Partook of my home nation's great pastime—baseball—this past weekend in the really rather impressive Fenway Park. It's everything they say: truly old, in a lovable-grandpa kind of way, but still intimate and cozy. Plus the signage is all bright-new and set in something like H&FJ's Knockout, a splendid American-vernacular choice. At the game, I didn't observe any noxious sports-fan behavior, and soaked up some rather nice communal atmosphere. The home Sox won, so perhaps that's a gimme.

The real fun of it, though, was explaining the game to my South African buddy, visiting for a few days, even while I only half-understood the thing myself. And I knew I was surrounded by dyed-in-the-wool types who were probably

At one point we puzzled over the box score headings: R H E. Runs, Hits, and E—— what? A nearby Bostonian supplied the answer: Errors. Then my South African friend sensibly asked, "What's an error?" On cue, a Sox in-fielder near Third dropped the ball while trying to relay it to second base. That's an errah! she piped back.

We also took in a Fenway Frank, and some peanuts (chucking shells on the ground), and witnessed a double-play, a three-run homer, and a ritual incantation of a sappy song called Sweet Caroline ("So good," goes the chorus three times).

Anyone pondering a possible life in the American East coast without taking in at least one baseball game at Fenway ought to reconsider, for the amusement and sensory stimulation are truly unique.

Also in novel experiences this week: Chocolate pasta with pistachio pesto.