Two weeks before we left for our trip to New York, I broke my ankle.
It was the second time I had broken my ankle in as many years. In the big scheme of things, it wasn’t a bad break. The doctors at the Paris hospital didn’t even plaster it or give me crutches (yep, that’s for a whole other story). I got myself a moonboot, found myself a pair of crutches and hobbled around Paris. But my mind was racing. How on Earth was I to get around New York a couple of weeks later? How was I even to get to New York?