It was our last day in New York City before a sixteen hour flight. We could have gone to an airport hotel, paid to give our daughter an hour’s sleep and stared at our phones. But we were in the greatest city in the world, staying across the road from Central Park. We wanted to enjoy it down to the last minute, what could go wrong?
We dropped our luggage at reception and headed for the Central Park Zoo. Our daughter waved and blew kisses at every animal we could find while we attempted to use up her infinite energy in preparation for the impossible nap.
We needed our daughter to nap in her stroller, something many babies do all the time, but our island baby had never done any such thing. We left the zoo and began to walk circles around the southern end of Central Park as our daughter protested. What inhuman torture, to take her to this exciting place and expect her to take a nap.
An hour of our daughter screaming from her stroller prison followed. You know it’s strange when New Yorkers take a second look, but the odd glances from passers-by could not deter us. We had no choice but to keep walking.
Our daughter finally passed out in the stroller we picked for her before she was born, at a store in this very city. We shared a celebratory look and kept walking. Praying the vibrant sounds of the city would not disturb her.
That’s when we made our first big mistake.
We looked around the park, at all the other parents relaxing on the grass alongside their sleeping babies in strollers. How nice it looked to rest our weary legs. To lie down on the grass and enjoy the shade of the trees waving in the breeze of this crisp spring day. “Let’s pull over under this tree.”
The screams reverberated across the park as our daughter’s hard-earned sleep was disturbed by the unscheduled stop. Some birds flew from their perch squawking in horror. We sheepishly returned to the path but the damage was done. The next hour of our lives would break our spirits as we attempted to get her back to sleep while the park stared and our brains melted.
Thirty minutes before we needed to leave for our flight she passed out again. There wasn’t enough time for a decent nap and heading back to the hotel along a busy street would almost certainly wake her up.
My wife suggested we split up. She could continue through the park to get to the subway so our daughter could sleep.
“Go get the bags, take an Uber to the subway station. We’ll meet you there.”
“This is a bad idea, we shouldn’t split up.”
“We have no choice, she has to have a nap or this flight is going to be a nightmare.”
“I’m not paying for an Uber to drive down the road.”
“Just get the Uber you can’t carry the stuff by yourself.”
“We shouldn’t split up, you don’t have data.”
“We have no choice, she needs to sleep.”
“Fine… We need to make sure we know where we are meeting because I can’t contact you, let’s meet at this entrance.”
I pulled up Maps on my phone and we agreed on an entrance. At this point I’m exhausted, my wife is exhausted, I don’t think either of us are thinking straight but I’m too tired to argue and don’t have any better ideas anyway. I noticed my wife was not really paying attention.
“Look at this carefully, we have to meet at this spot.”
While waiting for our bags to be brought out of the storage area at the hotel I’m convinced taking an Uber is ridiculous. The road we are on is a one way. The Uber would have to go around one of the busiest blocks in New York City to get me to the station. I don’t have time to be in a traffic jam. I’m then still going to have to push the bags around to find my wife who doesn’t have any way of being contacted.
The bags arrive and I stack them. The two large suitcases I decide I’ll roll, one for each hand. I lay the carry-ons on their sides on top of them. The crib goes on my back, the car seat goes on my back. What’s the point of going to the gym if I can’t pull this off?
As I navigate the bags through the entrance way the doorman offers to get me a taxi. I politely decline and begin to push.
For the third time that afternoon, the people of New York City stare at me. This crazy man is pushing a mountain of suitcases across the south end of Central Park while taxi drivers shout their offers of assistance. I get through the first block and my confidence grows. I’m doing this. It’s not taking too long. Nobody is trying to rob me. I must look too crazy!
Thankful this is not happening in the Cayman heat, I continue on as my tired feet and back complain at this newly introduced torture. I finally get to the end of the street and find an entrance to the subway.
I squeeze onto a tiny elevator and make my way down. The pay gates to the train we need to take are right there. I position myself in front of them and wait. They’ll find me here, they can’t miss me with all these bags.
The minutes tick by and I start to panic. This is where you would naturally stop and wait, but my girls are nowhere to be seen. Why wouldn’t they come to the gates? I send a message in the hopes my wife finds some wifi wherever she is at but it’s time to leave for our flight and the clock keeps ticking.
As I mumble to myself about how bad this idea was I push the bags along the passageway away from the gates, hoping I’ll run into them. Surely they would have thought to look for me by this point? When I get to the end of the passage I only see staircases back to the street. They wouldn’t wait by a staircase. How would I get the bags down? This can’t be the place we agreed to meet.
I walk back to the gates. I haven’t received any payment notification from our bank so I doubt they’ve gone through, but I’m exhausted and becoming delirious with stress, so I go through the pay gates. Maybe they’re waiting by the train?
There’s a hill to get up to the train. I bend over further and put my back into it. All six bags come with me up the little hill and to the train platform. It’s rush hour. There are people everywhere. I see a lady with a baby, but they’re not mine.
I walk through the throng of people with all my bags to the end of the platform and back. My girls are not here. I go back down the hill, out the pay gate and back to the end of the station where I had found the staircases. Still no sign of them. As I push the bags back to the pay gates again, a shopkeeper who has been watching me push these bags up and down asks me if I’m OK.
“I can’t find my wife!” I exclaim. He laughs knowingly.
Sweating, completely freaked out, and certain we are missing our flight at this point, I pull myself together, determined that at the very least I need to find my girls even if it takes all night.
I head back to the tiny elevator, praying for a miracle. As I struggle to get all the bags inside again, a kind stranger attempts to help. I’m acutely aware of how insane I must look at this point, and again worry someone may take advantage of that and rob me so I refuse to let go of any of the bags as the person awkwardly tries to assist anyway.
Back on the street I now push my bags along the front of the mall above the subway hoping to find a different entrance. And can you believe it, there she is. My wife! Standing there in front of the mall. Phone in one hand trying to connect to wi-fi, our daughter being nursed in the other arm.
“Oh my word, where have you guys been? I’ve been so worried! I thought I had lost you guys, I didn’t know how I was going to find you!” I shout, tears welling up.
My wife looks at me bemused.
“I knew you were lost.”