When I travel I’m always amazed by women who travel on high heels. High heels bring about that glamour model look many of us would like to have but few of us are prepared to suffer for. The ‘Wow!’ effect. I always failed to understand why someone would willingly suffer high heels through check in and passport control queues, security checks, airport shopping and long flights. But the high heeled women never look tired or suffering. Super women!
I don’t have shoes with very high heels in my wardrobe, but I do have heels. And last Friday I headed for Germany wearing boots with some 5,5cm heels. I figured the flight was very short (a little more than one hour) and my friend would pick me up at the airport. I could even kick off the boots in the car if I felt really tired. Besides, the boots would take up too much space in my little suitcase.
I have to confess: high heeled and with my borsalino hat on I did feel a tad model-ish. Diesel’s Fuel for Life (sprayed at the duty free first thing after the security check) contributed to that feeling. I’m not sure anyone else had noticed the model in me, but who cares? I model-rock. Yes.
Encouraged by this positive experience I decided to repeat the model trick on the way back. It would be the same story except this time I had to spend one hour on the very comfortable ICE train to get to the airport. Can do.
Model me entered the train to discover that it was fully packed. Me – no seat reservation. On my high heeled boots and with my suitcase I started moving through the overcrowded carriages in the direction of the restaurant. That was a challenge. Flats would have been of help at that moment. Two carriages later I entered the restaurant. To discover. That this restaurant. Was equipped. With very few seats. And many high standing tables. And all the seats were taken. Crap!
After 30 minutes standing on high heels in a fast moving train I lost not only my model look (if I’d ever had any), but also every trace of the model feel. As soon as one of the seats was free I threw myself in it preventing a gentlemen in the age of my father to have that seat. He certainly didn’t see the model in me but I didn’t care.
Slightly recovered I found my way through the maze of the Frankfurt International Airport to the right terminal, flirted with a friendly guy at the start of the security check (weak model signals beaming through the layer of tiredness) and headed for the gates. There were no trolleys to put my bag and almost-fur coat on so I had to carry that all while applying some Dior perfume and checking out other shops.
Finally I arrived at Schiphol with no modelling ambitions and a strong wish to get home as soon as possible. That’s when I spent 30 minutes standing while waiting for my luggage. I expected it to appear on the baggage belt any moment, so why bother to sit down? I was wrong. I spent more than an hour waiting for my suitcase and went home without it. Lost. There was a pair of very fine heelless shoes in it...
So why do women travel on high heels?