Red Sox

On a sunless cold mid April day with the threat of light rain, I went to the red sox game with Mike and Diane. 

We took a late model Uber to storied Fenway park, and as we got closer to the park the heavy traffic inched along.

The driver became chatty and actually had Red Sox radio playing over the speakers

Got dropped off right into the middle of the scrum of excited Red Sox nation fans as we made our way into the stadium.

Along the way, dozens of purveyors of street food treats filled our senses with temptations of pungent sausage, hot dogs, roasted peanuts, as well as vendors hawking red sox paraphernalia. “Get your program here”.

It seemed like we had to walk through the whole stadium to eventually get to our skybox seats high above home plate–great seats.

We asked several employees for directions or at least assurances that we were going in the right direction.

As we sat down a friendly employee introduced himself and said we could order any food or drink from him which was certainly convenient and worth the 18% gratuity. 

The game was close, and watching the boys of summer play such high level baseball on the perfectly manicured grass carpet filled a special place in my brain.

As an extra treat, a man proposed to his girlfriend which was broadcast on the movie-screen sized “TV” that is pinned high above the bleachers. 

The lucky girl seemed to have no idea that the boyfriend would ask the big question and excitedly said yes as her body language gave away her overwhelming joy.

Rome

Now, more than three weeks removed from this tiny heavenly form of delight, I find that I miss it terribly. I love the whole ritual of having cappuccino. Standing in line with the locals to place my order and watching in awe at how quickly and gracefully the baristas work. And enjoying the virtually theatrical sounds of the Espresso machine alternatively grinding the fresh coffee beans and steaming the milk. And the intensity of the Italian language spoken by the locals as they traded words with each other.