As I sat in the Amtrak lounge, it soon became apparent that my trip alone to New York City had a radically different feel about it.  No “I love you’s” from my husband as we parted.  Only a “Have fun,” escaped his lips.  It wasn’t the supportive send off I got when I went to Texas alone to rehab for self-injurers.  It wasn’t the family vacation of last fall where we were all together as a family going to the Grand Canyon.  This was different.  I was about to do something I wanted to do, utterly alone.  I would be responsible for everything.  No husband to fall back on if things went wrong.  I would have to be the problem solver.  I’d have to be independent.

Independence is something I haven’t had in years.  I always had the safety net.  To be more precise, the husband safety net.  So, as I sat in the bustling traveler’s lounge, sweating profusely and trying to catch my breath, I realized I would have to go to this huge city and navigate on my own.  No crying for help to my husband, or in my psyche’s terms, no crying to my parents.  I kept telling myself to just breathe.  It wasn’t working.  I shot a long, rambling text message to a friend which seemed like the equivalent of a hail mary pass in football. I wanted someone to say it would be alright.  I wanted someone to tell me I could do it and I would be strong enough to handle it all.  Anyone to assure me I would be fine.  A friend and confidant did just that.  It was enough for me to get a grip on my racing thoughts.  I suddenly felt stupid for freaking out when I hadn’t even gotten on the train yet.

In the morning nothing had changed.  Kevin tried all he could to get A/C to work for the back half of the car.  Nothing worked.  The entire day was awful with a sealed car with no air conditioning.  There was no real respite as the coach seats were full and there was no observation car to speak of.  Fact was I was stuck.  I spent half my time in the hallway of the next coach car just trying to cool down.  I do want to say publicly that Kevin, our car host, did everything possible to make it more bearable by keeping water on ice, and trying to move us when it was possible.  That poor guy must have had the worst trip ever that trip and he did it all in long sleeves and polyester pants. 

At one extended stop in Buffalo, New York I was going to get off and stand outside for a few minutes.  I rounded the corner and came face to face with a uniformed officer. Reading his patches, I realized it was Border Patrol.  Several officers boarded our train and did a car to car search.  I don’t know who they were looking for, but there were certainly a shitload of Border Patrol officers and it delayed our train.  Later, a woman fell off the platform and broke her arm. Car host Kevin was right there to get her some water while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. That poor guy couldn’t catch a break.  I tell you, he should get a serious medal for his work on that trip that day.

  

Finally, I got moved to another roomette about three hours before I hit New York City.  It was enough time to settle my nerves and prepare myself mentally for hauling my too-heavy luggage off the train. I tried picturing Penn Station in my mind, but I soon realized, it wasn’t anything like I’d thought of.

I hauled my luggage off the train, and knew I had one bag I’d checked in.  Penn Station hasn’t heard of elevators.  In fact, when I asked if there was an elevator, I got the response, “There are only escalators.”  What?  That didn’t make any fucking sense whatsoever.  I sighed and wiped the sweat off on my sleeve.  It was unbelievably hot and muggy in the station. I struggled to get my luggage onto the escalator all the while trying to remember where the car host told us where to go.  I figured I wasn’t in any hurry to get to the hotel, so I could take it slow.  I knew eventually I’d find where to pick up my luggage

As I studied the signs trying to figure out where the Amtrak terminal was, I heard the announcement for boarding at Track 11.  Suddenly, about 20 people sprinted around and past me.  I felt like I was a person in the middle of an antelope stampede.  As the people leaned and darted around me, I froze and winced as one man nearly clipped my precariously balanced luggage.  I just knew if I moved in the slightest it would cause a pileup worse than a bicycle crash inside the Peloton at the Tour de France.  The first thought that came to mind was, “I didn’t know women could run that fast in three inch heels.”

   

Finally I figured out where to pick up my checked suitcase, and asked where to find the taxi stand.  Of course that would require two escalator trips up and a ton of walking.  I already cursed myself for having another bag and I just knew I was going to wipe out at the top of the escalator in a crumpled heap with my luggage on top of me.  I really didn’t like that scenario.  I mustered up as much strength as I could and fought through the searing pain to get to street level.  A cab was hailed for me, and I was ushered quickly into it as my luggage was put into the trunk for me.  I told the driver to take me to the Hilton hotel and gave the address.  I braced myself because I was very familiar to wild taxi drivers.  For what it’s worth, the drivers don’t talk to you.  They have no interest in chatting.