I was wearing my very favorite boots, the black ones with the olive green spats attached when the woman came up to me in the cafe in San Francisco. The green spats are leather and are knotted with leather cord right above the arch seam. They come up about four inches above my ankles and I love them because they are cool. She said they were unique and where did I get them?
“I got them in New York at this little French shoe store on 8th Avenue. It’s the size of a closet and is the single greatest shoestore in the world.”
“I go there myself,” she said.
Two hours previous, I had gotten a text message. A friend from Boston, in New York for the day, asked for the address of the shoe store in SoHo, the one I always go to, the one I love.
“Chelsea,” I replied. “8th Avenue between 17th and 18th.”
What are the chances of that, all in one day?
From that store, I have the pink and camel version of the spat boots. I have a pair of black, knee-high boots that lace up the back all the way from the heel. I have a pair of shiny black leather ass-kicking shoes. I have a pair of yellow high heels with taupe accents that buckle across the top and are the most comfortable heels I’ve ever worn. I have a lot of their shoes. They are phenomenally comfortable, incredibly well-made, last forever and are totally unique.
You’ll like them. I promise.
Displaced 
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