East Rutherford, N.J. — It was a venture into the forbidden hinterlands for a pair of Manhattanites trying to traverse ten miles to a mythical destination named after a swamp. Out of an abundance of caution, we left at 5:00 p.m. on Thursday for Paul McCartney’s eight o’clock show at MetLife Stadium. We arrived at 8:15, and you’d think we’d have been offered at least a free stadium weenie in acknowledgment of the torture corridor through which we had just crept.
A fair description of the journey would have made Sir Francis Drake curl into the fetal position and demand to speak to his therapist. “I’m never doing this again,” grumbled my companion, who is unaware of my secret plan to forcibly entertain her with an Elton John performance in the Meadowlands next month. My strategy for that Saturday night show is to depart by Tuesday morning, at the latest.






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