I've only got vague memories of the time I took the train into New York City without, apparently, getting permission from my parents. I'm pretty sure I had a good time, but I think the shock of coming home to a panicked mother and a good deal of trouble eclipsed it all in my brain.
We were visiting my grandparents in Connecticut, and I was a teenager. Maybe 14 or 15? Not really sure. I was hanging out with my aunt and uncle's fosters kids--two teenage boys named Bill and Russell. I don't know why or when we decided to go into the city, I can't imagine why my parents didn't know, and I have no idea how we got to the train station, where I got the money I'd have needed, or what we did when we got there.
But there I was. In New York City. Riding around on a subway. In the late 1970s when the crime rate was notoriously high. With two teenage foster kids who I didn't actually really know anything about. And even worse, they were teenage boys. (Though I must say they were always nice to me. Very respectful.)
All I really remember is that when I got back to my grandparents' house and my mother was angry and relieved all at the same time, I didn't understand what the big deal was. I was okay, wasn't I?
Once again, sorry, Mom!