TWO WALKING

Walking Shoes

One of Baxter’s chapters in The Most Beautiful Walk In The World was titled Hemingway’s Shoes. When I saw it, it immediately made me think about my own quest for the perfect pair. You see, living in Paris makes walking shoes a necessary asset of investment since walking is a necessary mode of transport.

I had arrived in Paris with my Nike Flyknits Lunar 2.0s packed in the depths of my luggage. They were purchased upon two rather fashionable friends’ recommendations a year ago. I never want to risk dressing too sloppily but my feet are never happy when I trade appearances for comfort. Ironically, as comfortable as the soles of the Flyknits were, they were vindictive against my ankles, specifically my achilles tendon. It had something to do with the tightness of the elastic form. Nonetheless, they were still one of my best walking shoes. 

However, these Flyknits, as the name suggests, were knitted out of fabric. In other words, they were not susceptible to the cold, particularly that of wet weather. 

And so from day one I was determined to find the perfect pair of walking shoes. This is Paris, where every individual walks. They must place walking shoes high in the hierarchy of retail importance. 

I considered Mephisto, a brand introduced to me by an aunt. She said that they make the best walking shoes. But the brand did not appeal to me very much because it seemed like what obnoxious teenagers would describe as “old people shoes”. Truthfully, the designs were not very aesthetic, and I was surprised at my aunt’s praise for them since she patronized more elaborate brands such as Robert Clergerie. Beyond that, the price point was not very low either, at least not for a study-abroad student who had to practice austerity as a consequence of independent living.

Eventually I decided to give the brand a chance and walked into the store on Avenue de l’Opéra. The shop windows had clerical A4 sheets printed with “SOLDES” pasted all over them. Well, the message got conveyed. 

I searched for the most simple design, such as oxfords or loafers. Many of the shoes had the potential to be included in my wardrobe. One example was a pair of black chelseas. Yet the shoemakers had to disfigure them with tacky details such as a stroke of crass glitter. It is always upsetting to see pragmatic brands attempt the creative. The conclusion that they will fail clumsily is as prophetic as a Shakespearean tragedy. 

A pair of Oxfords did catch my eye. They were plain, without any excessive details, and seemed like they would make good staple wear. €149 read the price sticker on the shoe, nonchalantly placed under the “Non-soldes” section. I figured they would make a good classic. 

“Pardon, avez-vous ceci dans trente-sept et demi?” I uttered to the best of my abilities. 

“Oui madame, je regarde.” replied the sales assistant. At least I think that was what she said. She went down to the stock room and came back up with a shoe box in the same shade of green as the brand’s logo. The words that came out of her mouth went by too fast for me to catch, but I made sense of it and she meant to inform me that there was only one last pair of size thirty-seven and a half. As I looked into the full-length mirror hung between two shelves of shoes, my feet quite at home in the oxfords which were within an acceptable amount of looseness. 

The price tag still intimidated me and I figured I should look around even more. There had to be more room for walking shoes in the retail industry of Paris.

“Let me think about them,” I addressed the sales assistant. She likely had an idea of the limits of my French. 

And so I left the store and saved my shoe hunting for later. It was at another store that I chanced upon a comfortable pair of chelsea boots. The sole was well cushioned and the high cut silhouette mean my achilles tendons did not have to suffer. €87.50 after fifty percent off. Score. 

A fateful sense of complacency budded. I thought my patience and research had rewarded me with the perfect pair of walking shoes. At the same time, I was worried that this was too good to be true. The price and comfort of them almost foreshadowed the flaws that time and wear will uncover. 

Indeed, my intuition was right. The top of my metatarsus (bone) and extensor hallicus longus (tendon) began to hurt after a day of walking. Since I have walked in them, I could no longer return the shoes. Sale items were non-refundable or exchangeable anyway. Resigning to fate, I return to risking frostbites in my Flyknits, only utilizing the chelsea for miserly rare days which involved minimal walking. Ah, fate. 

