My New York day trip from Hell yesterday started out rather well, but that all ended about twenty minutes before we were scheduled to board a bus to take us into the city via the NJ Turnpike. It seems Greyhound didn’t have a driver, and they had to refund our fares. Imagine this: a public transit company with a history going back to 1914, has entered the lackadaisical work ethic of 2018, in which not one of their drivers could step up and take a bus filled with people where they needed to go. Two hour delay, they said. My show was in three.
So there I was, with a slip of paper verifying my refund, but with a paid for show in the City that Never Sleeps waiting for me and. . .wait a second, I’m a grown woman with a car and decades of driving experience! The heck with the bus, I thought (in the R-rated version) as I settled in my seat, swerved into the toll lane for the turnpike and drove my little self to New York.
The drive itself was simple, and everybody on the road that morning behaved themselves. I paid my tolls, took the Lincoln Tunnel and emerged into the insanity of city traffic, where I had to find a place to park my two-month-old new car. Of course, entering the city I was driving in the wrong direction for going home, but I figured that problem I could resolve later. A decent looking garage adjacent to a hotel sounded like a good idea, and a happy attendant took my key and got me on my way. I made a point of memorizing what intersection I was on, because only the diligent and determined person takes the hours of time it must require to figure out addresses in that place. So how do I remember it: the avenue and street, or street and avenue? I remembered the song about somebody’s Home Sweet Home at “toid and toidy-toid,” and I wished I had stayed there and not thought of a song which I first heard sung in the movie The Exorcist. I didn’t know if they meant toid avenue or toid street foist. . .I mean first.
My ego was somewhat boosted by my accomplishment so far, in that I navigated a drive I had never taken, without a GPS, and I walked to the show (which I enjoyed), and even grabbed lunch. As I sat on a park bench and nibbled on my yogurt and granola, two ladies slowed their stroll long enough to ask me if I wasn’t feeling colder eating what they thought was ice cream, realized their mistake and moved on.
The show was fine, but I decided not to linger, since my new baby was crammed into a hole somewhere in the depths of parking garage perdition and the meter was running. I found the spot easily and prepared to dole out a twenty dollar bill. . .the fellow behind apocalypse proof glass pointed casually to a sign listing the charges for parking. I knew I had missed the Early Bird Special, but I practically had a coronary when I saw that I owed $48 for anything over two and under ten hours of parking. There went my bus refund, plus the turnpike and tunnel fees.
At least my parking attendant showed me how to get turned around and back to the tunnel. That drive took nearly 20 minutes and played out like a video game. I had to turn left and cross three lanes of traffic while avoiding jaywalkers and speedy taxicabs, then make two right turns while pedestrians exercised their right of way.
So I wound up spending about $40 more than if I had taken the bus.
I got home much earlier than expected, since I wasn’t waiting for the next scheduled bus departure, and home never felt better. That was until, before falling into bed, a water pipe in the street broke, rendering the block with no water pressure overnight.
Excuse me for not seeming like I had a good time.
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