This afternoon I arrived in "the city," the presumptuous but endearing term referring to London. After unloading my "rucksack" in my hostel dorm, I set out across town toward the West End's Apollo Theatre where I caught a performance of the muscal Wicked this evening.Travelling by foot, I was able to catch plenty of sights. I strolled through Hyde Park and Green Park, passing pedestrian commuters speedwalking home for dinner in panythose and sneakers. Sneakers look comfortable, I thought, as I looked down at my leather boots, nearly but not quite flat. Along the way, I explored the Australian- and Canadian War Memorials and passed Buckingham Palace, where I joined a host of other solo tourists taking one another's photos in front of the Queen's pad. At the Wellington Arch, where I stopped to take this photo of the Iron Duke's memorial, I thought, "Wouldn't it be nice to have on a sturdy pair of Welly's." I looked down again at my own boots, their narrow toebox barely rooming my bunioned feet. I forged ahead through crowds at Picadilly Circus and Victoria Station and finally made it to the show. By this time, I was happy to take my cusioned seat and be still for a few hours. It was a long journey to The Apollo's Oz.
A pair of Ruby Slippers would be fine, I thought, if I could click my heels and be whirled back to the hostel. I looked down at my brown leather boots, not a glimmer of red refracting from their polished hyde. No sense clicking these heels.
After the show, my leather boots got me to the closest Underground station.
These boots weren't made for walking.
