If the shoe fits...
So, I have these shoes. You've probably seen them. Lace-up ankle boots, 2-inch heel, rounded toe. Heck, you've probably complimented them if you've seen me any time in the past 14 months. They're a bit great. Before then, they belonged to my sister. And before that, who knows the life they led. My sister likes to say that I stole them from her, but I remember it differently. A few days before I left for my overseas adventure last year, she handed me a notebook, a card detailing advice she had picked up from her own gap-year travels (in that characteristic manner and style only my sister can write in) and these shoes. My last true hand-me-down, rather than just 'hand-it-overs' as all our subsequent clothing swaps have seemed to be. And so I left, the boots carefully tucked into my suitcase. And they've been with me everywhere ever since.
But nowadays they ain't looking too great. They are world-weary and tired and worn-out. Literally. There are holes in the soles that go through to my socks, the toes are scuffed and even the ribbon makeshift laces have snapped so many times they hardly exist. I mean, I can still wear them... on sunny days... with thick socks... if I feel like putting myself through excruciating pain... And yet it's still worth it every time.
And I know the solution seems clear: just get them repaired, buy new laces, give them a polish. They'll be good as new, pretty as ever, breathing with new life. But to me it's not that simple. You see, I've walked around the world in these shoes. No, really. There wasn't one country out of the 12 that I visited in 8 months where I didn't wear these shoes. Talk about boots made for walking. And sure, sometimes I still got shoe envy (mainly because of my Edinburgh Festival roommate's Kurt Geigers, but let's face it, who wouldn't?) and sometimes I would pass them over for my tattered ballet flats but the fact remains that every time I wore them I left a little taller. Yes, ha-ha-ha, I'm so funny. I didn't mean literally, thank you. Though actually that probably has something to do with it.
The thing is, ingrained in each crack and crevice of these shoes is the gravel, dirt and memories of the streets - cobblestoned or otherwise - that I strolled over eight months. These shoes were with me every step of the way. They have seen places that I myself may never see again. How can I consider paving over the history of these shoes, erasing their memories? Instead, shouldn't I frame them, hang them on my wall and thus immortalise every story that these shoes would tell if only its tongue could speak.
I mean, I wore these shoes when I wore my first overseas purchase - an olive-green vintage jumpsuit from Brick Lane. Incidentally, this is also the night I saw the mesmerising Nnenna Freelon perform at Ronnie Scott's. In these shoes, I danced til dawn at the Bongo Club, the Hive, Cabaret Voltaire, god knows where else, after a long night at the box office or after seeing couple of Edinburgh Fringe shows. I wore these shoes in Berlin on my first European pub crawl; I have a blurry, swirly memory getting up on stage whilst a heavy rock band was playing in an dingy underground club so I could tie up my already breaking shoelaces.
I wore these shoes when I visited Auschwitz. I know that doesn't sound like a practical decision - you'd be right, it wouldn't be - but really it was because my cousin and I weren't planning on going when we did and these shoes were all I had. But, like the unpleasantness of the rain and bitter cold, the discomfort felt fitting. It felt right to suffer a little for the experience. And it's an experience I do not yet have - and indeed may never have - the words or understanding to express. But my shoes were there, you know? They get it.
And these shoes heard the 6-hour long conversation my cousin and I had with Lars the Norwegian Academic, at a jazz bar in Paris. We talked about the invention of modern literature, Coleridge's notion of the secondary imagination, the wonders of Romanticism, world politics, the aftermath of World War II. We talked about language and music and travelling and jazz and life stories. The importance of stories. And we mused over interesting foreign beer. Which we sampled aplenty over the many hours. Which regrettably, as a result, my boots probably remember more of the specifics of that epic conversation than I do.
Then alas, almost falling down some iron steps in Barcelona because one of the heels of my dear shoes had broken right off. And, despite the ridiculousness of me walking around lopsided for the rest of the night, I felt no anger, or even humiliation (though I don't think that had anything to do with the shoes themselves). Rather, I felt a tinge of guilt. For weeks my shoes had been exhausted, travel-weary, wobbling to the end of their tether, and I hadn't listened.
My shoes were repaired by a cobbler in Chieti, a small town in Italy. He was a small, quiet old man sitting behind a workshop bench in a tiny, dirty shop. He had my shoes ready for me that very afternoon, the heel fastened on sturdily, freshly polished for no extra charge. And so our adventure together continued through art galleries of Florence, gelatarie in Bologna, London theatres... These shoes have even walked past Helena Bonham-Carter on Hampstead Main Street, you know.
