Ticket to Ride (Deutsch Version)

So after walking through such venues as Unter den Linden, Brandenburg Gate, Potsdamer Platz, the Reichstag, and elsewhere, we decided to try one of those touristy boat rides with the glass ceilngs. Right near the Berliner Dom, just below a bridge decorated with lovely classical marble statues. It would be hard to believe they are from antiguity since some 70% of the city was destroyed, I believe, in World War II.

Anyway, the posted cost was 7 euros each (for two adults) and 3 euros for those under 14 (one). But the curly-haired guide told us she did not offer the tour in English. She uttered this in flawless English, of course. We asked about alternatives. She knew of none. She offered us a discount; 14 euros total. We took it.

It wasn't too bad; nor too great. For one hour, we toured the canals and rivers and listened to the tour guide's descriptions in German. That wasn't really bothersome. What was bothersome was not being in on the jokes. She seemed to telling jokes about architecture, seemed to be mocking the new chancellery buildings near the Reichstag. Maybe she was being sarcastic about the costs. I picked up the word "euros' frequently. I became defensive in my mind, defending the architects of this modern, dynamic buildings. I don't knpw what her laugh-out-loud jokes were, what her shtick is. I'll never know.

This coincided later that day with finishing Grammar Lessons by Michele Morano, with its telling observations about fluency and language and cultures.

It's late.

A few more headlines:

Only by happening to read The Guardian did I discover that a significant part of the wall was removed secretly in the night while we were here.

In the dead of night.

What a shame.

Does anyone here even know? Certainly no protests or alarms. Maybe that is the bigger crime.

Homeward bound soon.

Yes, we have our own shames to contend with.

Peace.

They Might Be Jints

Hope springs eternal -- as in spring training. Or at least temporarily eternal. Or maybe not at all. This unreasonable, illogical, and typically futile springtime hoping began for me sometime between the winter of 1954 and the spring of 1955. I had asked my brother, Richard, whom he rooted for. The New York Giants, was his answer. And it's been my answer from then until now. I kept a scrapbook in those Polo Grounds days; it consisted of pasted-in news clippings and baseball cards, including the card of my beloved Willie Mays and even Johnny Antonelli, who threw left and batted right and had a unibrow, all just like me. (Note the "pasted in"; that means the Willie Mays card is decidedly not worth hundreds of dollars, not that I'm selling any of it.) (Another time I'll write about my Willie Mays hero worship: trying to call him when I was 10 years old; how he influenced my attitudes toward race; how I imagined I was number 24 in the field.) I stuck with the Giants even when they left New York and abandoned me, left to listen to corny (but believable to me) re-creations of games by Les Keiter on WINS 1010, as a tickertape fed his contrived play-by-play backed up by sound effects; stuck with them despite a three-hour time difference owing to San Franciso's distance 3,000 miles away (I sent away to the Chamber of Commerce ask information about this place (they obliged by sending a brochure); remained faithful largely because of The Say Hey Kid, and all the elan and verve and reckless fun and drama he brought to the field and beyond; even remained faithful after my moving back to the NYC metro area, when the Mets were there to watch in person, or on TV, or on radio. I admit to having flirted with fan-adultery then (fantasizing an affair with the Mets), but whenever my boys came into town I could not root against them, especially after meeting Nick Harrigan on the No. 7 train after a game at Shea in 1979 or 1980 (Nick who had seen every Giants game in New York since the 1930s if memory serves); nor could I in 1978 after wearing an SF cap on my head at a game in Pittsburgh where I had a press pass and got to interview the likes of Vida Blue and Willie McCovey and John Montefusco -- with a Giants cap on for heaven's sake.

It would be easier to give it all up. Especially after the nightmare of 2002, which bears no repeating here.

The skin is thicker; the passion has waned; the naive optimism tempered -- for the Giants at least.

I rarely see them in person; it's been years. The Internet has replaced those days of dialing in games from as far away as Pittsburgh, Saint Louis, Cincinnati -- even Chicago or Atlanta on a night with a rare, good skip with little static.

The gods have left Mount Olympus, and all the seams are worn.
The hero's in the grandstands with all his memories torn.
I can hardly find the paper's box score
With all the news of war.

And as for this year's Giants, they've put me in a downright subjunctive mood. (I was indicatively captivated yesterday, browsing at Borders, by Michele Morano's winning essay on the subjunctive mood; I would check her out if I were you, before our language loses the last of this dying breed, the subjunctive.)

Might is the operative word.

Might be pretty good; might be mediocre; might even be awful.

But I most likely won't fret much, no matter which way it all goes.

After all, Willie's on the sidelines -- and he's coaching Mr. Bonds.

(See, can't help it. Just checked. The boys lost today, 10-9. Could, might, would, may be a harbinger of things to come.)


P.S. Sorry, my friend, Michael Christelman. Still can't stand the Dodgers, even though you have a better team this year. Up for a friendly wager?