Hardworking Shoes for Busy Bipeds
After a while, pressing down against the earth becomes painful.
Things change when you move to a walking city from a car town.
Wearing smart black boots I used to think of as comfortable, the balls of my feet strike against the terrazzo and cobblestones over and over again. A gentle ache in the balls of my feet blooms and travels up my shins.
It is strange that I know how many steps I take most days. How many times did my feet push down against the earth between this morning and right now? Three thousand? Twenty-two thousand? The difference between a cubicle and a long, slow climb with a baby on my back is about 17,000 steps.
I first discovered how unfamiliar I was with walking when I moved from suburb to city at eighteen. Irritation gave way to blisters and then open sores on my heels, courtesy of flats that had been comfortable in high school hallways.
That year, I discovered the hard way that a downpour can ruin a pair of soft leather boots if you walk all the way home—but how could I have known? I’d never had to walk in the rain.
These are lessons I learned ten years ago. So I am surprised to have to rediscover, here in Bologna, that I have gotten soft. Or maybe that my everyday shoes had gotten hard.
The trunk of my car, parked lonely with the plates removed, is still home to my trail running sneakers and my hiking boots. (Just thinking of them makes me homesick.) Back home, long walks are a choice, complete with designated footwear. Now my shoes do double duty, carrying me to daycare drop-off, Italian lessons, grocery shopping, everywhere.
Here I found my first pair of heroes by keeping my eyes on everybody else’s feet. I arrived self-conscious and uncomfortable, so it was easy. After careful observation, I picked up a pair of suede sneakers that I couldn’t really afford. They succeeded in placating the ache in my lower back from arriving underprepared. Given the choice between being uncomfortable and feeling underdressed, I almost always choose pain. These shoes are old friends of mine now, scrubbed clean more than once with an old toothbrush and some dish soap.
Then in Amsterdam, my first international solo trip, I thought I could wear Chelsea boots for three days without consequence. They rubbed my heels raw before long—how could I forget the critical role of laces in lugging around such heavy soles? That weekend, I bought a pair of white leather sneakers, now creased and formed to my feet. I wash them with baby wipes.
This love letter started as a style guide, but it fell apart and reformed as a manifesto. The more I try to offer advice, the more I realize that I can’t choose your sneakers any more than I can arrange your marriage.
I can only speak to my own experience. I like the way my little white sneakers weigh nearly nothing, and how they make the other colors I’ve chosen that day seem a little brighter in comparison. They are light and bright! Some days require it.
And when my feet get tired, the padded insoles of my suede sneakers are nothing short of luxurious, even if the color is getting muddied from scrubbings. There are other shoes I wear a lot, that I even love. But truthfully, I could live without them.
I guess I just wanted to tell you this: I hope your feet are comfortable today, and I hope however you travel, you feel lovely and capable of anything.