L'Art Contemporain

Ultimately, I surrendered to fate and bought the Mephisto oxfords a week later. Maybe it was a sign of pity, for it turned out that the shoes were on sale after all. €119, registered the computer as I prepared €150. A consolation for the extra €87.50 spent earlier.

Dressed in my new shoes for an adventure in Montparnasse, I set myself out for Fondation Cartier pour l’Art Contemporain. It came up on my search of museums in Paris when I narrowed it down to contemporary art. Yes, contemporary.  

Perhaps traditionalists would scorn my deliberate hunt for contemporary art in a city so wealthy in classical pieces. I must clarify that I admire classical art very much as well. 

The cold in New York had instilled a utilitarian sense of style in me. On this walk, I roamed around in extra warm heat tech leggings, a sweater dress, an insulating down coat that had internal pockets for my wallet and phone as well as a pair of cashmere lined leather gloves which were one of my first purchases in Paris. All of which were black. 

The weight of the calf-length coat restricted my gait and the puffed sleeves contributed to the mental image of a penguin that I started conceiving of myself. Any gush of wind would send me a few steps passively in its direction like a stiff marshmallow.

As I walked towards Fondation Cartier, I kept a lookout for the unfortunate Tour Montparnasse. Baxter gave me a negative impression of it. Its height and design supposedly stood awkwardly out-of-character against the Parisian landscape that it became an eyesore. In fact, its unpopularity forced the city council to reimpose height limits for buildings in Paris in 1977, four years after the completion of the tower.

I felt sorry for the poor architects, who must have thought they were establishing a landmark. Like parents who produced an underachieving child, they could only accept things as they were and seek for any redeeming qualities to love. After all, buildings (typically) outlive their creators.

I only caught a glimpse of La Tour Montparnasse and reserved a more detailed examination for later; the Fondation Cartier had my full attention. It was a distinctive glass house that embodied the essence of the time period it represented. The architectural austerity and reflective surfaces stood alone amongst the more humble, yet still traditionally embellished buildings its surrounding. I conjunct that its low-rise stature and social purpose convinced the community to accept its modernity. 

Now, due to my writing impulse to narrate the next site I visited my dear reader, I beseech your kind understanding to allow for a postponed account of the Fondation Cartier pour l’Art Contemporain’s contents.  

Cimatière du Montparnasse 

After the visit I tracked towards the Tour Montparnasse. The cold made me reluctant to be outdoors. I was already very unwillingly to remove myself from the heated interiors of Fondation Cartier. 

However, reality would not appease me and I, for the first time in Paris, found myself harboring a slight dislike for walking. I did not like that inclination at all, for I had always identified myself as a walker. It is why I choose to inhabit cities. I braced myself to fight for my passion for walking and interestingly a ray of sunlight stroke my cheeks.

This must be a sign, I thought. However, I was not one for the spirits. The sun did lure me into what I thought was a public garden, or Jardin, at first. Then I read the sign, “Cimatière du Montparnasse”. I briefly recalled seeing it on a website’s walking guide of Montparnasse. 

To enter or not to enter? That was the question. It felt immoral to treat a cemetery as a tourist attraction. But the sunbathed grounds were very welcoming, and so I entered, with great reverence.

There were several others in the cemetery. Some of them probably tourists. I had traveled enough to could identify them from their mannerisms. The tombstones were neatly organized into sections with a broad walkway, on which the sun shone, between left and right wings. I took a brief tour of the place, covering only the bottom left wing. 

As the different tombstones passed my vision, my mind sparked several thoughts, in no sequence. For one, do people, living or dead, compare tombstones in terms of aesthetics as they do with sculptures in a museum? Furthermore, who decides the design? Those who would visit the tombstone or those who were buried underneath? At the same time, what would my tombstone look like? Would I want to decide and would my loved ones adhere to my preferences? Finally, perhaps the most frequently asked question in a cemetery — are there ghosts? And if so, I mean no disrespect. 

I left the cemetery, grateful for the warmth it accommodated, and made my way home from the Metro right below La Tour Montparnasse. I had been away from my bed for too many hours already.