My fellow Zapato Afficianados
This is the strangest shoe experience of my life.
No, it is not the great Manolo Blahnik Distaster of 2006 (which was resolved through the slow understanding of Spanish holidays, though some of us feel an International Shoe Day-Off would be more appropriate, though that is a different story entirely).
Nor is it the experience of being yelled at by a shall-remain-nameless shoe-saleswoman in San Sebastian who reprimanded me for merely touching a shoe that was on display (as if I were playing football with one of Grandma's Fabergé eggs).
It is this:
Today, after five minutes of looking at the Cathedral in Huesca and another five minutes of looking at religious art in the Museo Provincial (with all due respect to my Catholic friends and readers, but five minutes is all I can handle) I decided to explore my own religion at the Church of Zapato. I eyeballed a fabulous looking pair of Spanish shoes, and decided to try them on (were I to come back from a trip to Spain shoeless, I'd lose my Zapato-Afficianado title, for certain). Well, imagine my...errrrrr, shock? horror?...when the kind saleswoman opened a drawer and handed me two plastic bags.
I looked at her with raised eyebrows. What did she want me to do with them? They were about the size of fruit bags, you know, what you might put four or even five apples in at the supermarket, but I wasn't in the market for fruit. Did she think my worn flip flops were too dirty? Too shameful to sit on the floor of her shop? Did she want me to store them in there while trying on the shoes?
I started to put my flip flops into the bags.
No, she said. The bags were for my feet! Too many people try on the shoes, so I needed to put them on. Yes, I was to wear them while trying on the shoes!
Totally baffled as to why she didn't just hand me one of those grose pair of cut-off stockings I've seen hundreds of times, I put the bags on my feet and tried on the shoes. Needless to say, I did not but the shoes. I simply could not see my feet, and without seeing my feet, I couldn't fathom the happiness of my feet in the shoes. (My feet were actually screaming: We can't breathe!!! Save us from this travesty!!!)
Perhaps it is simply my destiny to not find a pair of shoes here in Spain, though I have my eye on a pair I spotted in the window before lunch. Now if that darn store would just open up!
No, it is not the great Manolo Blahnik Distaster of 2006 (which was resolved through the slow understanding of Spanish holidays, though some of us feel an International Shoe Day-Off would be more appropriate, though that is a different story entirely).
Nor is it the experience of being yelled at by a shall-remain-nameless shoe-saleswoman in San Sebastian who reprimanded me for merely touching a shoe that was on display (as if I were playing football with one of Grandma's Fabergé eggs).
It is this:
Today, after five minutes of looking at the Cathedral in Huesca and another five minutes of looking at religious art in the Museo Provincial (with all due respect to my Catholic friends and readers, but five minutes is all I can handle) I decided to explore my own religion at the Church of Zapato. I eyeballed a fabulous looking pair of Spanish shoes, and decided to try them on (were I to come back from a trip to Spain shoeless, I'd lose my Zapato-Afficianado title, for certain). Well, imagine my...errrrrr, shock? horror?...when the kind saleswoman opened a drawer and handed me two plastic bags.
I looked at her with raised eyebrows. What did she want me to do with them? They were about the size of fruit bags, you know, what you might put four or even five apples in at the supermarket, but I wasn't in the market for fruit. Did she think my worn flip flops were too dirty? Too shameful to sit on the floor of her shop? Did she want me to store them in there while trying on the shoes?
I started to put my flip flops into the bags.
No, she said. The bags were for my feet! Too many people try on the shoes, so I needed to put them on. Yes, I was to wear them while trying on the shoes!
Totally baffled as to why she didn't just hand me one of those grose pair of cut-off stockings I've seen hundreds of times, I put the bags on my feet and tried on the shoes. Needless to say, I did not but the shoes. I simply could not see my feet, and without seeing my feet, I couldn't fathom the happiness of my feet in the shoes. (My feet were actually screaming: We can't breathe!!! Save us from this travesty!!!)
Perhaps it is simply my destiny to not find a pair of shoes here in Spain, though I have my eye on a pair I spotted in the window before lunch. Now if that darn store would just open up!
posted by TessaJ at 4:21 PM
4 Comments:
Nor is it the experience of being yelled at by a shall-remain-nameless shoe-saleswoman in San Sebastian who reprimanded me for merely touching a shoe that was on display (as if I were playing football with one of Grandma's Fabergé eggs).
Now were you touching the shoes, or where you "touching" the shoes??? Maybe she thought you were being a bit too "friendly" with the shoes! ;-)
Update: I bought shoes. Just thought I'd tease y'all a bit.
HILARIOUS!!!
Europeans are much less liberal with shoppers! I have heard such horror stories about Serge Lutens in Paris---do not even think about touching a bottle!
I hope that despite the yelling and plastic bags you leave Spain with some wonderous footwear dear Tessa!
I am alwasy happy to read your traveling adventures!
LMAO! What an adventure.
Now...can't wait to hear about the purchase!
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