Appropriate Footwear

"Off on the other ocean now"

“You need something comfortable; it’ll help you get into vacation mode!” my partner says, as I turn over the knockoff European black Birkenstock sandals in my hand, my fingers assessing their quality. My footwear during this three-week European vacation during the autumn of 2023 has been exclusively leather boots or running shoes; neither of which scream “beach ready”. The knockoff Birkenstocks are on sale at the nearby pharmacy in Bol, Croatia, a seaside town on the southern end of the island of Brač. My partner wandered into the pharmacy for sunscreen, while I gravitated to the shoe section on the far wall, drawn by some unknown energy. I purchase the sandals, slipping them on immediately, stuffing my heavy leather boots in the pharmacy provided plastic bag. As my partner and I walk the stone promenade back towards our seaside apartment, the Adriatic Sea lapping against the path, stray cats basking in the late morning sun, the sandals begin squeaking. “Knockoffs, for sure”, I sarcastically comment to my partner, but the sea breeze against my now exposed feet feels freeing, and I, myself, feel lighter.

I never felt like I deserved this vacation. It’s the same rhetoric I tell my therapist, the same phrase I mutter to my partner as they stress about necessary vacation planning, my reaction always defensive and walled off. Both of them tell me, “If anyone deserves it, it’s you.” But their words fall on deaf ears. Beginning with the burnout surrounding my lifelong passion of professionally brewing beer in the autumn of 2021, the following years were compounded with the loss of my mother, the war breaking out in Ukraine, and losing multiple jobs. I was utterly exhausted, yet never gave myself the room to rest. I would rather outrun the grief, because if I rested, I would have to deal with the devil of it all.

Within the culmination of all of these losses, my days during this time were spent creating a disciplinary system full of shame/guilt, exhausting all energy into finding a passion to fill the hole left behind from brewing (and the loss of my mother). I took expensive career tests, scoured the internet for advice, and spent my time deep down in the trenches of job boards, hoping to stumble upon something which my resume would fit. This process morphed into a poisonous solution, causing me to never see my efforts as efforts, because the results themselves were microscopic, nor could ever be qualitatively measured. The scope was plainly black and white; I had a passion I loved, or I didn’t.  I was in the heart of the coal mine, unaware the canary was singing. All work, no play, for my inner child.

Why would I ever see this vacation as deserving? The trip wasn’t more as a distraction from my search for a job, for my next passion.

“Ah, what you seek is ‘fjaka’, my friend!”, a Croatian brewer in Zagreb, mentions to me during my first visit to the Dalmatian country in 2016. A year prior, I moved from my hometown of Portland, Oregon, to Lviv, Ukraine, to help run the country’s first craft brewery, and was given complete creative control. Creative freedom is a brewer’s dream, but the freedom was turning into a self-fulfilling prophetic nightmare. Every available second of my free time felt like it was spent listening to brewing podcasts, reading brewing abstracts, and swapping ideas with fellow brewers over process - any knowledge to make our beer better. ‘Better’ was a challenge to myself, to prove myself in this literal foreign country. I felt as though I had a personal responsibility to Ukraine, and myself, to be the best. Soon we were winning awards, putting Ukraine on the map as a craft beer country, but at the cost of my mental health. Yet I wasn’t happy, nor satisfied. There was always more improvement to be done.

This vacation to Croatia was a necessity, forced partially on me by my Ukrainian boss, yet leaving the Ukrainian brewery behind felt stress inducing. While expressing my distress of running the brewery while out late with a group of Croatian brewer’s, one brewer, through the sloppy haze of drink, introduced the Croatian state of mind called fjaka. They explained how fjaka is a way of existing in nothingness; though fjaka isn’t a skill that’s taught, rather an elusive way of being one must surrender to obtain. As a westerner, surrendering to unproductiveness for hours on end felt like an unattainable living nightmare. 

