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There’s just something about my Adidas.

a manhattan-bound broad

As you do when in the area, we went out in Manhattan the other night. This requires a little dressing up and in my case, a little borrowing of attire. A bottle or so of wine into our pre-func celebration, I made some decisions I would later regret. I did not use the sweet NYC condoms from the bar the other night. I did wear heels. Narrow three-inch boot heels.

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Pick your jaws up, kids…but yeah, seriously. What was I thinking? Being completely unpracticed in the heel-wearing experience, I was starting to feel the pain even before the downstairs French neighbors knocked to ask us to tone down “le boots.” I guess they didn’t like our serenade of five girls in heeled boots having a dance party on hardwood. Fucking frogs, man.

Anyway, the pain really started to kick in while waiting for the train. And I became progressively more silent and cross-faced during the walk to HiFi, and by our arrival to 11th, I was close to tears. It was honestly almost unbearable pain. I could not believe how these boots had turned against my poor unsuspecting feets. It was not worth the weiner, to borrow some Spanish idiomatics.

I remained on my bar stool the rest of the night but made some friends behind the bar (including Lorenzo, the Mexican import with the sweetest Viva Mexico/Pancho Villa shirt I have ever seen) and scored some free brews and shots. If only it had been enough to numb my pain.

The next night, we went to a hopping Russian-themed club in Brooklyn called Sputnik. The beers were big, and the music downstairs was amazing. It made for the second night of seeing the sun rise. Did you know bars in NY don’t close until 4 a.m.? I certainly did not. Did you know that absinthe is totally disgusting? Me neither.

There are a lot of other things to tell, and a forthcoming blog about my absolute lust for British Airways. Seriously. But…I am here in this bar in London (attached to my hostel, The Antigallican). My first move was coffee at the BP where these two skinny little dudes asked about me and my travels and why I had decided to stay in “souf London.” They told me it’s like Harlem here and that I shouldn’t walk with too much of my stuff at night. I told them I had spent the last week in Brooklyn, New York. This area might be sketchy, but it’s just too damn clean to inspire much fear. I’m more scared of being hit by a rampant miniature car on the wrong side of the street. They also asked for my phone number in case they wanted to visit the states, but the one said he wouldn’t be over until Bush’s reign was over because his last name is the common Muslim, bin Laden.

Also…it’s 1 p.m. here, 9 a.m. where I just came from, and 6 a.m. back home or something like that. Point is, I think I got about 30 minutes of sleep to prepare for this day, and I’m going to head out and do some sightseeing. Sorry about the disjointed nature of things, but bear with me. I have lots of good shit to share.

Cheerio kids!

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