The Shoes That Carried Me Home

Share

View Item 

The Day I Bought Them 

It was raining when I walked into the boutique—the kind of rain that slicks city streets into mirrors. I hadn’t planned on buying anything. I was just killing time before my flight, pretending I wasn’t fleeing a marriage that had crumbled like wet paper.

Then I saw them: Bottega Veneta’s Quilt Rollers, puddled in soft "sea salt" leather, their soles thick as tractor tires. They looked like something a spaceship mechanic would wear to a gallery opening. The price tag made me laugh—a sharp, hollow sound. $2,100 for shoes? My ex would’ve called it reckless.

I bought them anyway.

First Steps

The sales associate said they were “inspired by resilience.” I didn’t care about inspiration. I just liked how they felt—heavy, grounding, like they could root me to the earth.

On the plane, I tucked my heels under the seat and stared at the quilted panels. Each diamond was hand-stitched, the edges rolled like waves. I pressed my thumb into the leather, leaving a ghost of a fingerprint.

Breaking Them In

I moved into a Brooklyn sublet with peeling wallpaper and a view of a bodega sign. The Quilt Rollers became my uniform:

- Job Interviews: Paired with a blazer, they said I’m serious but not stuffy. (I got the job.)

- 3 A.M. Walks: Circling the block, soles crunching over shattered glass and cigarette butts.

- First Dates: A tech bro asked if they were “Balenciaga?” I left early, splurging on a cab I couldn’t afford.

The rubber soles left tread marks on subway stairs. Salt stains bloomed in winter.

The Scuff

I was running for the L train when I caught the toe on a curb. A gash split the quilted leather, raw and angry. I crouched on the platform, gloves stuffed in my mouth to stifle a scream. A stranger handed me a Band-Aid. “Nice kicks,” he said.

Later, I rubbed beeswax into the scar. It darkened, a keloid of proof: I’m still here.

Why They Stayed

View Item

Luxury, I learned, isn’t about perfection. It’s about surviving the mess.

- Funerals: My father’s. I stood graveside, mud sucking at the soles.

- Protests: Marching for things that mattered, the thick rubber eating pavement.

- First Kiss: With a woman who laughed when I toe-tapped nervously. “Those shoes,” she said, “are ridiculous.” She kissed me anyway.

The Quiet Truth

The Quilt Rollers weren’t shoes. They were armor.

When my savings dwindled, I’d trace the seams and remember: You chose this. You’re still choosing.

Once, at a flea market, a girl pointed. “Are those moon boots?” Her mother scowled. I winked. “Better.”

Now

They’re retired to my closet, soles worn smooth. The leather’s creased in places that map my stride—wider on the left, a tilt from favoring my bad knee.

Last week, I packed for a trip to Iceland. The woman I’m seeing tossed them into my suitcase. “They’ve earned the adventure,” she said.

On a glacier, under a sky bruised with stars, I’ll stand in them again. They’ll sink into the ice, stubborn, unshakable.

Not a purchase. A pilgrimage.