Pirates v. Cardinals

Last night, a perfect spring evening: after a long day slogging through papers and fidgeting our way through assorted administrative meetings, Andrew and I zoomed up the highway toward Pittsburgh to watch the Cardinals at the Pirates. I loved the walk from the car to PNC Park--crossing the old, yellow-painted suspension bridge over the pretty river, the sun warm and benevolent, bunches of other fans marching cheerfully along beside us.

This early in the season, even our spur-of-the-moment purchase obtained us great seats. We sat in the seats for brief periods, in between trips out joyfully foraging for food (there were no chicken Caesar salads or vegan wraps to be found cutting the grease in this ballpark, Mr. and Mrs. C). We had hot dogs, of course--Andrew was thrilled to discover that "they just pile on the chili!" at no extra charge. He marveled, "I could have gotten onions and cheese and everything! If it weren't gross!" Further exclamations burst forth as we anointed the cheese fries: "This is Heinz ketchup in the actual city where Heinz ketchup comes from!" And as we were leaving: "This is America!"

We walked back over the bridge, the skyline of the city now stretched before us, the moon and the park lights lighting the water we crossed, Mt. Washington a shadow in the distance. A man stood atop one of the bridge rails (on the inside) and played his sax.

[Oh: the Pirates. 12 to 4. Funny how much more vividly I remember the food.]