Boots

So, I have a pair of boots. They were a pair that I bought myself way back when I had reached the ripened age of 24 and anticipated a Prague winter. I had picked up a job working at a small Irish pub tucked in an alleyway in Starometske. In many ways, they would be my saving grace (very few men could refuse them) - in many ways, my downfall (many Czechs stopped to ask me directions). I couldn't tell you which was worse. No, I can. The former.

So, I have a pair of boots. The thought occurred to me because I wore them today, in contrast to the high-heeled little numbers I usually parade at work as proof that I have something left after my student loan bills have come in. And I ended up wearing them out with a friend from school which turned into a night in the quarter with a lot of friends from school and their friends.

At some point I had to call it a night. And I didn't need a cab home, because I wanted to walk to sober up and enjoy the fact it wasn't nearly as freezing (52 degrees) as it was this morning (45 degrees). Apologies to those in less complicit climes, but this morning the cold wind in my face made me want to smack it down and teach it who's alpha around these parts.

I walked home and realized I was slowly falling in love with the click-clack of my own heels - the resoles by an expert Czech in Spring 2004, the time I knew I was leaving it and a long love behind. The calfskin refused to wear out, preferring to trot along for many more years, but the soles couldn't take it anymore. He replaced them lovingly. They hold out lovingly. I wear them lovingly.

So, I have a pair of boots. I can walk in them and strut in them and run to some form of transport in them. I can clack in them. Perhaps I can kick some ass in them. So far it has not been required, but I feel pretty sure they'd come in handy.

I have a pair of boots. And that's not quite all.