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. .
