My daughter, whom I’ll be calling Ginsberg, is 21, and segueing into her senior year of college this fall. She’s spending the summer with her friend — and friend of the family — a boy I used to teach in the sixth grade whom I’ll call Ned. Ned is notoriously unsure about what time it is at any given moment, always always always leaves at least one belonging at our house, and due to an odd upbringing, has trouble expressing the results of his decision-making. Us: Do you want something to drink? Ned: Do you want me to have something to drink? But we love him anyway. We love him so much we forgave him when he used to ring us in the middle of the night pretending to be a drunk black man looking for someone named Louise. Loueeeeze! Please can I come over? Pleeeeze, woman, I gotta see ya! It took us months to figure out it was him. Now every time I get a crank call, I think it’s just Ned. Ned and Ginsberg are low-key this summer, continuing their quest to watch all classic movies everywhere. I walked in on them recently as the final credits rolled on A Man for All Seasons. They were simultaneously trying to find out, via Google and the like, if it was true that Hitler’s last living relative, a great-nephew, is a landscape artist living on Long Island. Don’t ask me why. The other night, they were headed to a Lucha Libre Wrestling event at a local Mexican restaurant, but Ginsberg had a stomach ache so they didn’t stay. They went back the next night just for the food. Ginsberg got back from a semester in Ghana last month, and her stomach, which gave her no problems at all as long as she was eating fufu and beans for every meal, now gives her fits when she eats “our” food. We’re looking into it, but that’s just like her. Almost everyone else (or, rather, the obrinis — foreigners, or white people) had it the other way around. We’re still finding out about her adventures there, looking at pictures and videos as she acts out bargaining at the night market, or having to whisk her small black charge, Gosway, away from the strange man who was trying to steal him from her. It’s better this way, after the fact, better than hearing her sob on the telephone after she was manhandled and robbed on her first trip to the market, or hearing her cheerful voice on the international phone describing her recent trip on a photo safari and how she rode all over on top of a four-by-four somewhere in Benin. This from the kid who, since she was four, wouldn’t let me put the car in gear if we didn’t all have our seat belts buckled. She’s different now, as you would expect. We cheered for Ghana against the US (normally, we don’t know or care anything about sports, but this was different) in the World Cup, and after their glorious win, she started out of the house to get some frozen custard, literally wrapped in the Ghanaian flag. Of course, when we were in London back in 2001, she was also heard to remark out loud, on the street, “They should get rid of the queen!” She’s all about the little guy. She really is.