We went to Woodstock.
No, not the original in ’69, but the 30th anniversary concert in 1999.
And we didn’t exactly go to it, just in the area, quite by accident, and it proved to be a royal pain.
Echoes of “the New York throughway is closed” caused us to take a six-hour bus ride from Philadelphia to Utica, N.Y. when our plane broke down.
It was among the most brutal of several air travel mishaps in recent years.
When Nolan Ryan retired from the Texas Rangers after his storied career as one of baseball’s greatest hurlers, I vowed to be in Cooperstown for his induction five years later.
Traveling to the National Baseball Hall of Fame is a pilgrimage for the baseball fan. Combining it with the induction of the man who epitomizes larger-than-life Texans on the diamond was not to be missed.
So as far in advance as possible we booked the tour, with a motel room in Utica, which is a short drive from Cooperstown and the nearest airport.
But when we got to Philadelphia we found our connecting flight canceled by an air conditioner malfunction on the small jet.
There was only one other flight into Utica that day but it was full.
The final solution was a six-hour bus ride through the Poconos to Utica on one of those rattle-trap shuttle buses meant for short hops, not long trips.
Off we went with three other fellow travelers.
One of the alternatives had been to fly us to Syracuse, about an hour from Utica, and then bus us in from there. But they refused to do that, fearing the 30th anniversary Woodstock concert would again close down the throughway (a concert that had not even been scheduled when we booked our trip).
Turned out that was a crock, because the bus went right down the throughway and there was virtually no traffic.
Then we got to the Utica airport only to find one of our passengers’ bags wasn’t on the bus. Lo and behold it was at the terminal, delivered by the later flight, which it turned out had about a half-dozen empty seats. Think we were happy to hear that?
If the trip wasn’t enough of a mess, the same plane taking us from Utica back to Philadelphia taxied to the end of the runway, revved the engine, and a warning light went on in the cockpit. Back to the terminal and a cab to Syracuse.
When we learned our connector would be through Washington, DC, we used our bad fortune to convince the gate agent that his airline owed us, big time, so we were able to wrangle a two-day layover in DC to visit my sister.
And just to show you things can always be worse, the guy whose bag wasn’t on the bus also couldn’t get his rental car since he did not own a credit card, and his hotel room had been given to someone else when he showed up late.
Woodstock? I think I’ll pass.
The only music I want to hear is “Take me out to the ballgame.”