Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

Tom and I both have a pain in our right heels. We blame New Orleans. I'd suggest our tribulations began because we were hanging with the locals three miles from our hotel. This is where all the cool people watch the Mardi Gras parades. (This is the long version here, so just bear with me. Eventually I'll get to the point about why our heels hurt.) The thing with Mardi Gras weekend, we discovered, is that taxi drivers are too smart to be on the clock when drunk-ass Mardi Gras strangers covered with glitter are on the move. There was not a cab to be found after about 7pm. And the Uber drivers had bailed even earlier. Also the parades run right down the street with the trolley, so they shut down the only mass transit in town.  I say all this to say we got stranded three miles from our hotel. We decided to walk back after the last parade. At first we hoped to spot a taxi along the way, but this optimism quickly vanished.  On the plus side, for at least a mile, we had a distraction.