Green Shoes

The quaint shoes in the window sported deep lime-green leather tooled with a flowered pattern, wrapping the curled toes. The elongated tongues and squatty high heels were reminiscent of Venetian shoes of the late 1700's.

"These are like the shoes in The Shoemaker and the Elves!" I found myself explaining to no one in particular (although poor Julia was a captive audience.)

"Magical," I then noted to myself as I entered through the doorway with even more expectancy than usual. (I typically browse designer row shops with anticipation of pleasure.)

More shoes of purple, aqua, and raspberry lined a table in the center of the tiny shop. But my gaze did not linger long. Quickly scanning the perimeter of the room, my eyes feasted on a kaleidoscope of colored fabrics: taffetas, silks, and embroidered linens in shimmering, glimmering pastels. Translucent gauze sparkled with iridescent highlights.

"Ohhhh," I sighed.

Now my fingers ran over the garments, luxuriating in the drape of the rich silk, caressing the smoothness of beautiful taffeta, touching each delicate embroidery embellishing the hemline of flowered linen skirts.

Ruffles, fringes, textures. Tailored cuts, pleated skirts. And all that shimmer and shine.

The pretty young woman spoke quietly in the back with an obviously pleased customer. Her Dutch accent was soft and musical, cultured and charming. She emoted pleasant confidence. I suspect that she owned these designs; she may have created the very beauty in which I presently delighted.

koko Venice. On Abbot Kinney Blvd. Now I've Googled it. I'm sure it was her. Marianne Kooimans. I salute your talents. (The photos online don't capture what I discovered. Really.)

Perhaps one day I will return with enough cash in hand to own one of those translucent, iridescent silk taffeta tunics. Will it be peach, ivory, or gold?

I can only imagine.