THE MAGIC SHOES: 1) LONDON

Meltdown Monday Madness: A Serial Surreal Novella

What is time other than a series of fluid moments too often spoiled by the thought of past or future moments?  I can hardly believe it had been two years since I last visited London, where I’d spent much of my life.

Compared to laid-back Santa Barbara, London is alive with stimulation and inspiration, with every direction pointing to a sensual experience.

My path from Marylebone, first morning in town, cuts me through St. Christopher Place and down South Molten Street, past the house that visionary artist William Blake called home a couple centuries ago—and a New York-style deli where, in my late teens, I’d worked briefly.  This leads to the upscale boutiques of Burlington Arcade, which spills me into Piccadilly and, finally, Jermyn Street, known for tailored “shirtings” and bespoke footwear.

I’m here to purchase a Cuban cigar, a rare luxury these days, can’t remember the last time I smoked one.

Walking by a fancy shoe store, a pair of extraordinarily colorful brogues snag my eyes: purple toe box, blue vamp, throats of red, green, yellow and orange; each with golden laces tied into bows.

The smile they bring to my face stays with me as I pinpoint what I want inside Davidoff, accomplishing my mission.

As I rebound past the shoe store window, whimsy takes command. I enter on pure impulse and ask if by chance they might have my size?  

Moments later, a shop assistant brings out a box, hands me a shoehorn and explains that these shoes are painted by hand. I screw them to my feet, rise and look down.  They look a little clownish and remind me of Easter eggs but again leave me smiling.  

“Thank you,” I say after returning them to their box. “I’ll think about it.” My immediate thought: Where could I possibly wear them?

And I don’t give them another thought even though my brain has other ideas.

While in deep slumber that night, my unconscious, subconscious or otherworldly consciousness, plays with whatever possibilities or qualities these shoes could possess—and I awaken with the thought that they… are… magic shoes.

Thus, I am drawn back, not to Jermyn Street but to another branch store of the same brand on Regent Street, a majestically curved boulevard of Neo-Baroque buildings already decorated for Christmas with sparkling colored lights.  

I can hear the colorful wingtips whistling my name and, although I’m minded to pull away, their magnetic draw is stronger than Earth’s gravity. Inside, I nonchalantly peruse shelves of classic footwear until reaching the sales counter, where I hear myself asking if they might happen to have their “creative collection” in my size.

I hope they do not. Because that will be that and I can return to my regular life. But they do. I’m almost resigned to purchasing a pair.

Tying their golden laces, I chuckle to myself thinking, Well, I can always put them on a shelf. They are, I was told, hand-painted. Maybe I can just enjoy them as a piece of art.

Their fit on my feet is perfect though. I test-walk and feel a lightness in my step I’ve never felt before—as if I could walk anywhere at all, even across forbidden boundaries.

I sigh. “I’ll take them.”

“Would you like a box or a bag?” She pauses.

 I look down at my new shoes. Then I look back to her and shrug, feeling somewhat compelled to leave them on. “I’ll wear them out.”