If the Shoe Fits

Having the shoes on my feet made me feel better instantly.

The trip from Missoula to New York City is pretty straightforward. An early morning flight to Minneapolis, a two hour layover, land at LaGuardia in the afternoon. If I find the bus into the city without too much trouble I can be on the Upper West Side by early evening.

I made the trip a few times a year during the four years my sister was in New York for college. The last time, for her graduation, the layover in Minneapolis was longer than usual. I wandered the airport, perusing the gift shops and eateries. That unstructured time to wander is my favorite thing about traveling alone. I love having permission to notice all the details with nothing I “should” be doing. There was a stall set up in the middle of one of the main corridors selling cute canvas and leather sneakers. I couldn’t stop looking at a slate-blue pair, suede with bright purple laces. I’m a sucker for cute shoes but I’m not an impulsive shopper. Compulsive yes, but not impulsive. I love online shopping, I love comparing product descriptions and photos and reading reviews and tracking prices. When I decide I want something I pride myself on finding the best deal even if it means waiting a few weeks for something to pop up on eBay. I kept going back to the shoes though. On my third pass, I asked if I could try some on in my size.

I love visiting New York but I always feel inferior. My mountain town aesthetic, which feels so functional and normal at home in Missoula, sticks out. Too bright, too bulky, definitely not chic. I carefully pack my most stylish clothes, hoping, for once I won’t feel too ruddy and outdoorsy in a city full people people dressed for fashion over function, but everything I bring always seems all wrong when I open my suitcase in my sister’s room.

For this trip I had debated bringing cute leather boots, recently purchased with hard-earned waitressing tips, but decided against it since they hurt my feet when I walked long distances in them. In the airport I was already second guessing my decision. My clogs were shabby and scuffed compared to other traveler’s shoes. In the full length bathroom mirror my jeans looked stretched out and unflattering. My teal GoreTex raincoat felt bulky and swishy as I wandered the airport hallways.

Having the shoes on my feet made me feel better instantly. As soon as I tied the purple laces I felt ready for spring in the big city. I could already imagine greeting my sister’s stylish roommates and graciously accepting their compliments. For once I wouldn’t feel clunky and out of place. I knew I was caving to my emotions and insecurities and breaking my self-imposed rule to only spend money on needs, not wants but I paid for them anyway, letting the feeling of confidence override guilt as the saleswoman swiped my credit card.

Later that night, in my sister’s suite I sat in the kitchen sharing tea with her roommates. “You live where?” one asked. “Montana” I replied, feeling the mixture of pride and shame I always feel when I tell people like her where I live. “Oh I have relatives out there somewhere,” she said, “Kansas I think.” I cringed, hoping my insulted ego wasn’t visible. How could she equate Montana to Kansas?!

To me, Montana meant adventure and hard core toughness and life structured around mountains that don’t exist in Kansas — or New York for that matter. When I moved to Montana after college it meant I was strong and brave and not conforming to a bland suburban idea of success that I imagined was pervasive in the Midwest, or to the money and status-obsessed idea of success that I’d left behind in the Northeast. I loved that, but the New-Englander in me knew moving to Montana had meant letting go of any hope of being city-savvy. Montana to the rest of the country meant backwoods and behind the times.

I looked down at my feet and let the conversation continue around me. I was still wearing the shoes. The white rubber was already showing some black smudges from my trip into the city. They looked childish with their bright purple laces and I didn’t fit in the way I’d imagined I would with them, but they were comfortable and their bright colors made me smile. Maybe it was too much to ask to be able to shapeshift from mountain town to megacity; maybe I needed to accept that I would always be a little bit of a bumpkin in the city. At least my feet would be comfortable.

Amelia Hagen Dillon writes and makes maps in Missoula Montana. You can follow her on instagram @cairncarto

This story is part of The Billfold’s I Want It Now series.

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