Free Confessions of a She-Fan by Jane Heller Page B

and I am leaving to watch baseball games.

Week 17 Continued
    It is middle-of-the-night dark as Michael and I scramble to get dressed, close our bulging suitcases, and lock up the house. We are off to LAX for our 8:55 a.m. United flight to Baltimore.
    At the United terminal, I march up to the customer service counter. Because I am neurotic about flying, I like to confirm things—the type of aircraft, the location of my seat,the fact that the flight is nonstop—but there is along line of people waiting to speak to the lone representative. A storm in Chicago has delayed all flights in and out of O’Hare, and everybody is missing their connections. Realizing that my concerns are trivial in comparison, I relinquish my place in line and join Michael at the gate.
    Our Airbus A320 takes off on schedule, and we are offered snacks. There is turbulence and I need alcohol, not trail mix. When the flight attendant comes around with her cart, I order white wine even though it is 9:30 in the morning.
    â€œThat’ll be $5,” she says.
    â€œWhat kind is it?”
    â€œYour basic screw-top chardonnay.”
    â€œIs it dry?”
    â€œPeople drink it.”
    I am an expert in plane wine, so I know not to expect anything transforma-tive, but this wine tastes like mouthwash. I consume the entire bottle.
    We land in Baltimore. After collecting our suitcases, we look for the Marriott shuttle, which does not come. We are rescued by a large man driving a rundown van that has plastic bags full of garbage in the front seat. He offers to takeus to the Marriott for the same price as the shuttle, so we hop in. He talks nonstop about Cal Ripken, whom he likens to God.
    We check into the Marriott Inner Harbor. I ask the woman at the desk for a quiet room. She laughs.
    â€œThere’s a convention of over 17,000 firemen this weekend,” she says. “They get pretty rowdy.”
    â€œHow rowdy?”
    â€œThey love to pull fire alarms at 2 in the morning.” She nods at the throng of people in Yankees caps and T-shirts who have congregated in the lobby. “They’re pretty noisy, too. They come whenever there’s a series at Camden Yards.”
    The bellman takes us to our room, the sort of space that should be photographed in a shelter magazine as a “before” shot. The wallpaper is yellowed and peeling. The closet doors are mirrored sliders straight from the ’60s. And the pillows on the bed are the appropriate size only if you are a very small child. But we are happy to have begun our adventure. And we have a night to ourselves before the Yankees come into town and open their series against the Orioles tomorrow night.
    We venture out for dinner. It is 90 degrees and very humid. My hair frizzes instantly, and I curse it for not being the hair of, say, Reese Witherspoon. We stroll along the harbor area, which is packed with firefighters in T-shirts displaying their local communities. When we pass the Renaissance Harborplace Hotel on Pratt Street, I stop in my tracks.
    â€œLet’s go in,” I tell Michael. “John Sterling said the Yankees will be staying here.”
    â€œI’m hungry,” he says. “I thought we were eating.”
    â€œI just want to see what it’s like.” I waltz through the front door. The lobby is way nicer than ours.
    I approach the concierge, a man in a conservative dark suit. “Do you have any rooms available this weekend?” I ask. “We’re staying down the street, but would rather be here.”
    â€œThe Yankees are coming. We’re full.”
    â€œMaybe if you just take a minute to check the computer, you’ll—”
    â€œI don’t have to check. No rooms.”
    I have been thrown out of better places.
    Michael and I continue our stroll outside and peruse the restaurant options. We choose California Pizza Kitchen because it is the only place with empty tables. I order a veggie pizza, and Michael