comments on stop signs. I first noticed this when I was six, and someone had pasted a sticker with the words “Eating Animals” on a stop sign near my house. Never the sharpest tool in the shed, it took me a good five years to figure out that the word “stop” was part of the message; it had always bewildered me as to why someone would make a sticker with the simple words “Eating Animals” on it. The day I finally understood still ranks as a major event in my life, alongside the cultural turning point of the millennium, which was Janet Jackson-Gate during the Super Bowl a few years ago.

In Ithaca though, stickers aren’t used; graffiti is. The most popular ones are related to revolutionary issues. STOP “War,” STOP “Corporate Greed,” STOP “$ Pigs.” Talk about a copout. In the old days, revolutionaries used to do cool things, like try to levitate the Pentagon. Today they vandalize stop signs in awful handwriting.

But other people use stop signs to express their opinions. Some are tongue-in-cheek. STOP “Writing on STOP signs.” Others reflect deep, personal problems. STOP “Cheating on me.” Still others are written in fear. On the corner of Court and Cayuga Streets are the words STOP “Vic.” Vic Pollaci ’05? Probably.

I think this is all confusing because I’m from New Jersey. Most people conceive of New Jersey as a strange theme park of on-ramps, oil refineries and diners. In truth, they’re right. We don’t stop at our stop signs in Jersey, let alone get out and scribble all over them. It’s an Ithaca thing. Hence the knowing smiles.

Justin Weitz is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. He can be reached at jdw42@cornell.edu. Free Weitz appears alternate Wednesdays.