Who’s Wearing Them Now?

They were luxury shoes, at least for me.

I had never owned an $80 pair of shoes.

Maybe I’d worn speciality shoes in the $50 range for volleyball, basketball, and track. But, this was pushing it.

We didn’t have a lot of extra money to spend, but I don’t remember my mother complaining.

I knew what I wanted, and I was pretty determined to get it.

That’s how I was about everything in life.

My aging memory is too foggy to allow me to remember the details. I wish that I could recall the exact store where we purchased them. Maybe it was a luxury shoe store on the Kansas City Plaza or perhaps a “Birkenstock Store” in Old Town Westport.

I do remember vividly that the shoes I wanted could not be found everywhere.

I’m not even sure why I wanted them. Had I seen others on my university campus wearing them? Did my best friend recently get a pair? Were they “à la mode,” and I needed some to fit it?

I wasn’t one who typically cared about fitting in, so I think I can rule that one out. Honestly, I think someone told me how comfortable they were, that they perfectly formed to your feet. I was also somewhat a “hippie,” and these shoes seemed to fit my style quite well.

I remember picking out the color. It was between a taupe brown and khaki green. The color label actually said “grey.” It was a color that I could wear with anything, and that’s exactly what I did.

From the moment my mother purchased them for me, they didn’t leave my feet. Well, except for sleeping and playing sports.

I wore them year round. Even though they were open-toed sandals, wearing bright-colored, heavy, wool socks with them in the dead of winter was “cool.”

Those leather Birkenstocks became my best friends, at least my feet’s best friends.

They were the first things I packed in my suitcase when I left the comfort of my home in Missouri to fly across the ocean to the other side of the world — France.

It was my study abroad year. I wore my Birkenstocks everywhere and may have even introduced them to the small village in the north of Paris where I was a nanny for three months.

When I spent my junior year at the university in Besançon, on the Swiss border, people often commented about my shoes. Even though they were of European origin—German—they seemed to be a novelty.

After that first year studying abroad at the age of 19, I took off backpacking around Europe — Spain, Italy, Greece . . .

My favorite sandals went everywhere with me. They were always on my feet, which allowed me to not have to carry another pair of shoes in my already over-stuffed backpack.

They hiked dangerous terrain along the Cinque Terre coast of Italy. They walked through sandy waters of the Mediterranean Sea. They traversed cobblestone villages in remote European mountains.

Those Birkenstocks were faithful friends that kept my feet safe and cozy. When I slid my weary feet into them, I would often mumble under my breath, “Awww . . . “

Those shoes felt like home — cozy, comfortable — even though they were now cracked from the water, sand, dust, and sun.

I packed those shoes with me when I went back to America, then back to France, then back to America, then to Morocco, then back to America, then back to France.

During our transition from France, before finally moving to Spain three years ago, I had to take a long look at my favorite shoes.

I didn’t wear them anymore. Their home was now in a trunk of my favorite things from around the world. They also didn’t have the best odor. I didn’t need them anymore. I had a new pair — the exact same ones.

During that time, we were sorting our house and preparing to move once again. It was time to sell, throw away, give away, or discard anything that our family no longer needed.

I can still remember the moment. I looked at those Birkenstocks. I held them in my hand, caressed them, smelled them, and remembered . . . the stories, the adventures, the miles, the foreign lands . . .

I took a picture, said goodbye, and then put them in the donation bag. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them in the trash.

I don’t recall where that donation bag went. We were working with Syrian refugees at the time. Often, we would watch our immigrant friends go through donation bags, pick and choose what they wanted or what fit them, then pass the bag on to others.

I wonder who is wearing my favorite shoes now?

—Marci Renée

The Cultural Story-Weaver

www.culturalstoryweaver.com