Dear Jessica Brennan,
Since my twenties, I have always travelled with flip-flops in my bag. By travel, I mean to faraway places and also to the local restaurant. I might walk into a bistro in heels, but I don’t walk home in them, and I certainly don’t teeter through a big city or head back from a country pub in stilettos. Sore feet are the worst.
First, I should tell you that my flippies are Crocs. This isn’t an endorsement of the brand but simply a fact. If doctors can wear them for a full day of surgery, I trust them, and they have never let me down.
Recently, I was thinking of all the places my various flip-flops have appeared and what they would tell you if they could talk.
They stood in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam before Rembrandt’s Portrait of a Woman, then later saw Charlie Sheen in the cafe.
They carried the dust from Chattanooga Military Park, where, at dusk, I almost thought I could see Union and Confederate soldiers still walking through the fields and huddled by the creek.
They tramped through mud and rain up above Saddleworth Moor in Yorkshire, looking down over a beautiful field of heather tainted by the ghost of a missing boy still not found sixty years on.
They walked through the Brandenberg Gate, where pieces of the Berlin Wall were still in place, visited the Alamo in blistering heat, and felt the weight of the Old Slave Mart in Charleston, SC.
Over time, they have seen each coast of Canada, from Quidi Vidi, Newfoundland, to Victoria, BC.
These flip-flops have weathered many transatlantic flights; winery stops, and all four seasons, including walking here in Ontario on some exceptionally mild Christmas Days. My feet would not have survived New York City without them.
They have filled up with sand on some pretty good beaches, visited farms in more than one country and shopped but never dropped. They have been on subways, trains, cabs, buses and limos. They have slid off in many green rooms and crossed many borders.
Tucked in my handbag, they took a private tour of Buckingham Palace on a summer evening. They walked back to the hotel after Dad performed at Royal Albert Hall and slipped through Kensington Park many times over several trips. They prefer the park in the spring when the daffodils are out.
Feet don’t care where you are. In the wrong shoes, the day can take a nasty turn. Most of us have lived through that kind of pain. That’s why my flippies are the first thing I pack. Bath, Koln, Dublin, Holguin, Montreal, St Augustine, Toronto or here at home in the village, I’ve found it’s all the same. Happy feet make for a happy day.
So, Dear Reader, what have your flip-flops seen?
Love,
Mum xo