The summer I turned 16 I went to Poland and Israel. I brought a pair of not-Birkestocks with me, and managed to leave them in a hotel room in Krakow. Once in Jerusalem, I made haste to buy replacements: a pair of criss-cross strapped Naot sandals (from their website it looks like they don’t make them anymore). I loved those sandals. They had a thin leather/rubber sole, and I got the wickedest tan. I wore them every hot day for the following ten years.
The one thing Cleo has ever chewed on and destroyed was a lone Naot sandal she pulled out from under our bed when she was less than a year old. Really, I couldn’t blame her. There couldn’t be a shoe that more resembled a chew toy. Plus, you know, it smelled like feet. And so for four years I’ve been without sandals. I mean, sure, I’ve bought sandals. But none to replace those Naots.
Until ten days ago. That day I went to Filoli, my wonderful companion and I walked through the gift shop after our delightful walk. We fondled fragrant soaps and lotions, giggled over corny notecards that didn’t seem to fit the place, and admired various other souvenirs. Then in a corner, we saw shoes. How odd. And they were on sale. And they fit perfectly. Just when I thought that day couldn’t get more perfect.
Meet the new soles of my feet.