When I told Barry I was moving to DC, his first response to accompany the frown that claimed his face was, "But Kristen, they don't even have a baseball team."

Fair enough. But today's 40 minute drive North on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway was filled with flawless blue skies and the heavy scent of honeysuckle. The roof of my car was tucked away in the trunk to give the wind an all-access pass to destroy any sense of neatness to my hair. Radio: loud. Possibilities: infinite.

I bought my souvenir program on my way into the park while I listened in on the conversations of my walking neighbors. Everyone was remembering their last game, their last visit to Camden Yards, whether it be the Ravens or the Orioles. The weather. The winner. How good it felt to be back again. It reminded me that coming to a game for most, just like me, is an event. It's something you plan for in advance, picking an opposing team and a perfect day and a game day companion, rather than something you roll out of bed one day and decide to do. But it doesn't stop me from wanting the spontaneity of the latter. The perfect escape on a Tuesday afternoon when work is just simply too whatever. A 45 minute drive to leisure and camaraderie and summer.

I immediately fell in love with my seat and the fact that someone actually took the time to spray and wipe it down for me before I sat down, a first in my history of baseball. I looked all around the park in vain to find someone with a better view. I said hello to my neighbors, smiling in particular at the young boy with his glove behind me and wishing him luck in his attempt to capture a coveted foul ball. No one seemed to mind that I was wearing a skirt.

The game itself started out slow, giving me time to browse my program and acquaint myself with the players. I picked my favorite (Kinkade, 39) based on his choice of batting music ("How Soon Is Now?", The Smiths.) By the seventh inning, I had only cried twice (not a personal best for a major league sporting event, but believe-it-or-not, not a worst, either): once during the National Anthem and again when we stood to honor the men and women who died in service to our country. I decided to reward myself with some concessions.

I went in search of yellow mustard and onions and jalepeños at the top of the seventh, happily finding bright yellow mustard and completely appalled by the fact that every onion in the park seemed to be cooked and melted to a red or green pepper. The only saving grace was being able to talk the Old El Paso nacho man into giving me a few jalepeños for my hot dog. I returned just in time for two Texas home runs in a row. The seventh inning stretch reminded me that I was supposed to eat crackerjacks, and upon returning with my new acquisition in the eighth, Texas went on a scoring spree. I decided that under no circumstances was I getting out of my seat for the remainder of the game.

But of course we never caught them, though I stayed until the very last out. My reward instead was the leisure and the camaraderie and the summer that I so desired. Visibly alone, but scouting out a perfect future and accompanied by so many wonderful dreams.