By Laura

August 22nd, 2005
Dear Mom,
I shall now endeavor to write the story of "How Laura almost burst into tears merely by looking at her new sandals."

So, the day after my day of horror (the toilet water all over my dress clothes, the seven hours in an over heated lada, the stress of dealing with conflicting personalities in a language I don't understand, the emotional toil of moving to a new home etc). I wake up feeling refreshed, at least now I have new clothes and I am not tired (even though I haven't showered in weeks and you can butter bread with my hair)-still I am ready for the day. It is about 100 degrees and sunny and humid and I am going with my host mom to the college where I'll be teaching, to meet the American volunteer whose position I'll be taking over (a random 28 year old eccentric named Mike- but that's another story). I dress in a nice conservative black shirt and dressy tank top with over shirt. But, then I come to the shoes. "Oh shoes! how I despise your very existence"-the very thought of you send shivers down my spine.

Well, all I've been doing the past months is loading up on carbs. There this annoying Georgian cultural habit of shoving food down my throat because I'm a guest and that's getting to me. I want my pants to fit. So I decide that I'll walk to school-it's not far, 25 minute walk, but my nice dress shoes won't work-especially when the roads in my town haven't been paved in 32 years. The neighboring American volunteer, an upstanding citizen of 30+ years assured me my flip flops were fine to wear. Oh mom! How I hear you now, making a "tsk, tsk" sound, shaking your head knowingly. "Always over dress!" You're shouting in my head. I also have a flashback to Medford mall days before I left, where you begged me to look at sandals and I refused, wanting stylish heals instead (but truthfully just not wanting to be shoe shopping at all). "Well," I think, "I've seen tons of Georgians in flip flops, it's like all they wear. It's about 100 degrees. I'm wearing a nice outfit, surely this can't really be a problem." I have a horrible sense of foreboding that I will need to go shoe shopping soon. I mean, I don't really like flip flops either, but I push away my dread. "Another day" I think, "When I am extremely bored and there is no one around. I'll just quickly pick up something out later... later.... later... later... everything is new here, I am in my new village! Experiencing the Peace Corps life! The last thing I want to do is think about shoes. I want to keep my good mood."

I should have known. The moment I walk out of my room to walk into town with my host mom- she immediately looks at my shoes and asks if I have another pair. She tells me I can't wear those shoes into town, to the college. She tells me that we will go to the bazaar and find me something else. "Oh great," I think to myself, heart sinking, "But we are already kind of late for our meeting," I convince myself. "So, certainly she means to take me to the bazaar later in the day." I can just pretend it's not going to happen.

Not really being clear on when this bazaar trip will occur, because everything is going on in Georgian and I'm in a hazy fog, I force myself to forget the whole thing. Well, we hike into town. As we're approaching a fork in the road, I see we're veering towards the bazaar---willing it not to happen, refusing to believe she'd make us even later for the meeting...Each step begins to fill me with more and more dread. First, I don't have much money. Second, I am worried about being late. Third, shoe shopping in a foreign language with my brand new host mother, while trying to be polite just doesn't seem feasible. Nevertheless, we arrive. Upon, first survey of the horrible pink frilly shoes and the unbearable navy blue loafers that surround me, I say "I want black". I figure, at least this will narrow down the choices, and host mom won't be pushing anything unbelievably hideous on me. This was my first mistake. After I pointed out some possibilities that were quickly and summarily dismissed, I realized I better just sit back and let her pick out potential sandals. Completely bewildered as to why some perfectly nice black sandals were somehow unacceptable, I chalked it up to my lack of cultural understanding. After trying on every possible black shoe option and having nothing fit (8 1/2 in Georgia is evidentially equal to some size Hagrid would wear) I was getting hungry and upset. We were late, I hate shoes. I don't know the correct cultural procedure, my host mom seems determined not to leave until I have different footwear, things were getting desperate. We had moved onto shoe shops, which were twice as expensive and the shoes doubly ugly. I mean the 80ies left us 2 1/2 decades ago for a reason. The granny sandals I had tried on were only a size to small and seemed fine to me. Anything to get out of here. But no, these granny shoes were not acceptable either. Finally came the pair that fit me, for an over priced 20 Lari, you too can have the most ugly, god awful, early 90ies throw back sandals ever created. I looked at me feet (which looked sad enough covered in mosquito bites and ugly purple nail polish my 10 year old host sister had applied) there were straps with buckles and some sort of three cornered heel that may have tried to be stylish at one time, but now just looked either hopelessly outdated or like it was trying desperately to be stylish and failing miserably. Well, maybe my host mom won't like them...then we can keep looking, not a bright prospect, but better than these shoes.

Moment of truth. "Dzalian lamazia. gikhdeba" she said. (And it sounded just like that too). "Very beautiful, they suit you," then she nodded encouragingly. (I think she wanted to be done as much as I did). I looked at my wallet,. I looked at the shoes. I looked at her and thought, "Great, these shoes suit me. I love that painful, overstyled monstrosities look good on me. It really brings out the inner Laura, let me just tell you." However, in a moment of fear and encouraged by the prospect of being done shoe shopping, I gave the sales lady 20 lari.

The first moment I felt relief. We were leaving. We were walking towards my college, towards my appointment (and an appointment with an American!). I was over an hour late already. Freedom! Quickly though this elation left me. I looked down at the horror less than 6 feet from my eyes. I would be wearing these shoes everyday this summer. Everyday I would glance at the ground and I would see the shoes and be reminded of this awful bazaar experience. Then my memory would inevitably stray to other shoe shopping memories. I would think of that fateful day at Medford, of how I felt every time I saw a pair of my shoes looking worn out and knew I'd soon have to go shoe shopping. I looked that morning at those hideous shoes and thought, my karma is laughing. It got me good this time. I had the most overwhelming urge to call you right then mom and sob for hours about the disease encasing my feet. About how my hatred for shoe shopping has just increased to an incalculable level. How I could think of nothing worse or more painful than the events leading up to and the consequences henceforth of not having the right shoes. I have since calmed down slightly, looking at the shoes no longer makes me spontaneously burst into tears. But, if you comment on them, you better watch out. I will have an emotional outburst. Indeed though, things are going well...except for the trip to the bank. But, that is a story for another time.
Love
Laura