I have packed five pairs of shoes for my month away. Five. That is stupid.
Oddly, my backpack has still got a fair bit of room. My sleeping bag squashes to nothing (as nothing as a sleeping bag can be) and I have all the magical frugal travelling things you're meant to take, like a bit of chamois leather masquerading as a towel. I'm very fond of my car cleaning cloth, as it happens - until it starts to smell. That happens round about the ten day mark, I've found, as a result of being transported in its plastic bag home, nestled in among many other rucksacks in the belly of a dodgy bus.
Seriously, five pairs of shoes. That's not counting my beloved battered boots that I'm wearing on the plane.
On Wednesday I fly to Connecticut. Next week, we go south to Buenos Aires. The reason I have five (fine, SIX) pairs of shoes is really quite logical; the two climates will be very different.
In other shoe news: I have given myself yet another haematoma (the thing that is causing my nail to fall off), but this time, with the aid of high heels, rather than ill-fitting running shoes. That tells you all you need to know about my last few weeks in the city.