Then, across the Atlantic, to the freezing winds of the New York City winter; my dear boots providing me that tiny extra bit of chic so that I could walk amongst those trendy New Yorkers despite my bright red coat standing out against the sea of sophisticated black. My boots felt the snow left behind by the day-after-Christmas blizzard beneath them. Unfortunately, so did I as my adventures had well and truly worn my dear friends out. So, after one long day of walking around with freezing, wet, numb, frostbitten toes, I put my shoes to rest until I reached the sunnier shores of San Francisco, Santa Monica and, finally, home.
But there is one place - just one - where I didn't wear my shoes when I deeply and truly wish I had. There is a place on the Danube Promenade in Budapest, Hungary where 60 pairs of cast-iron, 40s style shoes stand beside the great river that separates Buda and Pest. Fresh flowers are tucked into some of the shoes, lit candles stand beside others. On the side is a plaque: "To the memory of the victims shot into the Danube by Arrow Cross militalia men in 1944-45." I looked down to see my boots staring back at me - but I wasn't wearing them that day, I was wearing tatty purple sneakers. No, they were just boots that looked like my boots, cast in iron; stuck to the ground, to that history, to that memory. How I wished I had my own shoes at that moment, to place them side by side on that bank so they too could soak up the beautiful, bitterly sad memorial. Instead, I sat alone by the bank until the sun finished setting, red flooding the water. I left when the river turned an inky black.
Perhaps it is for the best. My shoes are filled to the brim with stories. Stories about meeting new friends, reconnecting with some old ones and drifting away from others. Stories of finding family, crossing language barriers, geographical barriers, personal barriers. Stories of wild nights and hidden cafes and dancing and reading and laughing and drinking tea. Stories of discovery, experience, exploration, conversation. Stories of stories. It wouldn't be fair to burden my boots with every single one. They're falling apart enough as it is.
The question stands thus: Is the sole of a shoe really the soul of a shoe? If I cover up those gaping holes that reveal the balls of my feet am I erasing the miles I've walked in these shoes? Though I know it won't erase history, will I destroy the most unique historical artifact I have of my time abroad? Is that reason enough to put them on the shelf for good? Or, would it be better to repair the shoes - perhaps paving over past adventures - in order to give the shoes the opportunity to experience new ones? For once again I find I am about embark overseas to a familiar location but to completely new, exciting and terrifying experiences. Do I start completely afresh? Find a new pair of perfect shoes (if such a thing exists) whilst my dear old friends stay behind, retired, their adventure over. But perhaps if I repaired them and brought them with me the familiarity would be comforting; not only could they possibly still bring me memories of my past travels but also of my time at home - how many times have these shoes walked down Australia Street? I'm not sure I want to leave them behind. I'm not sure I can.
I need your help. I am indecisive and sentimental and I place far too much importance in the symbolism of my possessions. What do you think I should do?
To mend or not to mend?
But nowadays they ain't looking too great. They are world-weary and tired and worn-out. Literally. There are holes in the soles that go through to my socks, the toes are scuffed and even the ribbon makeshift laces have snapped so many times they hardly exist. I mean, I can still wear them... on sunny days... with thick socks... if I feel like putting myself through excruciating pain... And yet it's still worth it every time.
And I know the solution seems clear: just get them repaired, buy new laces, give them a polish. They'll be good as new, pretty as ever, breathing with new life. But to me it's not that simple. You see, I've walked around the world in these shoes. No, really. There wasn't one country out of the 12 that I visited in 8 months where I didn't wear these shoes. Talk about boots made for walking. And sure, sometimes I still got shoe envy (mainly because of my Edinburgh Festival roommate's Kurt Geigers, but let's face it, who wouldn't?) and sometimes I would pass them over for my tattered ballet flats but the fact remains that every time I wore them I left a little taller. Yes, ha-ha-ha, I'm so funny. I didn't mean literally, thank you. Though actually that probably has something to do with it.
The thing is, ingrained in each crack and crevice of these shoes is the gravel, dirt and memories of the streets - cobblestoned or otherwise - that I strolled over eight months. These shoes were with me every step of the way. They have seen places that I myself may never see again. How can I consider paving over the history of these shoes, erasing their memories? Instead, shouldn't I frame them, hang them on my wall and thus immortalise every story that these shoes would tell if only its tongue could speak.
I mean, I wore these shoes when I wore my first overseas purchase - an olive-green vintage jumpsuit from Brick Lane. Incidentally, this is also the night I saw the mesmerising Nnenna Freelon perform at Ronnie Scott's. In these shoes, I danced til dawn at the Bongo Club, the Hive, Cabaret Voltaire, god knows where else, after a long night at the box office or after seeing couple of Edinburgh Fringe shows. I wore these shoes in Berlin on my first European pub crawl; I have a blurry, swirly memory getting up on stage whilst a heavy rock band was playing in an dingy underground club so I could tie up my already breaking shoelaces.
