The Boston Bucket List, Part I

Everyone has heard the term "Bucket List." We have a sort of Boston bucket list of all the things I want to do before we move. Being a natural at manoeuvring around the city on the "T" and going to Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox are on the list.

Yesterday afternoon, I rode the T for the first time. The tickets cost $2.00, but since all I had was a $20 to pay for the train and parking at the station, a handful of dollar coins rattled around in my bag the rest of the evening. I had to ask a foreign college-age guy how to buy my ticket because I could not figure out the machine. Once I realized that I should be ordering a subway ticket and not a commuter rail ticket, it was much easier. Who knew that I was on a subway that never technically went underground. My "train" suffered from electrical issues, so we stopped a few times along the way. The lights and AC were turning on and off, and the drivers were yelling indiscernible things to each other, running through the train, stopping to talk to the drivers of the trains going the opposite way. Finally, the driver yelled something I could understand: they were renaming the route to "The Fenway Express." Fortunately I do not have an iPhone 4G, so I could make a call to Neil, who was waiting for me at the last stop before Fenway, to change plans. I got off the train and followed the mass of Red Sox shirts to meet Neil and walk to the park. The parking downtown was $30. My parking at the T station was $6. I cannot figure out why anyone would park downtown...

We had seats a few rows behind first plate, and I thought I should dress nice for my first trip to Fenway. I was even prepared with my flippies to change into for the 5 block walk to the ball park. The humidity was a surprise, though. I might as well have been in Texas for the sweat ruining my freshly blow-dried hair. The girls wearing Red Sox tshirts and jean cut-offs who were sitting in our seats saw my white pique slacks and made faces at each other. When I made eye contact with one of them, and her eyes got wide, her friend looked up. They realized that I knew what they were communicating to each other. They had the decency to look slightly ashamed. Neil missed all of this while he was trying to determine where we should sit. We sat behind them, and while Neil was corroborating with another fan that those girls were in fact in our seats, he happened to knock his soda onto the floor in front of us. The girls freaked out, but only their sneakers got wet. Neil felt horrible, especially when we had to kick them out of our seats five minutes later because someone needed the seats we were sitting in. I felt less horrible for them. As I explained to Neil later that evening to help him feel better, there's this thing, it's called karma.

I enjoyed my first trip to Fenway; it reminded me of hanging out at Aggie baseball games with Neil before Syd was born. I found it very relaxing. I was happy that I bought a $1 bottle of ice cold water outside the gates because the water was $4 once I crossed through the line. It's amazing how the magic of Fenway extends to its bottled water. It was interesting how they scanned bags and tickets on the street outside the park so that you could walk through all of the stores and restaurants outside of the park. What a great idea-Fenway can offer a greater variety of food while still pleasing the baseball purists who only want peanuts, popcorn, and hotdogs to to be sold inside the park. Although I was not a Rangers fan before moving to Boston, I had to keep myself from clapping for the Texas team. It seems like I should watch some ESPN so I know who the good Red Sox players are next time. And I should wear shorts and a tshirt and running shoes and a pony tail. The guy who checked my bag was not phased by the espadrilles I was carrying. I never changed back into those three inch sandals and ended up with my pants rolled up to avoid sticky diet coke and other things that might have stained the hem of my new pants. All in all, I can't wait to go back!

On an unrelated note, my favorite kid-ism is the term "Mommy Gun." It is a concept similar to calling "Shot Gun." Whoever calls "Mommy gun" first gets to sit next to me. It makes me smile every time I hear it.