Why We Love Baseball.

For those of you who enjoy baseball, baseball players, baseball pants, or a combination of all of the above, today is an exciting day. AKA Opening Day here in the States (look at me pretending people from other countries read my blog!)  Some people don't get why it's so exciting.  Maybe its because there are only about 10 minutes of action in the average baseball game. Yep, that's right, those guys get paid zillions to stand on the field for almost 3 hours. Maybe it's because there are games every day except sometimes Monday and Thursday, so it's not as big of a deal.  I don't know. I don't get it. Maybe they just want to be hipsters or something. 

Maybe I can sway them. 

Prepare to be swayed.

We love baseball because we get to go somewhere different to see a game, AKA the lovely metropolis of Detroit. Day in the big city. Whoop whoop

We especially love St. Louis baseball because St. Louis is actually pretty and sometimes you get to participate in record breaking temperatures like 105 degrees and the ballpark is legally obliged to give you free ice made from $4.00 water, which is a steal. Haha, baseball puns.

 

Sometimes you get to sit behind the dugout and see your favorite players and be like 10 FEET AWAY FROM THEM! (See that little white guy to the left of me? He's my fave. Max Scherzer. )

Added bonus: Shiny face pictures.

We love baseball because ballparks have creative names.  The home of the Cardinals, for example, is named after beer.  The home of the Tigers is named after a bank. Which totally has to do with baseball, you know.

We love baseball because after the night games they have fireworks and they are really, really good. Also, all of the lovely citizens of Detroit get a free fireworks show 2 or 3 nights a week, which is neat. 

 

 

Adventures in Detroit

If you live anywhere in the U.S., you've probably heard things about Detroit.  I know, at least, that whenever I'm out of town and tell someone "I'm from the Detroit area," their initial reaction is to draw back slightly and hold onto their purse. Maybe they thing I'm a gang member or a thug, or at least a little tougher than your average teenage girl. 

At which point I usually explain I'm from the suburbs. 

Usually. Sometimes I just go with the tough girl thing. It's kind of fun!

In spite of everything you've heard about Detroit or anything you're thinking of now after my description, it's not all shady, run-down buildings, graffiti, and liquor stores. The city has some really, really interesting stuff to offer - I think the fact that you have to dig through the rubble and avoid the gangsters to get to it makes it even more so! I kind of love the mixture of the the struggle of the present city and the beauty that's in its past or its hope for the future.

Belle Isle is one of those interesting places, and although it's seen better days, it is, after all, an ISLAND! (I really like islands) and it's full of history and hidden secrets and is just a bridge away from downtown Detroit. 

This monument is visible across a small lake as you're driving into the island, and the view is

San Antonio

I'm back!

What, you didn't know that I was gone?  Let me try that again. 

I was gone. 

I'm back!  Last week, 30-some-odd friends and I ran off to Texas together to meet up with about 25,000 more of us for an adventure.  The proposed rendesvous spot was San Antonio. 

More Time Travel: Greenfield Village

Yesterday (well, I guess that was about 4 o'clock this morning, as a matter of fact), I left you hanging, with the (I hope) tantalizing prospect of some photos from 50's style dancing at Greenfield Village. Never fear - I am back; I'm here to rescue you! That is, if you can handle just a bit more of my lamenting over my situation.

Thanks to my friend at Passion for the Past, (check out the link for even more good old tunes) I've got some music for you all, for ambience. Experience it. 

 If you read my my post about The Color Run, you know the drill. Press play and enjoy. 

Held in the main area of Greenfield Village, the dance was staged as a radio broadcast to the troops in World War II. A live band played from the grandstand and couples got in on the fun. It didn't take much to be transported from the crowded 21st century outdoor museum . . .

Time Travel: Greenfield Village

I'm afraid I've been badly misplaced. Alright, that's a lie. I've got this horrible habit of compulsive lying that I'm trying to break by admitting it every time I do it. (Friend: I love this movie! Me: Me too! Wait, not I don't. I lied.) Ok, now its out in the open. Hold me accountable, please.

Let me clarify.  Because I know that God doesn't make errors, I know that I belong right where I am. However, all other evidence points to me being born about 60 years later than my prime era.  I am forever yearning for another year.

That year, or era, really, is the post-war era. The fifties. Sigh. Please don't correct me if I'm wrong. I've grown pretty attached to my little picture of what life back them was like. People ALWAYS looked good. Women wore dresses (no muffin tops here) and in general looked a lot more classy than we do in general today. You'd never catch a man out in his holey, stained, disgusting undershirt and sweats if he could help it. They didn't sag or have pierced ears. Everyone could dance (no, I'm not talking about grinding, jumping, or fist pumping), and the music was fun and live more often than not.  Everyone was always having a good time.  And most cars had windows that rolled down manually. I love that.

Now, I get that the fifties had its fair share of rough times. Their fun just seems like it was funner, and you'll not convince me otherwise.

Meanwhile, here I am, stuck it the two-thousand-teens, where people sag, can't dance, and have power windows in their cars. And that's great; that's where we're at as a society right now.  Maybe in 60 years there will be someone like me wishing she could see every guy's boxers. I don't know. But until then, I'll be traveling back in time as much as possible via Greenfield Village, a place for people stuck in a past they'll never really know.

A window in an old (duh) lumber mill at the Village. 

Greenfield Village really is a very spectacular place. The dedicated souls working there have manages to salvage countless pieces of American history, from Thomas Edison's workshop in Menlo Park to Noah Webster's home.  It's a village made of places where crazy important stories began once upon a time, and I think that's another reason I love old things. I love places with a story.

As we entered today, it was a bit rainy. We were definitely the odd ones out, weaving between people trying to make a quick getaway from the precipitation armed only with umbrellas, which the masses seemed to have left at home.