Ding. Dong.

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If you don’t know who it is, and whoever it is doesn’t know who you are, then you get one ring; they give one ring.  That’s one ring, only.  They ring once.  That’s what the run-of-the-mill stranger does.  Okay, maybe two quick rings.  When they’re making a delivery, that’s when they’ll do that.  Two quickies, and they’ll leave the package at the door.  As the proud owner of a front door, that’s been my experience.  (I own a backdoor, too, along with fifteen sets of windows and something like seven interior/exterior walls.  They come in handy.  After all, a front door isn’t much use without all the add-ons.  They sell you on the front door; then, you know, it’s, “How about a wall for that?”  And then it’s, “Boy, that one wall’s gonna be real lonely all by itself.”  And, naturally, after that, they’ll tell ya, “Well you don’t wanna just stare at the walls all day, do you?”  You’ll save on bricks and drywall, they’ll say, if you put in a few windows.  And it’s true.  But where they really get is you on the roof.  I tell ya, I would’ve been just dandy with a simple teepee.  But they were having a sale on front doors.  And like the salesman said, “The great thing about a front door?  You can slam it in anybody's face.  Can’t do that with a teepee.”)  

So…  One “ding” and it’s accompanying “dong.”  Or a quickie pair.  They may do something else somewhere else--and they probably do--but I wouldn’t know about it.  Believe me, I’m not hiding anything from you.  If I had the knowledge--which I don’t--but if, in fact, I had the knowledge of how delivery people, or perfect strangers, ring (or rang) the doorbell in, say, Dhaka--which, if you did not know, is the capital of Bangladesh--believe me, I would share it with you.  But I don’t.  I do not.  Know it, that is.  I do know what the capital is, but I do not know how they ring.  Doorbells, that is.  Or anything else, for that matter. 

Ringing and dinging is different all around the world.  Of that, I have no doubt.  Although I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, “well-traveled.”  In fact, I’ve only visited Canada.  Five times.  Maybe four.  Once with Big Lou, once with Pop and his rabbi, once with Little Lou (he’s the one with the gills), and another time with Ma.  During none of those trips, as far as I can recall, did anyone, at any time, ring, or ding, a bell.  I’m not saying it didn’t happen.  But I don’t know why it would’ve.  Happened, that is.  But if it had, the knocks were unremarkable.  Nor were the rings.  Nor were the dings.  Nor were the dongs.  Or, for that matter, the buzzes. 

A clarification:  At no time during my five (or perhaps six) trips to Cambodia, did any Cambodian, Canadian or member of any other nationality (that is, other than American, that is, other than the variety of American you’ll find in the United States--whatever that means--it means other than Canadian, that’s what that means) ring, or ding, a doorbell--or any other kind of bell--within earshot.  That is, within earshot of me.  (Although I should probably point out that I have tinnitus in my left ear; but, I assure you, it sounds nothing like any doorbell I’ve ever heard.)  

So.  Taking the aforementioned into account, I must confess that, for all I know (which is scant), every doorbell-equipped culture around the world rings and/or dings in the exact same way.  But I doubt it.  Why would they?  It doesn’t make any sense.  The only thing that’s probably the same wherever you go is a Big Mac. 
Unless…  
…perhaps… 
…I’ve suppressed the information.  That is, with regard to the Canadian, Cambodian and/or Bangladeshi methods of ringing doorbells--or, for that matter, the ringing or dinging of anything.  But why would I do that?  Of all the things I could suppress--not that there are many things at all, because there aren’t (unless, of course, I’ve suppressed them)--why would I suppress anything about how doorbells are or are not rung (or rang) in Bangladesh and/or Canada and/or Cambodia and/or anywhere else I might’ve been but have suppressed the memory of?  Being there, that is.  Where I haven’t been, that is. 
I’ve only been to Canada. 
I’m certain of it. 
Nowhere else. 
Yes, only Cambodia…
…and…
…perhaps…
California.
San Diego, to be precise.  
Ah, yes.  
San Diego.
When I was, as they say in Europe, “a small child.”
Fond memories of the Hotel del Coronado--where “Some Like It Hot” and “Baywatch” were filmed.  Oh, so fond, fond memories.  “The Hoff,” as he calls himself.  People just want to shake his hand, and he’ll say, “Hands off the Hoff!”  I swear to God, that’s what he’ll say.  Probably a germaphobe.  Like Lou. 

So.  One ring.  Or ding.  On average.  Unless, of course, the house is on fire.  Then you’re allowed to ring and ding and dong and bang the door all you want.  But that’s a given.  And if it’s not, it should be.  A given, that is.  

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