Barefoot in Rotterdam

I tried my hand at writing down my latest barefoot adventure. Solo this time, as Vinile wasn't there with me.

I hope you enjoy it.

Egle

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The sun was shining when I stepped outside the Postillion Conference Centre. It was a Friday afternoon in June, and Rotterdam was balmy. The conference was finally over. I had enjoyed it, but after days of it, I just wanted to rest and switch the brain off. Work had allowed me to book my return flight for Sunday, giving me a mini city break to enjoy. I had two full days of relaxation ahead.

The conference centre was only a couple of kilometres away from my accommodation. For the weekend I was going to move my things into an Airbnb, but I still had one night booked at the New York hotel. In that beautiful weather, I decided to walk there.

The previous days had been overcast and even rainy, and after that late bout of spring weather, the air was feeling fresh and pure. I made my way down the steps and started walking towards the water. The shortest route towards Hotel New York would have been straight down to the Erasmusburg bridge, but it was only mid-afternoon, and I wanted to take time walking around the city.

It occurred to me that, had Vinile been with me, we probably would have engaged in one of our usual barefoot outings. The weather was perfect for it.

I continued down the street leading from the WTC to the canal, looking around to see who else was populating the street of Rotterdam on that Friday afternoon. A few of them were conference participants. I could see their lanyard as well we the obvious "conference look": formal but a bit dishevelled. Most appeared busy, almost in a rush. Or maybe it was because I was feeling so relaxed and mellow that everyone else looked like they were speeding up and down: a family on holiday, some teenagers probably enjoying the beginning of their summer holidays (no idea when schools stop for summer in the Netherlands), a group of women that spoke animatedly about something I couldn't understand.

I reached the canal and looked around trying to remember where to go. I really didn't want to use the maps to orient myself. The mobile would have been clogged with notifications, and I didn't want to deal with messages and emails. I realized I was still wearing my lanyard and took it off. I stuffed it in my leather bag, unsure whether to keep it as memento or discard it.

Once again, the thought of doing a barefoot walk crossed my mind. I hesitated. Nothing was stopping me from taking my shoes off and going ahead with my stroll. But something prevented me from feeling comfortable doing so. I moved a few steps towards the edge of the canal. The WTC centre was still right behind me. Is it because Vinile is not here? I asked myself, unsure how to read my own feelings. Then, as I looked back towards where I came from, I started to understand that being by myself wasn't the sole reason behind my hesitation. The closeness to the work environment played a strong part too.

I couldn't decide if it was the fear of bumping into a colleague or the subtle, mildly transgressive pleasure of walking barefoot so close to a professional setting. Even if innocent--at least outwardly--it still felt strangely inappropriate to slip into something so personal just minutes after leaving the conference. The lanyard was gone, but the weight of my work laptop in my bag reminded me that, though technically off duty, I was still tethered to the work world.

And yet, the act wasn't without its thrill. There was always a certain playfulness in shedding my shoes in the middle of a city, and the act felt even more mischievous now, knowing that just moments ago, I had been engaged in polite, professional conversations with my colleagues.

I glanced down at my feet. Flat, black leather shoes--comfortable and reliable--were always my choice for long days on my feet. My slim-fit black trousers left my ankles exposed, short enough that they wouldn't drag on the ground even if I took my shoes off. I hated when that happened.

Nothing was stopping me.

I looked around, almost furtively, then shifted my bag so it wouldn't swing in front of me and leaned down to undo my shoes. The laces came undone with a single pull. I straightened up, slipped off the first shoe, then lifted my foot to peel away the sock. The Rotterdam air felt fresh against my clammy skin, and as I set my foot down, the first contact with the pavement sent a delicate shock of surprise through me.

I repeated the process with the other foot, then quickly stuffed both shoes and socks into a plastic bag before wedging them into my already overfull shoulder bag. I smiled.

The pavement was cooler than I had expected. Maybe it was the proximity to the water, or maybe the sun had tricked me into expecting warmth, but the smooth stone felt cold beneath my feet, making me shiver.

I looked around. There was something amusing about picturing myself in work clothes but barefoot. For a moment, I secretly wished a colleague would appear--just to see their reaction. I realized I wanted to see myself from their perspective, as I almost couldn't quite picture how I looked. And there was a simple way to achieve that.

Without thinking, I stepped toward a middle-aged woman absorbed in her phone, checking directions. "Excuse me," I began, trying to gauge whether she was Dutch--likely fluent in English--or a tourist.

She made things easy, responding in English. I smiled and asked if she would take a picture of me.

It was only as I handed her my phone that self-consciousness crept in. Not just because of my bare feet, which she hadn't yet noticed, but because I was standing in a completely unremarkable corner of Rotterdam. Who takes a picture here?

I glanced around, almost searching for a view that would justify my request, but she rescued me. "Do you want a picture from the bridge?"

