TWENTY-EIGHT HOURS IN HIGH HEELS
SEATTLE, Washington My friend Adrian and I break into the Olympic Sculpture Park at midnight.
Accidentally, officer, I swear.
Friday is all pinball machine. For a travelgirl article and the greater good I endure two hotel inspections; review a restaurant, then a wine bar smart enough to serve PBR; whisk through the newly anointed Seattle Art Museum, and wash up, starfish limp, at press club.
"Want a lift home?" a college-buddy-turned-media-mogul asks. "Except I was just going to stop by these two parties first..."
The park soiree ended hours before. But how could we know that without strolling the darkened grounds? The winded security guard busted us around Eagle by Alexander Calder, all scarlet curves of steel. "Let's go check out the fundraiser for the Italian commune," Adrian suggests.
And I, never wise about brakes, say, "si, certo."