Over the Fourth of July weekend, I had the distinct honor of attending a wedding in the Fort Worth area. It was a lovely ceremony. Congrats to Ruby and Adam, may your union be stronger than my vehicle’s starter.
The only snag? I didn’t actually have a car.
Longtime readers (hi, Mom) may recall that my trusty steed, Toyetta, a 2009 Toyota Camry with the attitude of a rebellious teenager, has developed a nasty habit of not starting. She staged her latest rebellion at a gas station in Poteau, Oklahoma. I was home visiting my church. She was refusing to leave the gas station.
My friend Jack and I were stranded. Three hours from home. With no car. And both of us needed to be back at work Monday morning. You know, for money.
Fortunately, my grandparents came to the rescue with a spare car.
A 1992 Toyota Avalon with 400,000 miles and a personality. Her windshield wipers spread grease. Her driver’s side tire pops off for fun. Her doors don’t lock, the mirrors don’t reflect, and each time you open the door, she screams, setting off her car alarm. My neighbors have loved getting to know her.
She was clearly Toyetta’s kin, so we named her “Grandetta.”
Grandetta has just one rule: don’t drive her. Anywhere. Ever.
Look at her wrong and she’ll explode. So when I realized I had to get to Dallas for a wedding, I was in a bit of a pickle. I pitched the idea of hitchhiking to my date, Maci. She responded with a look that made me realize I’d rather be stranded than single.
Plan B, buy a non-refundable Amtrak ticket.
Trains are romantic, right? Something about train travel felt vintage. Like calling someone “darling.” I was excited. Stayed up all night like it was Christmas Eve.
Then came the morning of the big trip. I got a message. “Train service disrupted.” I was taking a bus.
A bus? Not quite the Victorian romance I’d envisioned. But still, I’d get to see Maci.
And we had a great weekend with a beautiful wedding, old friends, too many dogs, movies, the best burrito I’ve ever had, and, get this, yellow queso. Which baffled me.
I even survived sleeping on what can only be described as a cursed futon that doubled as a chiropractic prank.
Then came time to go home. We were late to the Fort Worth train station. I ran to the Amtrak counter to ask where my train was. After 20 minutes of watching the station attendant aggressively not make eye contact with me, she finally looked up from her phone at me like I was offending her. She pointed me toward the opposite end of the station, which turned out to be wrong.
I walked the entire length of an empty track, sweating in my church clothes, only to turn around just in time to watch my train pull away. It was so close I ran after it. And I might have, if I weren’t so tired from the futon.
There I was, broke, sweaty, abandoned by the railroad, and contemplating sleeping under a bridge until I saw a group of rats mug a guy. I figured that was a sign.
I called Maci. Like the hero she is, she came back and the next day turned into a spontaneous road trip. (I had to survive another night on the futon.)
The greatest tragedy of all? I never got to ride the train. My romantic dream of clickety clacking my way back to Oklahoma remains unfulfilled. Maybe next time, when I go down for Maci’s birthday, I’ll finally board that train. Or maybe I’ll just walk.
All I know for sure is this: any form of transportation I touch, cars, buses, trains, maybe even hot air balloons, is doomed to fail me. I don’t know who I offended, but I think it might’ve been Henry Ford’s ghost.