welcome to kanagawa

You might think I have transported you to TitiPoo.

And those sandals belong to three little maids from school.

If that is what you are thinking, you must think I live my life in a Gilbert and Sullivan bubble.

The sandals are mine. Earlier in the week, they were three sets of sandals on their way to the garbage. That is until Joyce (of Rooster's fame) told me there was a man in San Patricio who was a magician at breathing life into dead soles.

I particularly like this brand of sandals, but they are not available in any of our local stores. The problem is the thong. It must not have been designed with puddle-ridden streets in mind. I should have realized that when all of the advertisements show the sandals being worn by men wearing ecru linen pants.

Repeated dousing tends to weaken the leather. And the thong breaks. Usually on one of my walks when I am two or three miles from the house, and I have to trudge home like one of Napoleon's privates retreating from Moscow.

That is what happened with two of the three pairs. The sole on one sandal of the third pair separated during a walk. I sounded like a semi driving down the freeway about to throw a recap.

For some reason, it is always the right sandal that dies. That took away the option of salvaging one unmatched pair. Instead, I left all six sandals with Our Man of Sandal Sorcery.

Three days later, I had three pairs of rejuvenated sandals. Glued, sewn, and patched into a semblance of utility.

I say "semblance" because what I had been a comfortable leather thong was now a piece of canvas that has the gentle caress of hopsack. As prone as I am to blisters, I suspect those sandals will not get much use. The re-soled pair appear to be fine.

I forgot one thing when I dropped off the sandals. I should have remembered to tell him "No paint." I still have not adjusted to the fact that footwear left for repair will almost always be returned looking like a freshly-painted barn. In a shade that is slightly reminiscent of the color of the sandal when I last saw them.

The problem is fine leather and paint are a terrible combination. The paint sucks the moisture out of the leather leaving it looking like a wealthy Arizona widow who spends too much time golfing.

I told my tale of woe to a Canadian friend who insisted I look at the bright side: "They did not cost much to repair." And she was correct. The repair bill for all three was $320 (Mx) -- about $17 (US). The price of a lunch. And about 10% of the cost of buying a new pair.

But, as I told her, since I cannot wear them, it is like that old Woody Allen joke: "Two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of 'em says, 'Boy, the food at this place is really terrible.' The other one says, 'Yeah, I know; and such small portions.'"

Maybe I need to invest in a stack of linen pants. That way I can wear the repaired sandals on the patio and never leave the house. 

And that would save me a lot more money.