Shoes (Spring 07)

In my family, we say that squeaky shoes have a story. I think all shoes have a story.

One particular pair of mine began their journey with me by lying unassumingly in a bin outside of a boutique in Crested Butte last summer. I had been wanting ballet flats, and these were the right price, albeit a strange color (a tannish-goldish silky ruched material with burgundy trim). They reminded me of the bright-asian silk patterned flip-flops I’d bought in Flagstaff on vacation–at the downtown import store that smelled of incense. The CB flats didn’t make their debut until earlier this week. They were my foot attire on Friday traipsing all over downtown while Tania and I shopped for a retirement gift for one of our professors. Later that night, they traversed alleys and off-the-beaten-path-portions of the city, going on a reflection walk with a few members of the homeless ministry. We were given the assignment to walk around (several miles of city), and to picture ourselves as new homeless people downtown–we were asked to reflect about where we’d sleep, find food, get help, how we’d get money, etc. I was with the two guys in our group, who were certainly adventurous. The shelter they found was great for them (out of the way, semi-hidden spots behind buildings), but for me, it only emphasized the danger of the streets for women. It was amazing how my senses were heightened: my feet seemed to ache more acutely from the lack of arch support in the shoes and our uneven terrain, the smells were strong–disgusting and also delicious, my eyes darted around, searching for help, for sources of comfort, for potential places of privacy, and I overheard more conversations and the frenzied hustle-bustle of pedestrians along the main shopping street. We paused in a few of the places we’d use if we were homeless, and even though we were well-dressed middle-class kids, I felt we did get a taste, even if just a morsel, of the restless and anxious existence a new homeless person might experience. Safety on the streets seems to come through community, or having dogs, and that takes a while to establish (as even street people will take advantage of one another). It was a challenging and really eye-opening walk.

Green Gola tennis shoes took me through some of the underground to a fantastic florist near the train station, where I picked up a bouquet for the aforementioned professor’s retirement party. They also took me up the mountain on a late-night walk with Pete (and they got only a little wet as we walked around the lake at the top).

Robins’-egg-blue heels took me to the professor’s party, with the gorgeous (and large) bouquet in hand. Along Crescent Street, people were enjoying the warm Saturday afternoon outside on pub patios. As I walked by, I was serenaded with “There she is, Miss America” by some cheeky fellow. I laughed and responded, “I AM from America,” gave him a high-five and received applause from people at neighboring pub patios. The Italian gathering was a bit surreal–we sat among the professor’s late eighteenth and early-nineteenth-century French and English furniture and extensive tea set collection (old china in ornate patterns gold-and platinum-embossed designs). As I sat in that sunny apartment, gingerly drinking my tea (so as not to spill or drop the precious china cup), speaking with professors and instructors and my fellow grad students in Italian, it occurred to me how unique that experience was. We ate wonderfully (a light cake with the tea, then fresh tortellini with a four-cheese sauce, then a buffet of spinach souffle, bread, cheese, fruit, olives, prosciutto, and an apple crisp for dessert). Mmm.

The gold ballet flats came out again on Sunday–walking to and from a really awesome Anglican church. I had been to an Episcopal church once before, and this one completely excited me. The formal aspects (common prayers, readings) were full of solid theology, and were beautifully written. I had mistakenly thought that with routines like taking the Eucharist every week or repeating some of the same prayers and creeds, that the congregation would be stoic, wouldn’t be excited or emotional. Worship was great. People in the congregation were kind. There was lots of Scripture that was read, and a missions group told about their trip to Africa. I really loved that church.

The flats took me and Sennait down to the Old Port (another considerably long walk), then to Impact.

It was an awesome weekend to be outside–the city really woke up from its winter hibernation. I wanted to amputate my feet after walking so much in stupid shoes, but I was offered a wonderful foot massage by Pete and a bit of wine helped the pain.