For the last few years, I’ve resisted taking tennis shoes with me on trips. I figured there was no greater travel or fashion crime than wandering around a city in jeans, a button-down, and bright white tennis shoes, which, combined with my inherent neurosis, meant I was bound to be mistaken for Jerry Seinfeld. Simply, I could not let that happen happen.
The alternative has not been easy. As woeful as they are to look at, tennis shoes are damn comfortable. And considering that I spend hours upon hours walking in a new city (I’m regularly on my feet for 6 hours at a time, taking a quick break for lunch, or cupcakes, or to sit down on the subway on my way to more cupcakes), it’s been hard to find something that works without leaving my back and knees aching (it does not help that I have inherited my mother’s tendency to carry a purse the size of an Ewok with me.) I generally opt for converse (what they lack in arch support, they make up for in street cred), or ballet flats which have not been designed for heavy walking (the brand-new pair I brought with me to New York last are now the shoe-equivalent of a Lohan. Rough-living makes them look far older than they are).