Wrong Way, Corrigan...

The weather was 100 degrees and rising, the sun relentless, the humidity difficult to breath through. Jon and I had already walked seven miles and it was only three in the afternoon.

To give our tennis shoes a break, we descended into the bowels of the NYC subway system. The platforms were littered with miniature Gucci princesses and Armani princes, cell phones glued to their ears and who knows what other body parts. The system is a perfect example of how someone who eats overly-rich food and too much of it can get blocked up and need to take a serious crap.

"So we need to take the N train south. This dark green line here."

"Where are we trying to get to?" Jon asked.

"Union Square, right off lower broadway."

"We can't get there from here, Kate," he said. He went over to the two-sided plexiglass map in the center of the platform. He traced the route on the map kind of sadly - not unexpected, given my remarkable history of misdirection.

I whipped out my personal map. "But I triple-checked this," I mumbled to myself. Jon pointed to the plexiglass map and showed that I was, indeed, incorrect with my subway directions.

We found the platform that would take us south, and waited for the subway. After a few minutes, a blistering gust of wind blew in ahead of the high-speed rail car. The breeze against my sweat-soaked body was a relief, as was finding the right subway car. I had always hoped my lack of directional sense would be something I'd outgrow, like conspicuously picking my nose.

The subway car itself was blissfully cool with air conditioning, one of the few excesses of NYC that I will not complain about.

After a few moments of rocking back and forth and enjoying the rest break, Jon slowly turns in his seat.

He turns his head back to the wall of the subway car, and whispers in my ear.

"Kate. I think I was looking at the bus map."