And this problem is far from an exception. I’ve been down this road before, metaphorically and physically. All of the buildings loom like giants above my head. I swear they look like they’re leaning towards me at certain angles which makes me feel even more like a button mushroom growing on a forest floor. Which block was it on again? I remember it visually, following the vauge instructions from a New York professional. “It’s close, just a few blocks…” I am never trusting a doorman ever again. I feel as deserted as the map I left in the hotel room. I can see the towers looming above me, my destination. So close yet so far. The pavement is burning a hole in my once clean ballet flats. They weren’t meant for this kind of frantic trek across pigeon shit and rat-sized potholes. A left. A right. Then another. Luckily here I am, gasping like a fish out of water, below the twin towers, sweat matting my hair to the back of my neck.