Feb27

The Wrong Side of the Tracks

{Top: c/o Zamrie Versatile Vida Tank in Charcoal. Belt: Alexis. Short: Shopblush.com. Booties: Bib & Tuck. Bag: Furla Cortina Shoulder Bag c/o the newly revamped Furla at The Village of Merrick Park. Photographed by me.}

And now, tales from the trenches—blogger edition. I have always hopped fences and snuck into construction sites to shoot pics for my blog. And like a laundry list of bloggers, I’ve been run off and yelled at for using these backgrounds. (And you thought we just wore clothes and smiled at the camera. Trust me, there’s a lot more that goes into it.) But now that I’ve been shooting my own pics (thanks to my trusty tripod and remote), trespassing has become more of a mission, as I don’t have a partner in crime to help bear the load. So, the other night, I found part of a train on the tracks in Miami proper. I just knew I had to shoot on it.

Cue Mission Impossible theme. As I approached the train, I found a chain link fence preventing me from getting to it. Foiled! Oh, but what was this? Someone had been kind enough to pull the fence from the post creating a just-barely Ginger-sized hole at the top for me to climb through. So picture it: Me—in sizable heels, Furla bag in one hand, tripod in the other, camera around my shoulder—jumpin through a hole in the fence and landing in an uneven gravel pit below.

I made it though the fence only to realize I now had to get onto the shoulder-high train with all my regalia in hand. Thank God for yoga, Pilates and some serious determination (I didn’t scale that damn fence for nothing), because after two attempts, I was finally able to lift my bodyweight using only my arm muscles to hurl myself onto the train’s rust-covered platform. I set up the tripod and went to work.

A few shots in, a nice guy on a bike with a kiddo on the back came by and explained that he, too, was a photographer (a title I don’t credit myself with) and understood the importance of a good shot, but just a week or so before someone was held up at gunpoint near the same spot I was shooting in and he’d hate for me to wind up on the news. Yeah, me and my mom, too. I was not about to be blogger bait.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I asked Nice Guy if he would be kind enough to hang out until I could climb out of the current situation I’d gotten myself in, and he obliged. Basically, I moved like a ninja. Regardless of whether or not I got the shot, I packed up my stuff and got the hell out of dodge. On the way down, I managed to ram my leg against the metal, before plunging into the gravel pit below (in heels, mind you), but I didn’t let it slow my roll.

The next mission was getting out of the hole I’d gotten myself into. Literally. And of course it was a thousand times easier getting in than it was getting out. But I scurried through, putting more emphasis on not scratching my fancy bag and camera gear than my  own flesh. War wounds blazing, I thanked the kind stranger, got into my car and immediately locked the doors.

Upon getting home, I dumped my pics into iPhoto and made the most of what I had. And then I headed to the medicine cabinet to put arnica on my sexy blue, purple and yellow golfball-sized bruise. It’s the kind of scar that has a story behind it for sure.

And a picture, too. So, basically, that’s what went into this post. But for such a cool top and bag, it was well worth it. Moral: Blogging is no joke.

Wherever you are, Nice Guy, thanks for looking out for me. I truly appreciate it.