Seattle, Washington

After learning that I had accumulated enough mileage credits to fly to virtually any destination imaginable, it took me only a few seconds to say aloud the word, Paris. Years ago, I’d visited the city like so many other hippy kids with a backpack and a hundred bucks that needed to last me. It wasn’t the right time in my life to experience a city refined as Paris, yet how it felt to walk its sidewalks and to weave through its ancient neighborhoods has been alive in me ever since, lodged in mind like a scent.

I suppose I have, in a sense, adopted Paris as my alter-ego city.

Its maze of boulevards with the world driving humbly by in mini-cars couldn’t be more dissimilar to my Belltown newly-sprung neighborhood where SUV’s nearly the size of my studio condo wedge in along its streets. And while it’s true that Paris has its share of municipal aches and pains, it’s so historically and culturally alive that its contrasts to the American aesthetic pours into your psyche and takes root. 

Any of my friends would tell you that another reason I love Paris is because I’ve always been a shoe afficionado, heels specifically.

“Pointy” comes and goes in American shoe aesthetic, but is staple to the European sense of style, always. (I’m forever telling people in Seattle who stare with fixed eyes at my feet that, no, I don’t squeeze my toes into the point, the point extends past my toes.)  But what I found was, other than on vogue run ways which I, of course, was not privy to, the women in Paris are not overly fashion-conscious like I feared. In actuality, French women have far less disposable income then Americans.

But not once, other than when I visited the gym, did I see a French woman, young or of age, wear a shoe other than one made of leather, usually with some degree of heel. Why, I often wonder, have so many Seattle women grown accustomed to the athletic shoe, jeans, and fleece-sweatshirt habit? Do they realize, in terms of the art of dressing, how bored they may have become?

Fortunately for me, as soon as my airplane touched down, I felt as though my feet belonged. Yeah-hoo, I thought, the natives are friendly! 

In a city that’s all about the outdoor-inspired-R.E.I. look that Seattle clings to, I have taken my share of flack for the Euro-pointy shoes I prefer. In fact, as I recently stood on a Wallingford sidewalk chit-chatting with a friend, another woman walked by, stopped, backed up, looked down, pointed at my shoes and said, “why are you wearing those? This is Seattle!” reminding me that even in our most liberal of cities, shoe-tolerance in the minds of some, is moo. I sighed... Birkenstockies.

France is situated between two major shoe-exporting countries, Italy and Spain. So it’s not unusual to see shoes displayed like high art (actually they are high art, not a subject I wish to defend) on pedestals, proper lighting cast just so. And the prices! Far below the cost at home. I limited myself to four pairs because I always travel in the make-do-with-one-carry-on mode, which is sometimes easy, sometimes dismaying, but always necessary to my peace of mind. 

Here is my pick of perfect vacation shoe memories that I will call: Perfect Vacation Shoe Memories: