The Italian Shoes

(And the Rules of the Street)

Several years ago, I traveled to Italy to visit a friend.  He was working outside of Milan, in Cuomo, a town quietly perched upon a lake of the same name. 

The late fashion icon, Gianni Versace, had a home on Lake Cuomo called the Villa Fontanelle.  It rests with 18^th century elegance upon its shores.  As I traveled between the city and the Lake, I found a striking relationship between the two.  Both share an effortless sophistication.  But to me, Milan is like the serious, responsible sister who knows it all.  While the Lake – the Lake is that sibling who moved away -- just far enough to be unobserved and deliciously naughty.   

It was fitting, then, that my first taste of grappa was in Cuomo, where 12 Italian waiters watched me take my virgin sip with show-stopping delight.  I wasn’t as entertained as the grappa stripped the enamel from my teeth and the flesh from my esophagus.  But it was all in the deliciously naughty fun of exploration.  In turn, it was also no surprise that Milan became yet another teacher in my never-ending education on life.  And in life’s accidental moments. 

After arriving at the hotel, I had a couple of solitary days to wander the Milanese streets, investigate and recover from my typical 3-day, eyes-wide-open jet lag.  So, upon the recommendation of another friend who had also once called Milan her home, I booked a massage with her masseuse.  Perhaps this trip, I would get some shuteye on the first night, rather than the 3rd. 

I plundered my suitcase for just the right thing to wear.  After all, Gianni Versace himself graced these streets.  Iconic storefronts like Gucci and Prada would be at my feet, ready to receive me should I venture into their hallowed racks along the way.

But I looked at my choices, felt my travel-weary feet and said; “I’ll become a fashionista … tomorrow.”

So I donned my tennis shoes, jeans and a worn, buttoned-down jean shirt.  I completed my classic American-wear with a Yankee baseball cap (anticipating that my hair could only get worse as the day wore on).  Then I stepped into one of the most revered fashion capitals of the world.  I was anonymous, who would care what I was wearing? 

The beautiful people of Milan most certainly did care. 

 

At first, my breath was taken away – not by the elaborate cathedrals and extraordinary architecture (that came second), but by the confident, impeccably dressed Milanese.  They were like a moving painting with The Duomo and the Galleria Vittoria Emanuel as their backdrop.  Everyone was very serious and dressed in greys, navys, blacks and browns.  I usually blend in.  I always try to learn and speak the language.  But that day, in my out-dated, light-blue baseball-capped attire, I stood out like a beacon of obnoxious light.  A smudge on this beautiful work of art.

I was an American tourist.     

But I was a tourist on a schedule so my only choice was to suck it up and hurtle into the crowds.  Crowds that would not, no matter what I did, share the sidewalk with me. 

I was both intrigued and a bit humiliated.  I felt like an anthropologist observing a pattern of behavior in a newly discovered jungle community -- except that I was the unsophisticated subject of observation.  People would approach, look down at my shoes, analyze them, then draw a line up my torso to my cap, express their disapproval, then plough right into me unless I first stepped out of their way.

I quickly realized that I was encountering a simple street rule, and every city has them.  In New York, for instance, you earn respect if you simply keep moving and hinder no one’s progress.  Do not stop.  Do not take out a map.  Everyone just wants to get from point A to point B.  Your shoes?  Just keep them walkin’ kiddo.

In Paris, your attire gives you points.  But no one will respond to your requests for anything, unless you confidently ask if you may ask a question . . . before you ask a question . . . preferably in French (“Excusez-moi, permettez-moi de vous poser une question?”)  At least that’s how I remember how you say it…

In Milan, it is all about the shoes.  You must wear beautifully designed shoes or you must walk in and amongst the speeding automobiles.  In sub-standard footwear, no amount of begging for sidewalk space will earn you an inch.  I’ve since tested this theory further.  Beautiful shoes earn respect.  Tennis shoes put you into oncoming traffic.

So I accepted my place and darted between the Vespa’s and tiny little cars.  I jumped out of the determined path of impeccably dressed men who I had “heard” would carry my bags and pinch my butt and say all kinds of wonderfully rude things to me.   I’m a writer, so I was curious about the absence of these “absolute” truths.  I am also a woman, so by the time I got to my destination, my ego was pouting just a little bit. 

But the story does not end with a street rule and bruised pride.  After the massage therapist pummeled me into a pulp, and as I was returning to the hotel, I did something typical.  I got lost.  A man noticed me looking at street signs then asked if he could help.  He seemed very nice and didn’t seem to care about my shoes, so I accepted.  I was grateful.  He told me to follow him because he was going my way.  He took me on a path through a small city garden and began to venture a little too close.  He was shockingly speedy.  I jumped away in record amount of time catching my jean shirt on a branch.  I made smoke like a track star and got away.  Thank heaven I was not in heels.  No harm was done, but I snuck into an espresso bar to collect myself and to make sure my getaway was complete.  I shook off the experience and moved on.  It was dinnertime and a wonderful meal was in the future.  Nothing was going to ruin that (and the meal turned out to be incredible, indeed.)

Back on the street, however, I began to notice that the sidewalk world had mysteriously changed.  Perhaps people get nicer as the day gets later?  The streets were still very crowded, but instead of knocking me over, every single man who passed, nodded his head, smiled, and stepped aside for me.  Even the women (although without the smile.)

Hmm.  We have entered an altered universe.

I smiled and nodded back.  Perhaps I had awoken from a dream – a nightmare really, that had played upon my insecurities.  Boy, that massage must have turned me into some kind of out-dated GAP-bedecked goddess.  This was the Italy I was told about!  Hallelujah!  I am woman even in my tennis shoes!

I continued down the street.  For the next 30 minutes, men of all ages continued smiling, pausing, nodding their heads and stepping out of my way.  Some even tipped their October hats.  How interesting that is, I mused.  I must be getting over my jet lag and projecting more confidence.  I was so silly -- beauty isn’t about what you wear or how messy or neat you look – it’s about how you FEEL about yourself that garners respect and admiration! 

Then I happened to notice that the men looked down, but unlike before, they were not looking at my shoes before they looked at me.  And this time they looked right at me and not at my cap.  I looked down as well to see what they saw.  I saw my navel. 

Uh Oh.

Somehow, my very American … very old … very casual jean shirt was unbuttoned all the way down to my belt buckle.  At the risk of being a little too intimate, my brassiere (and all that went with it) was rather completely exposed.  It was pink and frilly. 

And my face was very red and not frilly at all.

As you might imagine, I had to make a quick decision.  If I stopped to frantically fix this little problem, it would only enhance my embarrassment and draw more attention.  So I walked as if sporting the latest casual fashion trend and subtly re-buttoned as I strutted my stuff.  Head held high.  Cool expression on face.  One button per city block.  I became an imaginary Heidi Klum.  My tennis shoes were my virtual Jimmy Choos.

After that, I had the most incredible experiences in Milan.  I had a wonderful meal that evening where I watched families and friends sit for hours enjoying lovingly prepared food and spontaneous and comfortable laughter.  The restaurant staff treated me in that same gracious manner.  I felt relaxed.  Taken care of. And very well fed.  But I was puzzled.  I had no idea how my shirt ended up in its earlier state.  The air was so calm and temperate I didn’t even feel a breeze.  Perhaps that “nice” guy had lightening-speed unbuttoning talents that went along with his creepy ulterior motives.  Or that subsequent branch on that equally grabby tree had exposed me during my escape.  I do not know.  And never will.

But thanks to that experience, I did learn a few more rules of the street.

1.    When desperate, be wary of accepting help from the first person who tells you to follow them. 

2.    Embrace your insecurities and past embarrassments, and simply approach new situations like a super model.

3.    Perspectives can change with the loosening of a few buttons. 

4.    Listen honestly to your instincts and act according to your gut, but know that a few moments of observation does not the whole picture paint.

Maybe there is a little Lake Cuomo in that responsible, know-it-all sister of Milan, after all.