I wore these shoes when I visited Auschwitz. I know that doesn't sound like a practical decision - you'd be right, it wouldn't be - but really it was because my cousin and I weren't planning on going when we did and these shoes were all I had. But, like the unpleasantness of the rain and bitter cold, the discomfort felt fitting. It felt right to suffer a little for the experience. And it's an experience I do not yet have - and indeed may never have - the words or understanding to express. But my shoes were there, you know? They get it.
And these shoes heard the 6-hour long conversation my cousin and I had with Lars the Norwegian Academic, at a jazz bar in Paris. We talked about the invention of modern literature, Coleridge's notion of the secondary imagination, the wonders of Romanticism, world politics, the aftermath of World War II. We talked about language and music and travelling and jazz and life stories. The importance of stories. And we mused over interesting foreign beer. Which we sampled aplenty over the many hours. Which regrettably, as a result, my boots probably remember more of the specifics of that epic conversation than I do.
Then alas, almost falling down some iron steps in Barcelona because one of the heels of my dear shoes had broken right off. And, despite the ridiculousness of me walking around lopsided for the rest of the night, I felt no anger, or even humiliation (though I don't think that had anything to do with the shoes themselves). Rather, I felt a tinge of guilt. For weeks my shoes had been exhausted, travel-weary, wobbling to the end of their tether, and I hadn't listened.
My shoes were repaired by a cobbler in Chieti, a small town in Italy. He was a small, quiet old man sitting behind a workshop bench in a tiny, dirty shop. He had my shoes ready for me that very afternoon, the heel fastened on sturdily, freshly polished for no extra charge. And so our adventure together continued through art galleries of Florence, gelatarie in Bologna, London theatres... These shoes have even walked past Helena Bonham-Carter on Hampstead Main Street, you know.
Then, across the Atlantic, to the freezing winds of the New York City winter; my dear boots providing me that tiny extra bit of chic so that I could walk amongst those trendy New Yorkers despite my bright red coat standing out against the sea of sophisticated black. My boots felt the snow left behind by the day-after-Christmas blizzard beneath them. Unfortunately, so did I as my adventures had well and truly worn my dear friends out. So, after one long day of walking around with freezing, wet, numb, frostbitten toes, I put my shoes to rest until I reached the sunnier shores of San Francisco, Santa Monica and, finally, home.
But there is one place - just one - where I didn't wear my shoes when I deeply and truly wish I had. There is a place on the Danube Promenade in Budapest, Hungary where 60 pairs of cast-iron, 40s style shoes stand beside the great river that separates Buda and Pest. Fresh flowers are tucked into some of the shoes, lit candles stand beside others. On the side is a plaque: "To the memory of the victims shot into the Danube by Arrow Cross militalia men in 1944-45." I looked down to see my boots staring back at me - but I wasn't wearing them that day, I was wearing tatty purple sneakers. No, they were just boots that looked like my boots, cast in iron; stuck to the ground, to that history, to that memory. How I wished I had my own shoes at that moment, to place them side by side on that bank so they too could soak up the beautiful, bitterly sad memorial. Instead, I sat alone by the bank until the sun finished setting, red flooding the water. I left when the river turned an inky black.
Perhaps it is for the best. My shoes are filled to the brim with stories. Stories about meeting new friends, reconnecting with some old ones and drifting away from others. Stories of finding family, crossing language barriers, geographical barriers, personal barriers. Stories of wild nights and hidden cafes and dancing and reading and laughing and drinking tea. Stories of discovery, experience, exploration, conversation. Stories of stories. It wouldn't be fair to burden my boots with every single one. They're falling apart enough as it is.
The question stands thus: Is the sole of a shoe really the soul of a shoe? If I cover up those gaping holes that reveal the balls of my feet am I erasing the miles I've walked in these shoes? Though I know it won't erase history, will I destroy the most unique historical artifact I have of my time abroad? Is that reason enough to put them on the shelf for good? Or, would it be better to repair the shoes - perhaps paving over past adventures - in order to give the shoes the opportunity to experience new ones? For once again I find I am about embark overseas to a familiar location but to completely new, exciting and terrifying experiences. Do I start completely afresh? Find a new pair of perfect shoes (if such a thing exists) whilst my dear old friends stay behind, retired, their adventure over. But perhaps if I repaired them and brought them with me the familiarity would be comforting; not only could they possibly still bring me memories of my past travels but also of my time at home - how many times have these shoes walked down Australia Street? I'm not sure I want to leave them behind. I'm not sure I can.
I need your help. I am indecisive and sentimental and I place far too much importance in the symbolism of my possessions. What do you think I should do?
To mend or not to mend?
posted by Tamara at
1:29 AM
1 Comments
