THANK HEAVEN FOR LITTLE GIRLIE SHOES
MIAMI The hotel shuttle, an hour overdue, tries to sneak past the stop. I don't even reflect: I bolt.
I dodge across four lanes of traffic and flag that sucker.
"You're fast off the blocks in those heels," remarks a fellow traveler.
"Just doing my job," I joke. "Travel writers don't have time for that Clark Kent phone booth nonsense. We just save the day in style..."
In fact, the posh footwear is due to the three-inch wound on my sole. After my final PADI advanced open-water exam, I swam to the lagoon shallows, definned and stood. A rock knifed straight into the cut from the Medellin salsa mishap. Not a good moment, this: lots of flailing and language that froze all the blokes on the dock.
Anyway, the tilt of the girlie shoes protects my twice-gouged heel enough to run even*, rocket-boostered by adrenaline. The ensemble is topped by a little black dress and a Kavu fleece. Pure class.
Soon this will be the uniform of scuba divers the world over, I'm sure.
*Two words, young woman: ankle straps.