CityBeat is the Baltic and Mediterranean on my race around the board, the first stop in a daily odyssey that weaves through the downtown streets and then dumps me onto Prospect Hill ­ a mailman's nightmare of hundreds of steps.

I do not pass go. But I do collect about $200 (mailmen pull in about 45K a year, or, if you do the math, about $160 a day).

And free parking? Oh yeah. In the 23 years of parking illegally in a postal vehicle, I have never been ticketed. I'm knocking on wood and thanking the police for their generous discretion.

There are 300 other deliveries between CityBeat and my last stop on Boal Street. All offer an opportunity to meet, greet and generally get to know a lot of interesting folks. And everybody has a story, myself included. Often times our stories become one, but that's another story.

Zone 45202 starts at Central Avenue, fanning east as far as Collins Avenue on Eastern and as far north as the heights overlooking the city's basin, including Clifton Hill, Liberty Hill and Mount Adams. Downtown routes are halved, morning deliveries in the heart of the business district and afternoon deliveries on the periphery.

A good route downtown will often find a carrier in a climate controlled building with elevators and friendly receptionists to start; then, later that same day, in some of the rougher parts of Over- The- Rhine.

When in that part of the city, I may have to gingerly step over a dice game, a crack deal, an unconscious drunk or suspect puddles in hallways that carry the pungent odor of urine. It's quite a dichotomy. And it's everyday.

An interesting thing about delivering in "the hood" is the sense of community that rolls over you, especially in the summer when it's too damn hot to be inside. Entire apartment buildings pour their human cargo onto the streets. It's a neighborhood. Most people actually know each other. Little kids run carefree and carelessly up and down littered alleys. Men and women cool themselves in the shade of the trees lining the streets, clutching their bagged beers and cigarettes.

The letter carriers (almost all white downtown) are usually afforded a combination of indifference and respect. I don't know if it's because we're the "other" guys in uniforms or because we bring the check at the beginning of the month. We are rarely overtly threatened and usually greeted with some enthusiasm. Some of the younger guys will jazz you a little, but the older folks are just happy to see you.

Although there are many long-term residents, most are transient and you don't get to know them. They move to other parts of the city, generally failing to provide landlords or the post office their new address. That information only percolates to the surface when welfare checks or food stamps are jeopardized.

A noteworthy side effect of delivering mail in these troubled neighborhoods is the access you're given to an area that most Cincinnatians will never see. I personally marvel at the many wonderful buildings that stand like noble sentinels in the encompassing decay. They are monuments to an age of true craftsmanship: built to last.

In those days long ago, the mailman was the glue of the neighborhood. Not only did they supply a life-link communication ­ the mail ­ but generally they knew more about their turf than those they served. They knew who was sick, getting married and the names of each kid in huge German and Irish families.

I envy those guys. These days' letter carriers carry everything but letters. It seems like 80 percent of our deliveries are, you guessed it, junk.

But every now and then, something finds its way through the labyrinth of the post office, something worthy of a mailman's struggle through rain, sleet and snow. It may be a love letter, a postcard, a birthday greeting or just something personal.

A guy on Milton street was getting an unsigned postcard once a week for months from a woman who would pass on little jewels of wisdom and common sense. (Yes, I am known to scan an occasional postcard.)

One of her little gems: "Never pass up the opportunity to pee."

Speaking of which, I gotta go.