Broken Shoestraps

Ironically, the cobblestone streets weren’t what broke them, in fact. Our transport’s thinning and rusted underbelly, barely separating street and feet, simply had no resistance to keep them still. Breakneck speeds and my unrelentingness as backseat driver must have.
They snapped off on my stepping out, letting my feet land onto the cobblestone. Out of heated space, they relished the cool and smoothness of each stone and I took pleasure in watching the ease with which my shoeless feet shaped onto each one. I looked up long enough to catch a face somewhat bemused at my careless amusement over it.
Place…shoe…repair…nearby. Down here, my mouth had no trouble expressing simple words; up there, my brain was busy browsing its Spanish vocabulary list of occupations. He motioned me to follow…shoe…repair…on corner…a friend. I pointed at my shoes…I deserve…always…buy…cheap stuff. We both laughed.
Under El Che’s gaze, the cobbler laid my sandals on a piece of wood in his lap and went to work. As my brain still searched and we waited, my street Samaritan told of his first home and childhood, decades ago, in the Middle East. A lot like mine had been, in Africa. Today, he lived here in the Caribbean, and I, as a Canadian. As children though, decades and thousands of miles apart, these monumental moves had broken us both upon landing, but only until repair.