The Merchant of Dreams

The street was narrow and winding and almost hidden between old tall buildings which had seen better days long ago. You could see a thousand streets like that everywhere around old Europe and still each one had something unique and almost magical in them. You never knew where they might lead you to. The high heels of my brand new red sandals were clicking and singing on the worn out pavement which was still a little bit damp after the night. The sun hadn’t yet reached these hidden turns and twists. I enjoyed the sound which seemed to echo the lightness of my being and the distant halo of the rising sun above the houses in its happy staccatos. Sunny mornings always carried a promise of something new. I liked that. And I absolutely loved my new high heels, the electric feeling, the promise they gave to me. For me high heels had always been the symbol of a mysterious woman. I remembered ‘the woman’ from my childhood. She was tall, hid behind huge shades, had an afro wig –which was unheard in our small town at the time - fashionable Biba-esque clothes and heels. Nobody knew who she was or where she was walking to every day. She was a mystery. She was the way you weren’t supposed to be. She held her head too high, she looked too confident to the matrons in our town. She intrigued me, became a story to me. I didn’t care about afros or minis, but I definitely saw the heels. And with the heels came the fights about the right to wear them.... I sighed with my memories but then determined, shook the annoyance and pain off. I didn’t want to think about past, home, work… anything trivial and too familiar. I just wanted to float around with my high heels and enjoy. Behind every bend was a new lovely surprise waiting for me, just me. This was what a real holiday should be - an adventure.