After two full months of watching the sun bounce off crushed bricks, the soft green of manicured grass hits the retinas in June the way ice cream hits a sore throat: it slakes.
For ochre-weary spectators, switching to grass is easy: leave Roland Garros, catch a train at Gare de l’Est, read something for three hours, and hop off at Stuttgart Hauptbahnhof with tickets to the BOSS OPEN.