So, after 2 1/2 years in this country, I finally made it to a baseball game. Got the hats, got the tickets, and off we went, by train (San Francisco’s baseball stadium, the AT&T park, is about the only thing in the city that is right next to the train station). As expected, the train was incredibly busy, a sea of orange-and-black clothing and accessories – the Giants’ colours. There was no way we would get a seat, so we just scuttled along and positioned ourselves smack in the middle of a big group of college kids on their way to the game. Music was blaring, conversations were shouted rather than had, and alcohol flowed freely. Bracing myself for a long and painful journey that would feel much longer than the expected 45 minutes, I smiled back at all those wholesome, American faces beaming up at me. It took about a minute before S was offered a beer, and a bucket of Chardonnay was pushed into my hands. No fuss, not awkwardness, just friendly smiles. What a smashing group of kids. It turned out most of them were swimmers, and they happily talked sports, wanted to know about London and the Olympics and engaged F and E into conversations. Needless to say, the journey went very quickly, something that I can’t really say about the actual game… I’ve been trying to understand the rules, and I actually got quite far in listening, but at some point I always zone out, and give up. It was a fun day, but it’s not my game.
Transcontinental Overload 