As it happens, ABQ wasn’t so big-city after all. I was strolling around downtown (aka The District, according to the slick magazine/brochure the city puts out to promote its new urbanist efforts), and happened to spy an ancient-looking shoe store: a faded sign jutted out from the shopfront: “HALE” vertically, block letters, “shoes” horizontally in script. (Or that’s the way I remember it–the place is already shifting into long-lost legend in my head.)

Let me just explain here: Yes, I was doing book research. But yes, I was also shopping. I never, ever shop in NYC because it’s a pain in the ass–crowds, surly clerks, screaming babies. When I’m traveling, I buy everything from postage stamps to deodorant to jeans–the amount I throw down on the road can look shocking to my traveling companions, but trust me, I’m not spending like that at home, because it would make me way too crabby. And compared with buying a bike the day before, pausing at a shoe shop–something a tourist in ABQ might even conceivably do–seemed pretty on track, work-wise.

When I stepped into the shadowy area by the inset display windows, I saw total time-warp inventory: all those puffy-all-over old-lady shoes with sensible heels, Hush Puppies from before they got a brand makeover, dowdy cold-weather boots. Nothing I could rock even with a huge dose of retro irony. But way over in the corner, I saw a pair of these German sandals that just last month I’d run across online–Worishofers. They looked comfy, not too frumpy and, best of all, sensibly designed to stay on your feet in even the slip-on variety.

I pushed open the door, and could barely see a thing. The tiny shop was very dim, and stacked floor to ceiling with shoe boxes. By the time I’d located my shoes–amid more puffy vinyl numbers with brand names like “Auditions!”–the owner had emerged from some darkened back room. I innocently asked, “Can I try these in a 38?”

He looked at me a little critically. He made no move to get me the shoes. He gestured toward the chairs in the center of the store and said, “Well, first, let’s measure your feet.”

I was riding the Way-Back Express! I haven’t had my feet measured since I was eight years old, maybe! I got the whole treatment: putting each foot up on the little slanty padded chrome-and-burgundy-vinyl stool, while the guy appraised my polka-dot socks and noted the small disparity between my right and my left. Then he got up and rooted through the various boxes to get me the shoes.

Again with the slanty stool: He held the shoes there to let me slide my feet in, all the while describing the merits of these particular Worishofers–lightweight cork that could be resoled, nifty padding right at the metatarsal (I have a metatarsal?!), breathable foot bed…

Ooh, they were dreamy! And cheap! World’s fastest sale. But of course I couldn’t move too fast–there seemed to be all these little layers of shoe-shop protocol that I’d forgotten since I was eight. Filling out the invoice, learning my name, adding some tips on shoe care. Before I left, he said, “By the way, those are the 39–don’t tell the neighbors!” Yes, I had just been schooled on my own shoe size.

And just as I was checking out, another woman had come into the shop–a much older woman, her hair in a tidy white bob. “I’ve come in for just exactly the same shoes!” she said–totally undermining my conviction that I’d somehow managed to pick the one pair of non-old-lady shoes in the place.

But who freakin’ cares! They’re the best shoes ever! And when the guy mentioned that he’d be retiring in a couple of months and the shop would be closing, my heart nearly broke.

The very next day, I came back with my mom, and bought two more pairs for me, plus a pair with straps for her. The guy measured my feet again–“in case they grew overnight,” he joked. I instantly wondered if he had some kind of foot fetish. But again, I thought: who freakin’ cares! I guess if you work in a shoe shop for 44 years, you either have a fetish to start with, or you develop one. So feel free to fondle my feet a little while telling me random snippets of poetry you’ve read on bathroom walls and stories of old-time Albuquerque (did you know the CBS radio station had its offices in the KiMo Theater, and hosted a monthly live show called “The Neighbor Lady” where women brought in their recipes? I did not–and I want to revive that!).

And I didn’t feel so bad about being a sentimental sap over the store closing–the store I’d known of for less than 24 hours–when the owner told me that the woman with the white bob from the day before had actually started crying when she heard the news.

If you’re the type who tears up over this kind of thing, you can read more here, in the Albuquerque Alibi.

If you’re not, sorry to take up your time. Progress! Future! Change! I’ll be marching forward in my hot, hot old-lady shoes, thank you very much.