At Least They're Not the Yankees

Five hours. That’s how much time we spent in the La Quinta Hotel in Buffalo. MB tried to get a discount since we weren’t going to be there for very long, but as Cathy and Jim reminded us, it’s an entirely different kind of hotel that charges hourly rates. Point taken. We left Buffalo early, taking turns sleeping in the car, and arrived at Cathy and Jim’s around 3:30 P.M. Now pros at the New York train/subway, we made our way to Shea Stadium for a 7:10 game against the Padres. On this trip, we switched at Grand Central Station, which is overwhelmingly ginormous. MB deserves props for flawlessly navigating us through the station in record time.

We had purchased our Mets tickets online as well when we heard they were hard tickets to come by. We landed seats in the mezzanine, four rows from the top, but at least there was another whole section above us this time. Just as we had heard, we thought Shea Stadium was a plain ballpark with little or no character. In its defense, Mets fans put on a show, constantly leading cheers, chants, and even a solid wave that moved back and forth (Shea’s upper level is not a full circle). There was a large contingent of Navy men in attendance, though unfortunately for Suz, they all appeared to be cadets. Though she searched and searched, she couldn’t find one that looked over 18. Unlike the other ballparks, we had no fan interaction until the subway ride home. Granted, the subway gives strangers ample opportunity to read your shirt. We reached Grand Central Station, expertly switched to our train, and journeyed back to Cathy and Jim’s with our expensive souvenirs.