This past weekend, I was in Washington, D.C. attending a ceremony at The Library of Congress honoring my grandfather, legendary sportscaster Bob Wolff, who also happens to be my biggest fan. Legally, I have to tell you that Bob does not actually endorse me OR this blog, but I should also probably tell you what really happened to that birthday cake for your boss that you left in the fridge – unattended! – and I’m not going to do either of those things.
When Sunday rolled around, I gathered up my things – slowly so as not to be too early – and hopped in a cab to get over to Union Station. My train was at 10:20am, and I double-checked the time as we pulled up in front of the drop off area.
I have like, 20 minutes! I thought to myself, making a mental note to reward myself with an extra large frozen yogurt once I got back to New York. The line of passengers waiting to get on the train was already pretty long, but I stood there, patiently, playing Bejeweled Blitz (NEW HIGH SCORE!!!) and making mental notes of the unfortunate clothing choices the other passengers had made that day.
Once the line started to move, I took out my ticket to show the conductor. She took a glance at it, looked back at me, looked at the ticket again, and said, “This isn’t your train. Your train was at 10:20am…yesterday.”
Ooooh, mah bad.
I sprinted through the train station, singing “Run, Run, Rudolph” a la Home Alone out loud at top volume, so people would know I meant business. I ran up to the ticket counter, and quickly explained my issue. I now had eight minutes to make this train, and NO ONE SEEMED TO CARE.
Thankfully, the woman working for Amtrak was able to switch my ticket for the friendly fee of $76.52. I darted away with my new ticket, pushing small children into the walls as I went – some were actually in my way, but some really weren’t but just looked obnoxious – and ran up to the conductor.
She took my new ticket, scanned it, stared into my eyes and said, “Nice Harvard sweatshirt.”