My Feet Hurt

Yesterday I decided to be completely Italian for the day and wear heels. (The beautiful brown heels Gramma Bear bought me for my 16th birthday that I still wear and love! Thank you Gramma!) I felt classy and on top of the world as I walked to school with the tapping of ancient stones accompanying my step.

My feet began to hurt a bit as I walked to Termini where I was meeting a new friend who was going to speak with me only in Italian. I was hoping we would find someplace to sit a chat, but he had planned a tour of his favorite sites. We spent the next FOUR HOURS walking all around Rome. I won’t go into much detail. Partially because you would be bored with all the street names I would throw at you and partially because the pain is still too fresh. I just wanted to cry. It was difficult to speak and think in Italian as my feet throbbed with every step. The stones I had once loved where now my enemies, as each step was dangerously treacherous. Each stone so small; so bumpy; so angled. I just kept praying my feet and ankles wouldn’t give out.

After the tour it took me twice as long to get to the train station because I had to stop about every ten steps and suck in the pain. I would have gladly taken off my heels and walked barefoot if it hadn’t been for the nice pair of tights I was wearing. Biting my lip and holding in tears I slowly limped to the train station and slumped into the first available seat.

At home I sat on the edge of my bed and found my feet covered in five blisters; one blister as big as a nickel. And my feet started bleeding. It was not a pretty sight. I cared for my feet and then winced in pain as I pulled my tennis shoes on over two pair of socks. Walking to the car to pick up the girls and driving to school was painful.

As long as I live I will never forget about yesterday. It will be a while before I do that again.

this is the way to shop for shoes

And yes, I did look like a total idiot taking pictures of the display cases. But I desperately had post these pictures to give everyone a taste...and give Aunt Stacy some extra motivation to visit me. I didn't make it to Bata Shoes but I got close.

Bello

Expensive jeans that fit perfectly. Earrings to match. Striking suits over ironed dress shirts. Heals that catch one’s eye. Belts that add class. Polished shoes.

When I took the girls to school I got my true first taste of it. I have spent much time in the historic city center wholly engaged in watching the glimpses of Italian life that I see, but today I saw the real thing. There were hundreds of true Italians dropping their children off at school and my eyes just couldn’t keep up. Each one held themselves in such a self-assured manner. Each one perfectly dressed, and knowing it. Men arriving to the school in perfectly ironed suits. Women looking as though they were taking a quick break from modeling shoots. Mothers and Fathers wearing the latest style parked their motorina, lifted their children off the back, and helped them unbuckle their helmet before taking the child’s hand and walking off with complete self-assurance.

My eyes bounced back and forth trying to take in all the style, the autumn colors, the shoes, the accessories, the perfection. And although these women looked like they were stepping out of a Prada, I had to remind myself that they were ordinary middle-class Roman women. This was a public school. These families weren’t loaded with money. But, Italians know the importance of looking nice and they are willing to spend any amount in order to meet that standard. I would venture to say that they are less inclined to be caught in the street naked than they would be to be caught in sweatpants, a T-shirt, white socks, and tennis shoes

At church, a woman in her late 50s particularly caught my attention. She was dressed in a black knee length skirt with a pin striped white and black button up shirt, black earrings, and tall black heels. In the states we might say that the woman needed to dress more her age, but here in Italy is was perfectly acceptable and not looking the least bit out of place. In fact she was looking good.

This culture loves beauty. The people depend on beauty. They’re addicted to beauty. The word bello is used to describe everything: clothes, apartments, buildings, attitudes, performances. It means fantastic, good job, amazing, and you did it.

Italy is beautiful. The language is beautiful. The people are beautiful. The buildings are beautiful. The food is beautiful. Italy glows with beauty. It’s just bello.