Shoes and I have always had a special relationship. When I was three, my brother, dad and I went to visit the ponies down the street from my house. Naturally, this required pulling out every shoe that I own and pulling them into the stroller as we trekked across the empty field. It was of the upmost importance that I had my white jelly sandals as well as my ballet slippers and black tap shoes with me to visit the ponies. Though I was made of a little bit more spice than sugar, I did not own a pair of cowgirl boots. As Louis Sullivan said, “form follows function” and my little girl shoes were made for nothing but showing off in the girly-est of ways.
My family has an old video tape of one of my dance recitals on it. Ten or so little girls are lined up on the stage in black sequined leotards and pink puppy dog ears. Each prima ballerina is looking either right or left to copy the dance moves of the teachers hiding in the wings. A burst of laughter erupts from the crowd and the camera swings all the way over the the right side of the stage. One little girl is decidedly not acting like a Dancing Pup. Though her paws are up, they are waving more than they are dancing.
“Hi Mom! Hi Dad! Hi Heather! Hi Brock! Hi Gramma! Hi Grampa! Hi! Hi!”
I keep waving excitedly. I'm nodding. The crowd breaks into applause. I'm smiling. I'm completely confident. I'm blowing the crowd kisses. All of this is for me!?
I get a similar feeling many years later when I take a city bus with my friends to the Tuscan country side. The golden sunlight so many artists captured on canvas rolls across lush green hills. The tree leaves flash past and seem idyllic. Away from dirty Firenze, the countryside is paradise. It's easy to see how Dante was so inspired. However, my mission is more primitive than that of the artists of the past. Though I love to write and draw and take photographs, I have willingly submitted myself to more hours on a public bus than I have ever experienced in the simplest of pursuits. My first goal I set for myself before embarking to Italy, (Find-an-Italian-Boyfriend) almost fully accomplished, I roped said Italian and several of my friends into a more proper pursuit: Find-an-Italian-Pair-of-Shoes.
We are traveling to what the Italians call The Mall. Another kind of paradise, the stores are filled with more of my favorite Italian Men: Versace, Valentino, Pucci. As with all dream shoes purchases, I have the perfect pair in my head. They have to be red. They, like all of my favorite shoes as a little girl, must have a bow. And, they must be sky high and guarantee a certain type of seduction. Perhaps not so proper after all.
I search high and low. Like the best relationships, the right shoe will just come to me. Out of nowhere. When I least expect it. It will feel just right. Almost as if it were made for me. It will guarantee the type of confidence I had a little girl. That feeling of I-Can-Take-on-the-World that everyone loses growing up as we are trained more and more to care what people think instead of being ourselves. Caring more about fitting in than finding, and being at peace with, ourselves.
The perfect pair reveals itself upon a Valentino shelf. Five inch, red leather peep toe heels with a bow at the vamp. For the second time in Italy, I've found love at first sight. I cannot, however, bring myself to purchase the shoes. It is too risky. It just wouldn't be right. My Italian takes the shoe off the shelf. Hands it to me. Tells me to just try it on. See if it fits. Walk around in it a little bit. He bets that the shoes sound nice when I walk. Click-clack. Click-clack. He stares intently at me as I walk. Though I didn't know it at the time, he perhaps had ulterior motives. I can't blame him though, I was looking for a certain kind of shoe. Hands shaking, I become the owner of a pair of red Valentino heels. I feel certain the earth will fall out from under me as we drive back to our villa.
The first opportunity to wear the heels comes at the close of our study abroad adventure. A university alumni couple has generously offered to take a few students out for drinks at the Four Seasons and dinner at one of Florence's best restaurants. We are dressed to the nines. No more black high heels for me. I slink into my roommates best dress. It's long and the neckline plunges. I practice strutting around my room in my heels. I've been practicing for fancy heels since I raided my Gramma's closet at a young age. I might have done it a few times.
We feel like millionaires at the Four Seasons, most sipping drinks named after Bond characters. I sit next to the brown eyed Italian, he shares my drink, but I refrain from drinking anything with a name other than Shirley Temple. The alumni eye us.
“How long have you been together?”
“What?” We look at each other and laugh nervously.
“How long have you been together?” they ask again.
“Oh, we...since...about five seconds ago apparently,” he manages.
We smile at each other and then glare at the group of students, searching to find the offending party who has obviously so erroneously led this couple to believe the two of us were dating.
We pile into long black taxis and speed into the Tuscan night to a place with frescos on the walls and plenty of wine in the cellar. The couple tells us to order whatever we want, the chef will cook anything. Later the chef comes out and showers us with rose petals. The couple turns to us again,
“When are you getting married?” they ask. “When are you meeting her parents?”
The Italian grabs my hand. He leans in and taps his glass with a fork. The table turns to face us.
“Actually, I feel like our relationship has progressed. We've been on two dates, counting this one. I feel like it's time to take it to the next level.” He again stares at me intently and then laughs, “will you marry me?”
The forks stop, the rose petals fall, the Italian owner tells me I have a body like a Coke bottle. I wave. I nod. The crowd breaks into applause. I smile, completely confident. I blow a few kisses. All of this for me?! I feel certain the earth will fall out from under me as we drive back to our villa.
