Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part I

Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part I

 

Mildly dismayed, immobile in my platform shoes, and sporting a bad comb-over, I had the stunned look of a man wondering why he was here. Here, was the crowded waiting room of Pennsylvania Station, New York City on a weekday summer afternoon. I was 33, the year was 1973. 

There was frenzy all around. A happy crowd, it seemed, and full of purpose. 

 

As for me, I kept asking, "Should I go through with this?”

By “this” I meant take a trip for a couple of days. Problem was I was unsure of the destination. One choice was Block Island, RI. Maybe I'd go there. Some friends had spoken of a good time there a few years back. That was all I knew.

 I felt I had to get away - do something.

My planning was minimal. Days before I had gotten out a map and traced over the dotted line indicating ferry service between New London CT and Block Island. The next day on the commuter train into Penn Station I was still undecided. 

I was trusting the gods, more or less, trying to be spontaneous which I felt was the in-thing in 1973. I was straining to keep pace, but with who? Truth was, hippies were well ahead of me, and behind me? ... well that appeared to have mysteriously vanished.

I was channeling Carl Jung’s book Memories, Dreams and Reflections, where he talked of the journey as a life-altering event and I suppose that was what I wanted. So I was ready – albeit half-hearted – for a journey, but as far as what it was or how it would be life-altering - no clue.

I was a divorced father of two beautiful daughters who were my best friends. Sometimes I thought, my only friends. They were, after all, my main dinner companions, shopping pals, movie dates and traveling buddies. Earlier in the summer I had toured the east coast with them, the Jersey Shore and then on to Washington DC and back.  Now I was going to try a small venture alone. What came to mind was a phrase from A.E. Housman - “fighting sorrow.” 

At Penn Station I slipped into the line at the information booth. A woman ahead of me was asking, “When is the next train to Danbury?”

“Grand Central,” said the man at the booth. The woman said nothing. Then inquired, "What time?"

            "Grand Central," the man repeated, this time with a stare. The woman stared back. Finally he said, “Lady!”

She stepped aside, presumably she got the message.

The next guy, wanted to return a ticket. The Info man lowered his head, rolled up his eyes and gave a thumb point. “Over there.” The guy scooted away.

My turn.

            “I want to go to Block Island,” I said.

“New London or Providence?”

This should not have confused me, but like a New York kid taking a State Regent Exam, I froze. I starred at the info man. He starred back. Seconds passed. Then suddenly I got it. Thank you God. “There must be a ferry from Providence too,” I surmised. I wanted to ask which was shorter but fearing a put-down, I muttered only, “Do you have a schedule?”

He shoved an Amtrak Eastern Schedule at me and I bolted off.

I bought a round-trip ticket on the 3:10 Metro-liner to Boston. Why Boston? Not sure, but unlike Block Island, I’d been there before – with my wife – ex-wife. Perhaps that was where I’d go.

I wandered about the station and drifted into a bookstore, empty but for a cluster of a half dozen men in suits near the back. I walked toward them. Just as I thought, it was the sex-mag section. I backpedaled out. Bad karma.

I went back to the waiting area. Hippie-like young people sauntered through. I was hippie-unlike, or, perhaps more, hippie-wannabe. The real hipsters were young athletic looking men (boys) and women (girls) variously armed with guitars, backpacks with rolled blankets, one actually with a wine skin slung from his shoulder, another with a folding bicycle, crossbar resting on his shoulder like a golf bag. Almost all were outfitted with Swiss Alp hiking boots over rag wool socks.

I stared down at my platform shoes. Light and comfortable, yes, but as for a rugged outdoorsy look – Not. My bag was a small duffel-type that I carried at my side like a briefcase.

When I climbed aboard the 3:10 train, my mind raced. Maybe I’ll go straight through to Boston, I thought. At least I’ll know something about it, having been there before. I didn’t know where the Block Island Ferry was, either one – Providence or New London. “Play it safe” a voice told me.  I took a widow seat and tried to relax before deciding about New London or Boston. 

We surfaced in the Bronx rolling past Yankee Stadium and I thought of the letter I’d received from the Yankees, when I was in high school, inviting me to a tryout at Yankee Stadium.  No - I wasn’t about to be signed to a farm team contract. Had I been, I would have signed up after college and likely would not now be looking for a dubious adventure on this north bound Metro-liner. But I was here, not there. Anyway I saved the letter.

Soon we were hugging the Connecticut shoreline, beaches and inlets surrounded by tall grass. Two men in a lazy rowboat hoisted beer cans as if to say, “Bet you wish you were here.”

I guess.

A family of four on a narrow beach, each held up a single hand salute, as they tugged chairs, blankets and sundry beach paraphernalia toward home.

Before long I heard the conductor shout, “New London next,” and my chest thumped. Should I get off or continue on? I stood up, fetched my bag. The train stopped and suddenly the decision was made.  Seconds later I was outside on the platform, turning my head as home bound commuters brushed by.

I thought of the people still on the train, peering out the windows. Did I look forlorn? Confused? Anxious? All of above?

The train whistle sounded and I considered dashing back, waving my arms, and shouting, “Wait! Wait!” But the cars pulled away and there I was alone on the empty platform in New London, CT at 6 PM on a Tuesday night.

I tried to gather myself. A minute passed. I saw what looked like a ferry dock right next to the station. I walked over. A sign said, “Block Island Ferry.” “Good,” I thought, “I can just hop on right here. Wow, that was convenient." I asked a man on the dock “What time is the ferry for Block Island?”

“11 AM,” he said.

I missed it - by seven hours.

... continued - at Part II