There’s nothing like a wedding
The great misadventure began before the journey to Springfield, Mass., in a Pittsburgh parking garage.
I shoved a blanket into my already-stuffed tote bag, breaking the handle. Both suitcases were brimming over with formal wear – to a wedding, we were heading – and other necessities and accessories, so I, in a move that would haunt me the rest of the trip, assured my husband the tote would balance snuggly atop a piece of luggage. Not seven steps later, along a city sidewalk, we hit a bump, and the tote toppled. This would happen many times over the next 48 hours.
But we hadn’t got there yet.
The first leg of our three-train journey went well enough: My son snoozed, so I dozed a bit, too, and we passed the hours looking out the window, playing with toys, and exploring the cabin, my son making friends everywhere he crawled. When we pulled into Penn Station after 10 hours on a train, I was famished and looking forward to a New York bagel sandwich.
The three of us stepped into the bustling station and I immediately noticed a cafe. My husband immediately noticed the bold red letters beside our departing train.
An Amtrak customer service agent explained trains headed near Boston were canceled due to brush fires.There was, however, a train to New Haven, Conn. (hallelujah!), on a different line (uh-oh) that promised to honor Amtrak tickets (win!).
The line: Metro North. The departure gate: somewhere in Grand Central Station, about a mile- and-a-half away. Ten Manhattan blocks. During rush hour.
Before kids, my husband and I would have hoofed it from Penn to Grand, but the Amtrak agent took one look at our suitcases, busted tote, car seat-stroller and baby bag, and advised against walking. The shuttle between the two stations had recently taken off and the agent wasn’t sure when it’d be back, and we had exactly one hour to get from here to there to make the New Haven train.
My husband panicked. Threw a Griswold-worthy freakout that included the phrase, “I’m useless!” When the smoke from his ears dissipated, we hailed a taxi, shoved our bags into the trunk, tossed our son into the back seat with us, not bothering to buckle, and urgently gave the driver our destination.
The taxi crawled out of the queue. Immediately it turned into bumper-to-bumper traffic. The drive was slow, and painful, with my hungry and overtired son scream-crying the entire way.
When we arrived at Grand Central Station, the three of us dashed madly through the bustling building, my husband stopping occasionally to right the tote bag, searching for our gate. We made it, only to realize the train was headed elsewhere. Another moment of panic. I refreshed Metro North’s website and found the correct gate, and again, we booked it through the station.
We arrived just as the last stragglers stepped onto the New Haven train. Breathless, I hopped into the first car. Full. I pushed my son’s stroller down the narrow aisle, got stuck in the door between cars just as the train doors closed. Sweating, I managed to maneuver into the next cabin, which was also filled. The train rolled out of the station. The three of us, with bags in tow and bags under our eyes, looking like vagabonds compared to the professionals commuting home, stood in the doorway, blocking those coming and going, until, after an hour, the cabin finally cleared and our tired bodies sank into the plush red and beige seats.
Fortunately, in New Haven, we caught a later train to our final destination. When finally, after 15 hours of travel, we arrived in Springfield, we discovered no eateries within walking distance, and our hotel forgot to outfit our room with a crib. It was after 11 p.m., so my husband and I resigned ourselves to another granola bar, and placed our finally-sleeping son between us in the comfiest king-sized bed I’ve ever curled into.
We promptly fell asleep, only to be rudely awakened by a hungry baby’s cries three hours later.
Eventually, we all slept, but dawn did not signal the end of our misadventure.
There were four hours between hotel checkout and check-in at the Airbnb where we were staying. Before kids, my husband and I would have gone out for lunch or explored a museum, or simply walked downtown. But what to do with an 11-month-old on a windy November day in Massachusetts?
Coffee was the first order of business. I dragged my husband, who dragged our luggage, through downtown Springfield in search of a coffee shop. The first cafe we discovered had recently closed forever. The second was closed for the day. The third, praise the Lord!, was open, and oh, so cute, and I joyfully ordered a large cafe mocha. I nursed that piping hot drink as we ventured through town, killing time before our Airbnb opened.
When we did arrive, the heat didn’t work, the dishwasher didn’t run, and the fridge handle was broken. But we made it. After canceled trains and broken sleep and long, slow walks, we unpacked our bags, collapsed onto a cushy bed, and sighed.
That second day ended with Chinese takeout. After dinner with my in-laws, I stood, swaying my son, stripped down to the essentials after he projectile-vomited on my favorite sweater and the only jeans I’d packed; shivering, because the heat had only just kicked on; laughing, because what a way to end two days of travel.
Getting to Springfield could have been smoother sailing. But amidst the chaos, we lived some truly beautiful moments.
On the train, my son befriended 96-year-old Buck, an Army vet who served in Korea in 1951, was married to his late wife for 70 years, and still danced nearly every day, en route to his own son’s for a weeklong visit.
The morning my family and I woke in our hotel room, it was to my son’s sleepy smile and his sweet coos. The three of us spent a few moments cuddling in that big, cozy bed, an intimacy I never imagined could be so special in its simple beauty.
Before our Airbnb opened, we passed an afternoon in the Springfield library, where my son played in the children’s section, crawled through the rows and rows of books; my husband searched for specific titles and I explored the spectacular space.
We took a turn about the Dr. Seuss sculpture garden. We spent time getting to know my in-laws and nieces better.
And the wedding! What an event. From the beautiful Catholic ceremony in which a perfectly matched couple was united in holy matrimony, to the reception, inside a picturesque barn-turned-brewery, with excellent food and a killer DJ, the wedding was worth the misadventure.
When I mentioned to Buck that my brother-in-law was getting married, he smiled, “There’s nothing like a wedding.”
He was right.
And there’s nothing quite like getting to a wedding.
Katherine Mansfield is a former staff writer for the Observer-Reporter.