I.I couldn’t have known what they mean when I bought them. It was shortly before the last presidential election in the USA, when I was standing in a cowboy boot shop in Berlin-Kreuzberg and saw her between all the brown leather: black velor, a green quilted pattern, a red heart pulsing in the middle. Disco kitsch cowboy boots. I wanted her right away. “That was the most popular model in 1983,” the bearded shopkeeper told me and pointed to the ceiling: There they were, the same, real ones, dancing to pieces, bulging, graying out. The manufacturer went bankrupt, said the bearded man. He created the pattern himself and had them copied. He knows how to sell, I thought, and took the copy.
In the 1980s, the United States had been ruled for the last time by a president who had moved from show business to politics. I forbade myself to make comparisons with the people who had further shattered the country over the past four years. During his reign I had lived there myself for a year, in the Midwest. The glamor of Americana seemed to have finally worn off, the promise of freedom broken. What, please, are they supposed to mean, the boots of the men who took the Frontier? The boots of women who fought for freedom of movement? Nothing, I thought. A good travel shoe, I thought.
“God, they are beautiful! Flamboyant shoes “
A little boy in the Hardau housing estate in Zurich stopped abruptly when he saw me with it. He looked at the shoes, I looked at him questioningly. I had already left him a few meters behind me when he called after me: “Hey lady! Cool boots! ”-“ Thank you! ”I turned around to him, a little embarrassed. A woman in a village in Baden stood in my way when I came out of the supermarket. “I would like to congratulate you on the choice of your shoes!” I wanted to answer, but then she immediately told me about her own boots. “All white, oh, I haven’t worn it in a long time!”
A homeless person at the Berliner Gesundbrunnen waved me over and nodded appreciatively: “Mega shoes.” – “Thank you very much!” We smiled crumpled up, but honestly. The S-Bahn pulled in. “Well then, have a nice day, wa!” – “You too, yes!” An elegant older woman beamed at me in front of a restaurant in Mitte. “God, they are beautiful! Flamboyant shoes. ”A middle-aged man stopped me in front of the café early in the morning. “Here, I’ll hold your coffee and you write me down the store, will you?” I tapped around on his display. The shoes! He had a lot of them back when he was still partying in Soho.
Usually people rarely spoke to me spontaneously on the street. What was wrong with those boots? Weren’t the streets full of more colorful, extravagant shoes? Why did I seem so approachable with these people in particular? What did these boots do that made so many people so talkative at once? At home, I sat on the patio, listening to election predictions that predicted the aged American Democrats would be sure winners.
I lit a cigarette, put my feet up, and looked at the cowboy boots. The black plain enough to please everyone, the white bright enough to stand out. The green seam, unifying the pattern. And the shape: impossible to trip over heels made for a secure fit. A shape so constant that everyone recognizes it, even if it varies. These boots don’t care about age, gender or status. They can all be agreed on. The aged Democrat has been president for almost a year. He tries to unite his America, to awaken hope, to keep promises. My boots are a bit worn now. I don’t wear them that often anymore, but when I do, I know what they do. They have not lost their shine.
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