Today was a hard shoe day.
I needed to head off to Manzanillo for a few chores. That means the Sunday-go-to-Meeting clothes come out of the chifforobe.
Mexicans tend to treat “going to town” in the same manner my grandmother did. The city is no place to traipse about in shorts and sandals -- as if a remake of Ben-Hur was under way.
So, out came the long pants and hard shoes. Nice shoes. Soft as moccasins. As light as opera slippers. Looking as if they are first cousins to the type of footwear you would find on lanes one through eight at the Bowl-Rite.
To no one’s surprise, there is a story tucked in there somewhere.
I inherited the feet of the same grandmother who would dress to go to town. Well, at least her foot genes.
They are not so much feet as they are blocks. Short and square. Finding size 8 EEE is a task. At times, I feel as if I would be better off simply buying two shoe boxes.
When I moved down here, my favorite brown shoes were on their last feet. Literally. You could find more sole on a Lawrence Welk LP. So, off I went to buy replacements because I had been told that finding shoes in my size in Mexico would be a quixotic quest.
Apparently my Cervantes moment came early. I could find nothing in Oregon, either. After three months of La Manchaing my way through stores.
Then I happened upon a pair of Eccos. That fit. And threatened to drain my wallet. If it had not been for their comfortable fit, I would not have bought them.
They looked exactly like bowling shoes. I had just recently chided a friend of mine on the Salvation Army Advisory Board for wearing similar shoes. And here I was a step away from signing up for the PBA tour.
They turned out to be a great buy. For three years, they have been my “good” shoes.
But all “good” things come to an end. They served their last serviceable days on the China tour.
When I stopped in The States on my way back to Mexico, I visited three shoe stores that stock Eccos to replace the dearly departed. But it appeared the style I had initially hated and then learned to tolerate was no simply no more.
So, I replaced them with the shoes that so amiably accompanied me to Manzanillo today.
I needed to head off to Manzanillo for a few chores. That means the Sunday-go-to-Meeting clothes come out of the chifforobe.
Mexicans tend to treat “going to town” in the same manner my grandmother did. The city is no place to traipse about in shorts and sandals -- as if a remake of Ben-Hur was under way.
So, out came the long pants and hard shoes. Nice shoes. Soft as moccasins. As light as opera slippers. Looking as if they are first cousins to the type of footwear you would find on lanes one through eight at the Bowl-Rite.
To no one’s surprise, there is a story tucked in there somewhere.
I inherited the feet of the same grandmother who would dress to go to town. Well, at least her foot genes.
They are not so much feet as they are blocks. Short and square. Finding size 8 EEE is a task. At times, I feel as if I would be better off simply buying two shoe boxes.
When I moved down here, my favorite brown shoes were on their last feet. Literally. You could find more sole on a Lawrence Welk LP. So, off I went to buy replacements because I had been told that finding shoes in my size in Mexico would be a quixotic quest.
Apparently my Cervantes moment came early. I could find nothing in Oregon, either. After three months of La Manchaing my way through stores.
Then I happened upon a pair of Eccos. That fit. And threatened to drain my wallet. If it had not been for their comfortable fit, I would not have bought them.
They looked exactly like bowling shoes. I had just recently chided a friend of mine on the Salvation Army Advisory Board for wearing similar shoes. And here I was a step away from signing up for the PBA tour.
They turned out to be a great buy. For three years, they have been my “good” shoes.
But all “good” things come to an end. They served their last serviceable days on the China tour.
When I stopped in The States on my way back to Mexico, I visited three shoe stores that stock Eccos to replace the dearly departed. But it appeared the style I had initially hated and then learned to tolerate was no simply no more.
So, I replaced them with the shoes that so amiably accompanied me to Manzanillo today.
To steal another cinematic line. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
