What is it with catching cabs in New York City? Either there is one on every corner honking at you when you have nowhere to go, or you are stranded downtown in heels without an empty cab in sight. Such is life, and perhaps a time for Alanis Morissette to improperly use the word ironic. Don’t you think?

On this particular day, I spent a good solid hour trying to get a cab in New York City. After my phone died in the midst of an attempt to use Uber, I was approached by a silly man on a pedi-cab who offered to give me a ride. As Murphy’s law would have it, we were sans cash and pedi-cab man had no use for my credit card. The closest subway stop was not exactly the closest and, although lovely to look at, these boots weren’t exactly made for walking.

Of course, when we finally did find a cab that appeared vacant, he wanted to do the “lock-the-door-where-are-you-headed” dance and forced me to essentially climb through his open window before finally agreeing to take me back to my hotel.

My name is Katie Cassidy and I throw myself at cab drivers.

My name is Katie Cassidy and I throw myself at cab drivers.

In the post:

waistcoat: Zara  |  pumps: Brian Atwood  |  sunglasses: Alexander McQueen  |  bracelet: Henri Bendel  |  handbag: Celine  |  lipstick: Tom Ford


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