I’m on my way into the city this morning for a fun-filled day of meetings. I’m excited about it, primarily because I haven’t seen Kelly in forever and we’re going to have some drinks after work.

But honey, it ain’t easy.

I got up extra early this morning (5:30, to be exact) to make sure I could be ready to go a few minutes before seven.

I was right on track … nice hot shower, dressed sharply, well fed (bagel with 1/3 less fat cream cheese and a glass of pineapple juice, thanks to Paul), and out the door!

The roads were clear and smooth, and I pulled into the parking lot at the Metro North New Hamburg station with about five minutes to park and get to the platform. (It’s the same distance from my house as the Poughkeepsie station, but because it’s further south it means I can spend ten fewer minutes on the train each way, and that’s a good thing.)

There were no parking spots!

Absolutely no metered spots available. Miles and miles of empty permit spots, but of course I don’t have a permit … it’s not like I schlep to NYC every day.

I drove around, checked each nook and cranny of that stupid lot, and generally expressed my exasperation in healthy and appropriate ways.

And then I called Paul, who surely would be able to fix this for me. (After all, he is my fixer, right?)

He said, “just park in the permit spots, and if you get a ticket we’ll worry about it later.”

Okay, but seriously, I shouldn’t have to. (This is where reality and I part, graciously.)  They should clear the snow out of the fifteen parking spots that are covered. I mean folks, it’s only 7:15 in the morning, and every spot is gone?

Oh, and Allright Parking is really not all right. It’s not good. It’s downright bad. I called them four times trying to see what to do, and three of those times, they hung up on me. The fourth time, I managed to speak with the lovely Christine. Her talent, charm and skill were evident from the moment she answered … I mean, folks, this is a woman who loves her job. She said, “Go to the next station. We can’t do anything about snow. Tickets are $12-25, depending on how many tickets you’ve had before.” Um, thanks. So I can drive down to Beacon and miss the next train too? No, thanks.

I left a nice note on my dashboard in the hopes that the MTA police don’t ticket me. Pretty please?

Kelly, have that drink ready pronto.

Last year, I didn’t make it down to New York City to see the tree at Rockefeller Center. I know it’s just a tree, but it’s a fun experience and a good excuse to have a night out in Manhattan.

So this year, I promised myself I’d make it down there. Wednesday was the day … Luis, Paul and I left Poughkeepsie around 6 (after Paul’s class and a quick shower). As we’re cruising down the Taconic, it starts … the rain. I never even thought to check the weather, so we crossed our fingers and hoped it would be short lived or that it was only raining in Westchester and not in the city.

The closer we got, the harder it rained … not the best sign, right?

It gets worse.

Once we crossed the bridge and hit the Henry Hudson Parkway, Luis’s car just died. As in just shut down, no power, no nothing. We coasted into the shoulder (which is hard to do on the Henry Hudson, since much of the highway has no shoulder) and called roadside assistance. We quickly learned that because the Henry Hudson is a “restricted highway,” that we would get a nice tow compliments of the New York City Police Department.

Riding on a flatbed tow truck on the Henry Hudson and the West Side Highway is no picnic.

They towed us to 54th and 12th and left us there to be picked up by a tow truck from Luis’s insurance company. By now, the rain has picked up, and the insurance company says it’ll be about an hour before they arrive. We start looking around to see if we can find a Nissan dealer to leave the car — since it’ll probably need a new alternator. Thanks to the magic of Google SMS, we learn that Nissan of Manhattan is just 3 blocks up on West 57th, so Paul and I wandered up there to check it out.

It moved. To 47th and 11th. So not that far, and at least we knew where to tow the car, right?

Never let people in Wisconsin do roadside assistance for New York City. It’s like they’re totally brainless. After an hour, we get an angry call from the tow company saying, “we’re here … where are you?” After a short shouting match, we realize that we’re both at 54th and 12th … only we’re in Manhattan and the tow truck is in Brooklyn. Nice.

So Paul and I trudged over to the nice, warm McDonald’s on 56th and 8th. I’ve never been so glad to see a bathroom in my life! After a glamorous dinner, we grabbed some more food for Luis and headed back to the car to wait. And wait. And wait.

About 90 minutes later, the tow truck arrived, and we grabbed a taxi to Grand Central just in time to make the 12:10 train back to Poughkeepsie. Whew!

We never did see the tree. Maybe next year.