On our way to the stunning Van Gogh Immersive Experience last week, I cracked a lame joke to my husband about fearing I’d lose an ear there. As it turned out, I kept both ears . . . but lost my sole. No kidding. In the middle of the exhibit, I took a step forward, but the entire bottom half of my right espadrille, wedge heel and all, stayed behind. And there was no reconnecting the parts. I limped like Walter Brennan in Rio Bravo through the remainder of the exhibit, with just a thin shell of fabric strapped to my right foot.

That was pretty much when the evening started Van Gogh-ing downhill. By night’s end, all my best laid plans had Van Gone completely to hell, which would be a more understandable consequence if I’d lost my actual soul, but it seemed a bit harsh just for losing my sole. Apparently, spiritual forces make no allowances for homophones.

At any rate, I had originally planned a lovely outing for my husband and me to mitigate the post-vacation letdown we were feeling after enjoying a fabulous two-week, fully vaccinated family extravaganza with our kids and grandkids. A warm summer night on the town, with amazing art, fancy cocktails at sunset, and a delicious dinner under the starry night was just what we needed to buoy our sagging spirits, I thought.

The exhibit was spectacular, but as I hobbled to the glass exit door, I was crushed to see unexpected storm clouds raining—actually, pouring—on the rest of my parade. So much for the 0% chance of precipitation forecast for this evening. Due to this tragic turn of events, there would be no sunset cocktails on the patio outside the exhibit. Instead, there would be a miserable trek back to the car at the far end of the flooded, rutted, makeshift gravel parking lot, with an espadrille on my left foot and what amounted to a handkerchief on the right one. My ever gallant husband volunteered to let me wait under an awning while he brought the car around, but the one-way set up of the parking lot precluded that, so I had no choice.

By the time I had traversed the parking pit, my steam-cleaned hair—courtesy of the rain/heat combo—had swelled to roughly the size of France, my formerly cute sundress was splattered with a paste of wet sand and gravel dust, and the outer layer of the flimsy fabric strapped to my right foot had virtually disintegrated, along with the biggest portion of my good mood. Many bad words were said loudly once my thoroughly bedraggled self was safely back inside the car which, oddly enough, relieved my dark mood enough to consider salvaging the evening by going to a favorite nearby restaurant for an indoor dinner.

My husband dropped me as near as he could to the entrance of the restaurant, and sporting my espadrille’s skeletal remains, I limped up a gravel path (does concrete not exist anymore?) to the hostess stand in front of the  garden room. I really want to believe that my being turned away truly was due to the large parties they had booked for the evening, but after catching my reflection in the garden room windows, I had my doubts. My appearance didn’t exactly fit their target demographic. It barely fit the target demographic for a Walmart food sample display.

Back in the car, I shot down every suggestion my husband made for dinner, sure that by now most would involve a long wait. Plus, I had had it with hobbling, embarrassed and soggy-footed, through our big night on the town. I wanted to go home, take a hot shower, and eat cereal in my pajamas. But first I needed a stiff drink, i.e., a large Coke Zero. Spying a McDonalds up ahead, I instructed my husband to pull into the drive-thru, get my drink, and head straight home. Trying to find the entrance to the poorly designed McDonald’s drive-thru lane, my husband accidentally turned into the parking lot of a little out-of-the-way restaurant we’d never heard of before. My husband and I looked at each other, our raised eyebrows silently communicating, should we give it a try? According to my Colombian husband, the restaurant’s Spanish name sounded promising, and we both detected a vaguely food-like aroma in the air. Not to mention the biggest point in its favor, it had a paved parking lot. We decided to go for it. After my husband ran in and confirmed they could seat us, I got out of the car and limped in.

We were whisked to a table and given menus which is when we found out we were in a (supposed) Peruvian restaurant. How lovely, we thought, as we’d both enjoyed delicious Peruvian dishes many times, and my husband especially loves ceviche. (For the record, I love drinking Pisco and would lick huacatay sauce off the floor.) Unfortunately, neither ceviche nor many other recognizable Peruvian dishes were being served in this restaurant. A Peruvian restaurant without ceviche, seriously? That’s like an Italian restaurant without pasta. (Where was the chef from anyhow, Peru, Nebraska?) I took it as a further bad sign when my husband didn’t understand the Spanish translations of the unfamiliar offerings any better than I did.

Peruvian roasted chicken is a true classic, and I was relieved to find at least this one legendary item on the menu (although the wording, simply “half chicken,” did make me wonder for a moment which half it would be). My clearly non-roasted chicken finally arrived and if presentation is everything, I got nothing. It was plopped in the middle of a big plate devoid of any accoutrements, not a single bean, grain of rice, or even sprig of parsley, just my pitiful half (Shake ‘n’ Bake?) chicken. I picked at it and then lost my appetite. My husband was more adventurous and ordered some concoction served in a bowl. He bravely took about five bites and gave up. We paid the check and my husband incredibly asked for a to-go box—certain that our dog Harper, with his less than discriminating palate, would consider our discards a feast.

My husband had called it on the nose. Harper couldn’t lap up the purported Peruvian surprise fast enough. And he couldn’t begin expelling it fast enough either—out both ends. All night long. By the time Harper was emptied out, the sun was coming up, and we all collapsed in exhaustion and slept till noon. Our craptastic night on the town had mercifully come to an end.

The next time I plan an evening out, I’m wearing rubber boots and sticking a bottle of Coke Zero in my purse. You never know how far afield the search for a McDonald’s drive-thru lane may lead you and your decimated footwear. Oh, how like Van Gogh, I have suffered much for art’s sake!