When I was ten years old, we went on a family vacation to visit relatives in Seattle, Washington. We took a daytrip to Vancouver to go Chinatown there. There were dozens of stalls selling strange, sweet, delicious fresh fruit imported from all over the world: rambutans, longan, cherimoya, mangosteen, lychee.
I threw a small tantrum requesting “Washington apples.” I sat with my bag of apples as my relatives devoured the succulent exotic fruit they had purchased.
At the time, I suppose that it was a combination of successful marketing ploys and an early desire to try local delicacies.
The apples weren’t that great, though.