I nodded enthusiastically and moved a few steps onto the arching bridge over the water. By then, she must have noticed I was barefoot--it would have been hard not to--and the thought sent a light, fluttery feeling through my stomach.

I turned toward her and smiled. She smiled back, lifted my phone, and snapped a photo.

"Are you a barefooter?" she asked, handing my phone back.

The question caught me off guard. I hesitated. "Err, no, not really. Just having fun," I replied, clearly not making much sense.

I'll never forget the flicker of disappointment on her face. Maybe she had expected a more interesting answer. But I wasn't ready to share my motives with a stranger, so I simply thanked her and walked across the bridge.

The sidewalk was inaccessible, closed off because of repair work, and I decided to away from the metal sheets that had been used to cover up the unpaved sections of the sidewalk. They didn't seem very foot-friendly.

I decided to walk along the road, helped by the fact it had virtually no traffic. The road itself was not paved in tarmac but tiled with rectangular stone tiles, rough and cold under my bare feet.

The road, I believe I am walking straight towards the river now, soon crosses a much bigger avenue. As I cross it, I couldn't resist the urge of touching the tram tracks with my foot. I hesitate for a split second, almost afraid of the metal, but the surface is smooth under my toes, almost friendly. At the next step, I lay my foot flat over the other rail. The metal against my arch sent a blissful jolt of vulnerability through me.

On the other side, I notice a couple, both sporting lanyards from the conference. I am caught by a mix of embarrassment mixed with excitement. What if they know me? I smile softly as they look in my direction, but they both look past me, probably trying to orient themselves among the myriads of bridges and canals.

As I leave the conference goers behind me, an unusual idea forms in my head. I dip my hand into the bag and get my own lanyard out. I put it on and for a moment I feel myself flush. It's very silly, the lanyard doesn't make it any more likely to bump into my boss or someone else from work, but it accentuates the work mode, in a way that strongly contrasts with my lack of footwear.

Smiling, feeling a bit giddy, I finally reach the river, cross yet another bridge, and start eyeing towards the hotel.

I need grass. I stop and look around. From the bridge I can see a park, but I would need to make my way back to reach it. If memory doesn't fail me, I remember a scanty patch of grass ahead, so I continue straight instead of turning right towards where the Hotel would be.

By the time I reach it, I am tired. The bag is too full and my feet ache. When did I get so unaccustomed to walk barefoot? I used to spend entire weekends without shoes, now after less than one hours, my soles are tender.

The park in question is just a patch of grass squeezed between residential buildings and crisscrossed by paved walkways. The grass looks healthy and inviting though, but before letting my feet rest on it I decide to walk to a nearby bench. I want to check on my soles and maybe take a picture to send Vinile.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, considering how clean Rotterdam is, my soles are not too dirty. I look both of them, also to check for small cuts as I stepped on sharp stones on a couple of occasions, but they are just a bit dusty, no more than they would be if I had just had a stroll in my own back garden.

I set my bag on the pavement and put my feet up onto the wooden bench. It feels nice to rest.

As I think how to take a selfie for Vinile, I notice a passerby who stopped and hastily sat on the bench opposite. He is now watching at his phone, but he lifts his gaze to look in my direction, once, twice, three times in quick succession. I smile and we lock eyes. Even from the distance I can see him blush, he rapidly stands up and fumbles in the direction he came back from.

I smile. Part of me is always amazed by how people react seeing someone in bare feet, part of me is relieved that person decided to walk away. I sometimes enjoy being approached and asked questions, but in the moment, I am tired and would have rather not have to explain myself to a stranger.

Without an obvious way to take a selfie including the soles of my feet, other than propping my mobile against something and using the timer to take a photo, I decide to take a picture while standing, my arm held high, feet visible even though out of focus. It's a nice picture. I'm sure Vinile will enjoy it.

For a moment I consider putting my shoes back on to walk to the Hotel. My feet are surprisingly sore. But especially after having just sent Vinile the photo, I feel determined to continue, moved by a vague sense of virtual submission that makes me act as if he was here, making me walk barefoot despite the (moderate) difficulty.

I enjoy the feeling. I pick up the bag and start walking, glancing back at the park one more time.

It's another half an hour walk to the hotel, and I have to fight the impulse to put shoes on a couple more times. By the time I'm there, I'm walking slowly, but I feel a renewed sense of accomplishment as my feet touch the soft carpet of the reception.

Behind the desk, there is the same receptionist I met in the morning. She looks in my direction and gently nods at me, seemingly not caring or noticing my bare feet.

I walk towards the lift, waiting patiently as it rushes down to. The floor inside it is cold, and I welcome back the carpet as soon as I step outside it.

Once in my room, I check my phone. Vinile has not seen my message yet.

I peel off my clothes, all of them, enjoying the artificial breeze pushed out by the aircon. Feeling mischievous, I kneel on the bed, turn towards the mirror and look at my back, my ass, my soles. It will make for a nice picture.