Monday, September 27, 2010
There I was, back at Cuoio on Newbury Street to try on “my” Yaz Fly London’s again. The first time I tried them in black. This time, I was trying them in brown. I was worked up about the brand. Its fly logo is nifty and its tagline is catchy: Don’t walk. Fly. I was happy with the $160 price, considering that most shoes at Cuoio are over $200.
While the leather was thick and soft, the high lip rubbed against my ankle in a way that would give me blisters. The saleswoman, who’s name I will remember next time, is a pro and probably the real reason I like going there. She brought out a second pair in the same color and size, and presto, they fit! I walked back and forth, on the brink of buying, when I noticed the rubber sole was making my feet feel tired — a huge red flag in my book.
My Tsubo’s have a very similar rubber wedge sole. But instead of Fly London-type ridges, their soles have shock-absorbing bubbles placed at various pressure points. Tsubo means pressure point and the brand has successfully integrated comfort into the designs of their shoes.
After checking out Fly London’s website and some customer reviews, I am skeptical about the brand’s commitment to comfort. Unfortunately, they are not a perfect fall version of my summery Tsubo wedges, and so I left empty handed.
I came across this painting in the offices of Pour Le Corps, a day spa on Clarendon Street in Boston. Never you mind what I was doing there. This is not about that. This is about more spontaneous posts, about sharing inspiring shoe images that I come across on my daily travels.
It is also an accidental tribute to Open Studios, where artists open their studios or share their work at group sites, which happened the day after I saw this, in both my neighborhood of Jamaica Plain and the South End. The artist who painted these boots — Carmela Cattuti — showed at the Benjamin Franklin Institute of Technology, 41 Berkley Street. She can be reached at Carmela@cattutidesigns.com.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Last Thursday, I noticed this shoe on top of a transformer at the corner of Boylston and Lamartine. It was still there the next day. Putting on a brave front. I peeked at the label and wondered what its story was. I had the sense that it had been lost before. Call me the shoe whisperer.
Its owner — let's say her name is Trudy — is the scattered type, and frequently stuffs her work shoes and lunch into a too small tote bag. In this case, when the light changed at Lamartine, Trudy rushed across Boylston and into the Stonybrook T station. She was thrilled that she made it to the office a few mintues before nine, until she went to change out of her sneakers and into her BCBG peep toes. She cursed the subway that had rumbled into the station and made her hurry. She fumbled for her back-up pair of scuffed black pumps that she stashed under her desk, and fought off despair. She had hoped to wear her BCBGs through October and maybe even November. She feared she'd never see her right shoe again. Trudy didn't have the slightest idea where she'd lost it.
The peep toe is still there, dreaming of Trudy's crowded, warm closet and hoping Trudy will find it before it suffers the terrors of a fall rain or frost, or worse.