While in the seaside city of Split a few days later, my morning routine entailed walking down to the nearby craft coffee shop for a cappuccino, grabbing a fresh krafna (a Croatian jelly donut) and fruit from the nearby market, then sitting by the sea wall for hours. My legs would dangle in the water, as I gazed out across the Adriatic Sea, as if the sea was white noise for my eyes. Nothing felt important, nothing imperative had to be completed; I could just exist with the sun kissing my face, wiping the powdered sugar and jelly from the side of my chin. Looking back now, during those handful of days in Split, I reached peak fjaka.

This memory, and the mindset of fjaka, are far from my mind during the first few days of the present Croatian vacation with my partner. Even while the breathtaking view of Split rests in front of my eyes as I sip on a morning cup of cappuccino, I’m visibly agitated. Agitated by my agitation, wondering why I’m so terrible at relaxing, crossed by thoughts of what I should be doing for my future. Relaxation feels elusive, like shifting frequently on an old couch, in a stranger’s home, trying to find the best sleeping position. 

As I stand next to the shoe rack in the pharmacy in Bol, the display lights illuminate the knockoff Birkenstocks in my hands. I waver back and forth about their character, maybe what they represent, if I even need them. My reluctance to purchase the knockoff Birkenstocks is superficial, and my partner can see through my stubborn guise. As the sandals slip onto my feet, my behavior gradually changes, as though something about having your feet exposed gestures permission to exist. The sandals are glued to my feet as we traverse the beaches of Bol, the wineries of the Vipava valley in Slovenia, and even the quick meander into Trieste, Italy, for a quick cappuccino. With each squeaky step, miles of strides of experience are gained, and my stress begins to melt away; relaxation finally enters my system and becomes comprehensible. These silly sandals became my own portable form of fjaka.

“You know, this might be the lowest point of my life”, I mention to my younger sister over the phone, as I glance around my apartment in Brooklyn, feeling like I’m living on borrowed time. Returning from the European vacation with my partner meant returning to my old pressurized habits, which would result in one of the biggest panic attacks of my life. My grandmother would pass a few days before her 99th birthday in December, and by the next spring, my partner and I would break up, and I would lose yet another job. I had the remainder of May to find housing and to find a job. My mind was scrambled eggs and the earth beneath my feet felt like quicksand. I found myself at a complete stand still in my life, absolutely directionless. I felt like I was pushing against the edges of a wall exhausted, looking for a hidden exit, hoping for something to change or shift, expecting different results each time.

A phone call from my younger sister would convince me to turn around from the wall, and see other options for solace.

It’s June, and the hot air coming in through the sun-drenched window beckons the beginning of summer, and some exploration, by foot, of the quaint Eastern Oregon town of La Grande. I unpack my large metallic purple suitcase in the guest room of my younger sister’s house, placing my shirts and underwear in the closet organizer I purchased from the local thrift store earlier in the day. I’ve moved back to Oregon in an attempt to reset myself from the past few months, but in reality, the chaotic past few years. 

Shoved in the back of the suitcase are the knockoff Birkenstocks, camouflaged against its black casing. I pick the sandals up, and turn them over in my hands. I haven’t worn them since my European vacation the previous fall. The tread on the bottom of the sandals is almost completely worn down, showcasing the miles of ground trekked during the trip. I quickly search for a replacement online, but find they’re manufactured in Serbia by a company named Grubin, and only available in Europe. Throwing them away feels like tossing away a family heirloom. A sentimental value lies within the sandals rubber structure, a symbolism of hope, rebirth, and transition, but most importantly, comfort. 

Despite their current state, I slip on the black Serbian knockoff Birkenstocks, ready to explore La Grande. Instantly, I’m transported to a memory of an early morning back in Bol, Croatia.

