These boots are from San Miguel de Allende. When we lived in Guanajuato, a mythical city built among the hills of the west-central Mexican state of the same name, we traveled to San Miguel. The first trip by bus with the little River baby being the highlight of all the Mexican's ride. The second trip was by mini-van (no car seat, since such an item is a huge luxury and incredibly expensive to purchase), when my dad came to visit. San Miguel is the home of many ex-pats, and the topography is similar to the foothills around Boise, only more closely placed together. Horses in the zocolo, cathedrals, art museums, musical performances, libraries, and all different kinds of delicious and healthy food choices. My favorite--at the time--was the sweet rice porridge I could find early in the morning, when the mercado had just opened. Bells ring, dogs roam the street, the light hits the hillside. But these boots were not purchased on either of those trips. They were bought, by my mother on a later trip, for her feet. But they were too small, so now they are mine. And they are worn, and the beads are falling off, and there is a hole in the left toe. Last night, I was late to dance, work holding me in place through warm-up, a quick walk to the car left only 20 minutes to class. Yes, of course I went. These boots wanted me to. They walked me directly into the room, not even pausing for the normal removal so that my soles can touch the hard dance floor. Last night, these boots needed to dance. When I got home they were vibrating, shining, so happy to have moved to the rhythm with me. My heals are sore this morning, walking to work, through slush in these same boots. My soul is sore too. This shift and move, this place away from what I know. These boots are still with me. Until they are walked bare, they will remind me of San Miguel.