travel tales: putting my feet down

when i was a kid, many of my summer days were spent shoeless. playing outside in bare feet, on the driveways or sidewalks or lawns or what have you, was the norm, and i still remember exactly what each surface felt like... especially in the blazing august sunshine.

as an adult, the opportunities to do that have become far fewer. but, while i was in florida, not only did i eschew socks for eight whole days (i didn’t even pack shoes, only flip flops), i spent a fair bit of time in bare feet. inside and outside.

it was not only liberating, but kind of fascinating in a textural, tactile way. and, like my childhood escapades, each surface imprinted a clear, distinct sense memory in my mind.

the toasted interlocking brick surrounding the pool.

the first cool step into the shallow end in the morning.

the brittle pine needles lining the sidewalks.

the smooth asphalt in the covered parking lot downstairs.

the rough asphalt in the uncovered parking lot next door.

the chilled ceramic tiles in the living room.

the wooly, decades-old carpet pile in the bedroom.

the super-soft bath mat in front of the sink.

the grit of the balcony floor.

the greasy vinyl covering the ottoman.

the fine, powdery beach sand between my toes.

the jagged, broken shells along the shores of the gulf.

the dampness of the beach during low tide.

the warm, swirling water of the incoming waves.

the occasional brush of seaweed or random debris in said waves.

the gentle strokes of wind against wet feet drying in the sun.

the world underfoot, in all its glory, experienced without interference, embraced without reservation.