I.
Sitting at the bar at Primanti Brothers, a sandwich place at Market Square in the heart of downtown Pittsburgh, I overheard the conversation between another waitress and a patron.

One of them asked the other, in reference to the crowd of people outside in Market Square, “What’s going on out there?”

“I don’t know, something about… um… Dar… fur?”

“What’s that?”

“Not sure. Something in Africa, I think. Not sure though.”

“Here’s your sandwich.”

“Have a great day.”

II.
If you have seen photos of downtown Pittsburgh, they were probably taken from up on Mt. Washington. They were also probably taken on beautiful, sunny, warm days, which, talking to David, are all too uncommon.

On this particular occasion, the conditions could best be described as chilly, foggy, windy and drizzly. In other words, epic. David would say it was very Sufjan Stevens. I held up two umbrellas, challenging Wind to a duel, daring her to sweep me off that ridge and out across the river and to plop me down where she would. On this day, however, Wind was no match for the powerful tandem that is Gravity/Hoiland.

III.
Having descended from our misty perch, we carved out some time in the afternoon at Crazy Mocha, the coffee shop humble enough to boast “Pittsburgh’s Best Coffee.” Anna spent some time on the inter-web while David and I discussed theology and tattoos and the theology of tattoos.

Then we turned our attention to baseball trivia, including (but not limited to) the naming of every World Series match-up between the years of 1982 and 1995. I told him about the Mariners’ magical year in ’95. He told me about the Pirates back in the day when they had Barry Bonds and Bobby Bonilla and Andy Van Slyke.

Baseball was on our minds as we sat near the big windows in the coffee shop because we were monitoring the weather, hoping that the Pirates game wouldn’t be rained out.

IV.
I am not sure what the opposite of “chagrin” would be, but that is precisely what we were filled with as the skies cleared out and we joined the throng, making our way over to PNC Park for the ballgame.

We got ourselves some seats directly beneath (and slightly behind) the scoreboard. The sun was descending behind the stands along the first base line, and Anna let out a poetic lament: “The sun is deteorating my retinas.”

I didn’t mind the sun though, as it was the only thing keeping us warm. Once it had fallen out of view, taking pleasant temperatures with it, David and I set out on a lap around the stadium, which is the only real way to enjoy the middle innings of a baseball game if you ask me.

We had almost completed the lap when, in the middle of the sixth inning, the centerfielder tossed a ball over the wall to a group of fans that reminded me of a crocodile farm at feeding time, with outstretched arms in the place of snapping mouths. The ball sailed in slow-mo through the air, glistening under the bright lights, and music from Braveheart soared to new heights. Everything else went silent as a whole throng of Pirates fans leapt for the ball in unison. But on this night fate was on the side of the sojourner just passing through, and the ball now sits beside me as I type, with its blue ink and its scuff marks and the careful stitching of a woman in a hut in the Dominican Republic.

The Buckos were playing the Reds, which is nothing special, but it was Freddy Sanchez Bobble-head Night, which is enough to make any blue-collar steel worker with calloused hands and black lungs giddy as all get-out.

As David and I were making the rounds we discovered a fan who had a stack of probably fifteen bobble heads. “I’m donating them to kids in Africa,” he told us. “Figure, they can’t eat; at least they can play with bobble heads.”

This was probably the stupidest thing I have ever heard.

V.
Church this morning was in the cafeteria at the Goodwill Industries building. I went in skeptical for various reasons, and indeed felt out of place what with my lack of tattoos and piercings and greasy hair and all, but came away refreshed by - and thankful for - this light in what I take to be a rather dark place.

VI.
Pittsburgh, David tells me, had a population of 680,000 in 1950. Fifty years later, it had more than cut in half, down to 330,000. Not surprising, therefore, the city seems to have a certain hollow feeling to it. David also reminds me, however, that Pittsburgh was recently named the most livable city in America. As one who is a sucker for bridges and waterways and skylines and houses on hills and old churches and graffiti and grit, I won’t argue.

VII.
In reference to the description of the featured coffee of the day at the Starbucks at the service plaza off the turnpike on the way back home, I commented to Anna that as a Guatemalan, I like to think that I too am “mellow and well-rounded,” but I know this assessment is up for debate.

Now that I am working fulltime like a responsible citizen, Saturday is the only day I can go to the market, so it is in my best interest to capitalize on the opportunity whenever Saturdays allow.

A market routine was something I never had before Cambodia. It is something I might have gotten bitter over had I stayed on for those two more years - you know, the fact that I never got to make it part of my routine. This is one of the easily overlooked blessings, then, of being back.

When I get there I begin what I now affectionately refer to as The Trifecta by making a beeline for Rafiki’s African Deli where I make small talk with Roger from Uganda while my two meat samosas heat up in the microwave. I bid him well and then make my way up to Saife’s Middle Eastern stand, passing by Meck’s Produce where I make a face at Luke who has been working there for as long as anyone can remember even though he is only twenty or so. At Saife’s I get two chicken fajita wraps, or if they are out, I settle for a chicken vegetable roll.

There is normally a lull at this point.

Someone is talking with Luke next door. Someone who has never spent much time outside of Lancaster is grabbing their boring (but admittedly satisfying) all-American sub at S. Clyde Weaver’s. Someone is catching up with so-and-so they knew well at one point but have not seen in a couple years and they conclude their conversation by saying “it was good to see you” and that they ought to get together sometime, and I am eating my fajitas, having already enjoyed the samosas in all their raisin-and-curry goodness.

The final dot in The Trifecta is the place with the fresh-squeezed juice where I order the number five smoothie on the menu, the one with mango and orange and coconut and who knows what else. Most times, anyone I am there with does not have a plan like I do, no Trifecta or Quadrazoid or anything like that to speak of, so they wander more or less aimlessly through the market, and there is something to be said for this approach, but what this means is that I am normally finishing off my smoothie while others still find their food, and we normally all coalesce somewhere convenient, like where Andy’s parents sell horseradish on Tuesdays and Fridays. A couple of weeks ago, we happened to congregate in front of the pastry guy but he yelled at us for blocking his delicacies which have limited time to sell, so we won’t make that mistake twice.

After five or ten minutes, someone inevitably has to go here, someone else has to go there, and I head down to Prince Street Café to drink coffee and, like any good twentysomething, to make sense of life, and whoever doesn’t have a better plan accompanies me.

This is a routine, and it is (for now anyway) a good one.