Many years ago, right around the time I was dating a man that played nonprofessional baseball who started to teach me how to throw, my brother Peter and I made a decision.

We wanted to go to Major League Baseball games. Neither of us had been to one since leaving the Bay Area 30 years prior. When I think about it, I was the first one to go to a Mariners game. By myself. I took the train up and had booked a room at the Four Seasons, telling myself that it was within walking distance of the ballpark and train station. My seat was six rows back and behind home plate. I was a rookie. I didn’t know that the seat that I had bought came with a buffet dinner and free drinks. I ate dinner before I went to the game. But I had a ball. I loved the relaxing train trip, the hotel of course, and especially the game.

I convinced my brother he needed to go. That next trip, Peter and I drove up and back to Seattle in one day to catch an evening game. That was a long day. I remember scaring the crap out of myself when I nodded off for a split second while driving home.

It turns out, Peter loved the experience of being in the ballpark, as did I. It’s like going back in time. The food, the people, the fans who bring their baseball gloves and carry their clipboards to tally every play of the game whether it be a hit, walk or error. My brother and I decided we wanted to branch out.

Then came San Francisco where we sat on the first baseline with a beautiful view of the bay. My oldest brother and his wife drove down from Santa Rosa and sat in a different section. The game was against the Dodgers, and where they were sitting, fights broke out. We were fine up in the second tier and were surprised to hear of their experience.

The game itself is almost secondary to the experience of the crowd, the ballpark itself, and, of course, the food. The ever-present fear that we will be selected for the kiss cam is real. Thankfully, it’s never happened, and pray it never will.

In 2012, I got a bee in my bonnet that we should go to a World Series game. I snagged two tickets to Game 2 of the Giants/Tigers World Series. The series where the Giants swept it. Peter always says that was the most expensive hot dog he’s ever eaten. Again, we sat on the first baseline. We were struck by the man behind us. He was tall and thin and was a nonstop eating machine. From hot dogs to crab cakes, he had it all. That was the game that one of the sing-a-longs was “City By The Bay” and on the giant screen popped Steve Perry in his box, singing along and waving an invisible conductor’s baton.

We’ve gone farther afield, and our trips have gotten longer to accommodate travel days and exploring new-to-us cities. We’ve been to Chicago, Denver, Pittsburgh, Milwaukee and Boston, our favorite park so far. Our first stop at the ball park is always the team store to buy a hat to commemorate our trip. We always root for the home team, although it was hard when we watched the Cubs/Giants game at Wrigley Field.

Peter and I go to one game on the trip. The rest of the time we investigate the local city and surrounding area. We research the regional things to eat and invariably go on a ghost tour one night, the best one being in Denver, followed by Boston. We share a room because it’s cheaper and I can convince him to level up a few notches since we’re pooling our funds.

Each city has its own brand of fan and every game has its own personality. We’ve had hot dogs at every park, marveling at the distinctness of each one. The game in Denver was delayed by two hours for rain. The fans got drunker and drunker, and surlier as the delay continued. We always stay until the last pitch is thrown, and in that case, we were glad we did. Having been behind the entire game, the Rockies began scoring run after run and ended up winning the game with a bases loaded walk with the count at 3-2 on the last out.

In Boston the woman who sat next to me decided to take us under her wing and explained all sorts of Red Sox trivia. I remember her, and not what she told us. One night we walked to the North End where we waited in line at Giacomo’s for some of the best Italian food we’d had in years. While waiting, outside, a sudden torrential downpour started, and I ran into a nearby store and bought a gigantic umbrella that I still have. After dinner we crossed the street to partake in a cannoli at Mike’s.

In Chicago we went to Oak Park to tour the Frank Lloyd Wright homes and had the ice cream trolley come to our hotel room. That’s also the trip I was introduced to Garrett popcorn. In Pittsburgh we had sandwiches from Primanti’s with fries tucked inside and became loyal fans of the burnt almond cake from Prantl’s. We also had brats and pierogies. And while in Wisconsin, we ate plenty of cheese, including deep fried curds and cheddar beer soup.

Our last trip was to Milwaukee to see the Brewers play. Some might say that’s an odd choice particularly since we haven’t been to see a home game for the Dodgers, Yankees or Phillies (yet). It was more of a sentimental trip. Our grandfather was born in Monroe, Wisconsin, and neither Peter or I had ever been to the state.

It was far more charming than we thought it would be, particularly Monroe. The town, especially the older part, was almost untouched. We were able to envision our grandfather walking the same streets between 1893 and 1912 when he lived there.

The house our grandfather lived in is still standing. We talked briefly to the man who lives in the house today. He was nonplussed by us and had no interest in the history of the house, including the sign in the front lawn with its designation as the Twining House. Peter and I couldn’t imagine having no interest in finding out more about the person that the house was named after. A family name that adorned local parks, amphitheaters and schools among other things. Our great uncles were mucky mucks in the military and this small town had run with it. There is a lot of information that is easily found online, and history, military and even alien buffs would be interested.

We broke tradition once, but it didn’t count as one of the baseball trips. At least in our books. Our father, at 91, had never been to a major league game, so we planned a trip to see the Mariners. We invited our oldest brother, partners, children. Six of us ended up going. Our dad’s review of the game? “It wasn’t very peppy.” This, after he had gotten a ball fouled off to his seat. At his very first game. He didn’t understand that this was a cool thing and didn’t come around until he got back home, and his friends started telling him what a special thing that was to have happened.

Peter and I are looking forward to resuming our trips once we feel it’s safer to travel and be in large crowds again. We’ve contemplated inviting others on our forays, but we honestly don’t want to do so. We know that it wouldn’t be the same, that a different dynamic would ensue. And once you open that Pandora’s box, it simply can’t be closed. There’s an ease and a shorthand that’s involved when it’s the two of us. There’s no jealousy or hurt feelings or someone insisting upon having alone time. These trips are a time for us to catch up, relax, explore and eat to our heart’s content.