Madrileña Musings

The wooden floor creaked beneath my feet as I wandered, fingering the alpargatas, the canvas, the jute roping. Sheltered in the cool, dim sanctuary, the space conjured that of atelier, rather than a store. Antigua Casa Crespo. A Madrid institution, this 150-year-old wood-shuttered espadrille shop has shod everyone from barrio regulars to football players to Spain's Queen Sofía.

Woven baskets, mats and fans draped the walls, filled shelves reaching the ceiling. Endless rows of small slots housed the alpargatas, revealing teases of brightly colored canvas. The deep walnut-colored shelving contrasted with the straw-colored jute of the roped soles. The aesthetic was that of craftsmanship, not transaction.

As I ran my hands over the fabric of these shoes, I felt I had arrived in a place both foreign and full of recollection.

Maxi Garbayo, the fourth-generation owner, had glasses strung around his neck, and was shuffling around the shop. He absent-mindedly adjusted alpargatas while talking with customers.

For a brief period, the shop emptied and I found myself in one of Maxi’s woven chairs. As he passed me the first pair, he looked at me over the rims of his glasses, which he had slid on to confirm the size. “No tienen pie, sabes? No hay izquierdo o derecho,” he said, as the alpargatas passed from his hands to mine. There is no right or left, the shoes are the same.

As I stood, I felt the roped jute heels give; unlike my current sandals, they yielded to my toes, my heel. I paced the shop, allowing my feet to settle in.

At home, Maxi continued adjusting alpargatas, paced with me, told me about his alpargatas. All of the shoes were made in a pueblo, Cervera del Río Alhama, in the region of La Rioja, which was dedicated to the fabrication of alpargatas “desde siempre.” Since forever. Artisans still hand-made each pair. Customers trickled in and out, and we talked about what kind of alpargatas the Queen wore, Julio Iglesias, how he met his wife.

Sometime after “desde siempre” my movements had slowed; the idea of this being an errand had evaporated. In truth, I didn’t want to leave.

Some time later, donning olive green alpargatas, I said goodbye to Maxi. As I stepped beyond the threshold of the shop’s wooden door, back into the muerto de verano, I realized I had forgotten the time, formerly urgent errands—I had forgotten why I was leaving Madrid. That afternoon in Maxi’s shop, the focus on where I would go next faded and instead, I saw where I was.