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5-31-2007 Jim Atwell That event was on May 19, the same day that my niece was being married in Raleigh, North Carolina. And so I parted company with my bride on the 16th and flew home to America. There’s much to tell you about our shared adventures across the pond, but let me spend this column outlining this geezer’s solo journey as he worked his way home to Fly Creek via London’s Gatwick Airport, then JFK, then Penn Station, then a long train ride to Raleigh. After the wonderful wedding came an even longer train ride back to Albany. That one was highlighted by a derailment. More and more these days, I need long lists and close planning to supplement my fuzzy-headedness. I was pleased with the way I marshaled my own packing before the trip-separate lists, mind you, for my British needs and for my Dixie visit. And separate suitcases, too. When we got to JFK on departure day, I stowed the car in long-term parking and left my Raleigh suitcase in it. When I returned alone, weeks later, I’d switch suitcases and head south. It was a good plan, and of course I’d written down the car’s location in the acres of Area A. Back at JFK, I took the free train from the terminal to the proper stop, then boarded a bus to take me to the car. I climbed out into the sunshine and dragged my British case to where I expected to see a red SUV. I didn’t. Panic closed my throat. I’d left the car in Row 25, just three slots from the end. But a black Chevy was berthed in that spot. Oh, no! I was an old, jet-lagged guy alone in the big city, facing car theft and suitcase theft, too. After searching row after row, I finally had sense enough to hold up my keys and push the lock button. From a hundred yards away came a plaintive beep. Ah. The bus had dropped me at the far end of A25 from my car. Great waves of relief. When I got to the car, I actually patted its fender. With the cases switched, I took the train back to the terminal and boarded a shuttle bus into the city. The bus dropped me in front of The Lutheran Seafarers’ House, down on 15th Street. I’d chosen it for the price, reasonable by city standards. It turned out to be clean, spartan, but slightly disappointing. I guess I’d expected to see a lobby full of burly Lutherans in woolen watch caps, each with a canvas duffle on his shoulder. But the place was light on seafarers that day. Never mind. At that point, I just wanted was a door to close behind me and a bed. The next morning I boarded Amtrak for the eight-hour trip to Raleigh, the first long train trip I’ve taken in years. Watching cities and countryside roll by outside the window was fun, as were a couple of meals in the dining car. What wasn’t fun was a new phenomenon: a train car full of cell-phone users. Beeps, buzzes, snatches of music filled the air, as did onesided conversations coming from every direction. The worst offender was a large, placid girl just across from me. She fed herself candy steadily, and otherwise spent the whole trip working her way up and down her quickcall list. "Hey," she’d say. "Yeah, I’m still on the train, but we’re outside Baltimore now." Then would follow a long narrative of her social life. I learned far too much about her boyfriends, and her girlfriends’ boyfriends, too. But never mind. I got to Raleigh. The wedding had been planned to perfection, and the music was a glory of organ, string quartet, even a trumpeter. Leslie was a gorgeous bride. (How my late first wife would have loved to see her.) I slipped out early from the reception. My train home was to leave at 5:30 a.m. Mercifully, the cell phone users were largely asleep through the early morning hours, and I got to page my way through the Raleigh Sunday paper. It included a photo of Leslie and an long article outlining the service and listing participants. I breakfasted in the dining car, watching the fields and woods flash by. The trip’s excitement came later, just as the train was pulling into the Philadelphia station. The baggage car, far ahead of our coach and just behind the engine, jumped the track. Thank God it happened when we’d slowed to about twenty, and not out on a straightaway, hurtling along at eighty. As it was, the train was immobilized, just too far out of the station for us to be off-loaded. There followed about three hours while the train was swarmed by railroad policemen, men in orange or white hardhats, men with cameras and clipboards. This giant committee finally decided to pull another train up behind us, march us all onto it, and then use it to haul us into the Philly station and onto still another NYC-bound train. All that cost me my connection to Albany. I finally got there fifteen hours after leaving Raleigh. A good friend from Cooperstown, bless him, was patiently waiting to drive me home. And a few days later, Anne touched down at JFK, found our car, drove herself to Fly Creek. I welcomed her home with a lamb-and-leek Highland stew, comfort food after all those weeks away. Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek. Learn about his book at JimAtwell.com. |
Copyright 2007, Cooperstown Crier, Cooperstown, NY All rights reserved