My eyes open to a soft rose pink and peach orange glow of the sky through the bedroom window, providing enough light to find my way around the apartment we’ve been staying in. After throwing on a shirt, gym shorts disguised as swim trunks, I slip on the black knockoff Birkenstock sandals, and make my way out of the apartment, slowly shutting the door so as to not wake my partner. As I walk the exterior tile path of the apartment, the meows of Flecky, the complex’s calico cat, echo my awakening. After indulging her with a few quick pets, I stumble down the stone stairwell, spitting out onto the seaside road, spotting fisherman and other early risers amongst the horizon. I’m early enough, the guard dog of the nearby pizza restaurant isn’t even awake to bark through the grapevine guardrail at my presence. My destination is a nearby pebble beach, Plaža Kotlina, tucked into the hillside, adjacent to an old Dominican monastery, and a local hotel. 

The outside air has a bit of chill, given it’s October, and despite the goosebumps covering my body, it’s absolutely perfect. As I walk the mile or so towards the beach, the knockoff Birkenstocks squeak with every step, announcing my existence to this quiet town. I feign a bit of embarrassment, hoping the sandals are not loud enough to awaken anyone, as their squeaks echo off the walls along the frontage road traversing the sea. I can’t remember the day of the week - maybe within this mental displacement is what being comfortable means, enjoying a vacation, when you can’t remember what day it is. All I can think about is how I wish I had more time here. In a few days we’ll be off to Slovenia, but for now I am focused on this walk to the beach.

A salinity fills the air as I pass the abandoned hotel and apartments, teetering on the seaside cliff covered in beautiful graffiti. One of the graffiti painted sides of the building is reminiscent of a modern Cubist Picasso, depicting Michael Jordan and other cultural identifying objects from the 90s, like Pepsi and Tamagotchi. I remind myself to delicately explore these buildings on my walk back home, as they feel more like living art exhibits, meant to be touched, examined, and seen, than off-limits structures.

My eyes scan the beach as I meander the path in, finding the shore completely empty, and completely silent other than the rustle of the nearby pine trees, crashing waves, and the chirping of local birds. Slowly removing my shirt, sandals, and glasses, onto the pebble beach, I realize I forgot to bring a towel. I hesitantly wade into the water, before shaking the nerves out of my system, and taking the plunge into a cresting wave.

I swim far enough out, past the inlet, I’m able to watch the crystal light blue of the water progressively turn darker and darker and darker until it’s pitch black. Nothing. Where the bottom is nowhere to be found, my feet reaching for something solid, but finding no stability. The feeling is empty and bottomless, and simultaneously terrifying. My groggy morning mind cannot fathom this void, viewing this emptiness as an amalgamation of my last few years, of how I have been searching around in the darkness for answers, completely lost, just trying to keep my head above water while each wave of events was never ending. The reality of this metaphor is too on the nose, and in this moment, too overwhelming. I swam back to a point where my eyes can finally see the bottom, and dive straight down.

I open my eyes under the glassy water, yet everything is a coagulated blur. I quietly panicked, before remembering I don’t have my contacts in. I squint to make sense of what I’m seeing, attempting to separate the small pebbles from the schools of fish living at the bottom. A muffled repetitive sound begins to echo in my ears. I push off the bottom of the sea, launching myself towards the surface for air, and immediately register the monastery church bell ringing on the hillside nearby. It must be 7am. As I rub the water out from my eyes, the sun is beginning to rise with each ring of the bell. I look out across the Adriatic Sea, into the horizon of nothing, and begin to feel the rays of the sun touch my face as it crests the hillside. I shiver, though the sea water is warm. For a fleeting few seconds, the grief and compounding pressure shed from my body, and I finally feel calm within myself here in the vastness of this pristine water. This relief is what I came here for; this relief is what I needed, but didn’t know it. I linger for a little longer before I swim back towards the shore, where my knockoff Birkenstocks, and glasses, are waiting for me. 

As I leave the beach, the sea water trails down my body, absorbing into the knockoff Birkenstocks. Wandering onto the patio of the nearby hotel, the now water-logged sandals squeak louder, a second silly bell for those who have yet to wake up to greet the day, and a signal to the waiter of my presence. It’s time for a cappuccino while overlooking the bay, and to relax into the day.