SoHo, New York -- "What are all these people doing standing around in the snow?"
My cab driver, Ahmed, swivels his wrist in disgust at the sharply dressed men and women that slog across the street. A green Gucci bag collects a thin layer of frost, and an Armani coat is pulled tight around the wearer.
"It's Fashion Week," I say, raising my hands to the small heater. "There's nothing practical about Fashion week."
Practical. Practical like five pairs of size-nine Doc Martin boots in the seat next to me.
With one final disgruntled flip of the wrist, Ahmed replies, "Crazy fools."