These Boots Were Made for Walking

While walking around the South Bank here in London, one of the heels from my boots fell off. This reminded me of the very last day in Varanasi after 10 weeks in India and that one of my sandals that I had worn every day, broke. Things fall apart.

Heidegger's essay, "The Origin of a Work of Art" deals with the concept of the difference between functionality and Art, where it crosses over, where it does't, inter alia. However, he discusses Van Gogh's painting of a pair peasant's shoes and how they are worn with "care" and serves a purpose. That the painting was a reflection of this purpose. When our tools break, we recognize their functionality and their purpose, specifically when we need said tools. Such as being several miles away from where you need to be an your shoe heel falls off, or some such example.

These boots have served me quite well, and if you look closely, you will see that those are not the original soles. In fact, I have gone through two soles on each and at least as many heels and the sides are splitting.

I have walked. I love to walk and I do so several miles on any given day, and when traveling, that may reach 10-15 in large cities, in addition to a great deal of public transportation, such as the Tube here.

If you know me, you know that I will wear things until they are in shambles if it is a favorite article of clothing, such as these boots. When something serves us well, we should appreciate that, and I appreciate these boots, so I felt that they should have a posting of their own.

Things do fall apart, when the center cannot hold, and I have learned that when certain things break, then it is Time for certain changes. I have not decided the fate of these boots as I will soon be going to Texas and New Mexico, where for the most part I will be again wearing sandals everywhere. Whether they gain yet another life remains to be seen. Or, they will be retired with my sandals from India.

Gap Minded

Without a doubt, one of the most memorable things that people bring back from London is the experience of the Tube, the Underground Metro system that became a transportation icon when the famous schematic was drawn up by Harry Beck in 1931, for the paltry sum of five pounds for his efforts. Now one of the most recognizable maps in the world, most modern Metro maps are modeled after Beck's simple topological design, revolutionizing the way the world look at a transport system.

In addition the half-inch thick painted "Look Left" and "Look Right" designations at the majority of central London streets to avoid hapless American from becoming hood ornaments for Aston Martins and the ubiquitous London Taxi Cabs, the ever-present "Mind the Gap" warning of disembarking from each Tube car is another icon of navigating London transit logistics.

And, what would a trip to London be without a round on the Tube?

Today, after having an incredible full English Breakfast, it began to pour down rain, so I had already planned to make some stops, and there was no better time than the present to duck underground on the Underground for two hours and step out at various stations.

It is always interesting to see how the populations evolve and change along the routes from working-class end-stations like Stratford to the upper-crusty Oxford Circus or Acton to Mile End, with all points in between. Entire mini-demographics emerge, sometimes one stop at a time, others so gradually that suddenly you feel as if you have moved into a different country altogether. At South Kensington where women are still donning Ascot head gear to blue-collar outlays of East Ham, you can see the world in an hour.

Here are a few of the icons that I encountered along the way, minding the Gaps amongst the various peoples one encounters while in London.

Going to Market

Yesterday I went to one of the various markets in Antwerp that have become a weekly experience for me.  It is probably one of the most important and visceral aspects of living in Europe as an American that I experience on a regular basis. It is the romantic view of wandering through life at a different pace and assembling the details of daily life one by one at various stalls and shops.

Although not all part of the market, I gather my goods from a sundry of places, over time, and it is a nice diversion from the modalities of the impersonal life that we often live in modern society.

I get my coffee ground at Helios, circa 1925, the Felix blend, dark and robust. I get my green chiles that are similar to Hatch chiles at the Turkish market store. I get my cheese at the cheese vendor on the De Villegas market on Thursdays and Saturdays. I get my parothas at the Tamil store next to the laundry mat that I do laundry on the Driekonigenstraat.

Most importantly, I get my flowers, on a weekly basis, at the market.

Getting flowers is a privilege. It is the epitome of a culture that has the luxury and aesthetics of making it a business of buying and selling something that grows in the wild to be part of a market economy. I do not begrudge this as I LOVE flowers. I love flowers on so many levels, and that was what I enjoyed so much in India was that flowers were a daily part of life. 80% of the women in Madurai wore flowers in their hair, EVERY day. Flowers were strewn over the streets, over piles of shit, worn as garlands, and adorned every devotional statue or commemorative piece at every street corner. Flowers were, literally, everywhere.

Belgians do like their flowers, that much is true, but it comes at a cost. Like eating, Belgians are not known for being lenient, and TV shows such as Komen Eten and Smaak Politie are testament to making sure that eating is regimented, criticized and enjoyed at a cost.

At the market, then, this Saturday, I went to my usual stall, and was feeling very happy about the selections. However, there was one middle-aged (50-60 year-old woman) who was getting very upset about the wait. She began drumming her knuckles on the metal counter of the flower stand that we were all (about 20 of us) were waiting and begin to become more and more vocal about how long SHE had to wait. Well, last time I checked, we were all waiting, but what I see more and more here is that it is always about ME and not about the whole scenario. We were ALL waiting, just as long. At one point, only ten minutes or so on a very, very busy market day, the woman vociferously leaves the line and yells, and I do mean yells, at the three women behind the counter that have been busting their asses to get to everyone as soon as possible that it is beyond reproach that they did not have someone dedicated to people like herself who just wanted a ready-made bouquet and that god forbid they gave individual attention to the details of making individual bouquet, something which to me makes this particular flower stand impressive, and she then says that she will never come back to this so-and-so vendor. And, she leaves in a huff, without her flowers, despite being next in line.

What happens next was the telling tale of the devil in the details. Not only did the remaining customers not discard the actions/words of the woman who left as such as an aberration of norms, but suddenly there was a wave of negativity from the group and they all began to bitch and complain to the people behind the counter for having to wait, etc. etc.

I am unforgiving in this mentality and it disgusted me. We had the luxury and the wealth to wait in a line of beautiful flowers, of which you can see below and people decided to use their voice of dissent and anger instead of gratitude for what they would soon be enjoying.

It makes me ill.

If you cannot wait for flowers, nor realize that you are lucky enough to enjoy a gift of nature at any cost that enhances and beautifies your life, then the only flowers you will ever appreciate will be those on your grave.

Like Ferdinand the beleaguered bull from the children's story, flowers are the portals to beauty and to stopping and enjoying life. If you cannot, then I am very sad for you.