“Sorry, I was just admiring your shoes. I really like them. Where’d you get them?” she said. “Oh, thanks so much,” I said, taken aback. “I got them in the States.” Her boyfriend chimed in gruffly, “That’s a long way to go for some shoes.” Unlike Blanche DuBois, I am always wary of depending on the kindness of strangers, but in that moment, in the midst of the chaos of the King’s Arms, one of Oxford’s most famous pubs, this random woman’s smile made a world of difference. Because of my shoes, I’d finally “made it.”

More so than in America, shoes here are about both fashion and function. After spending two months on a study abroad program at St. Catherine’s College at Oxford University, I have come to realize just how crucial footwear is to those in countries that rain 24/7. For a wanderer such as myself, I need shoes that will comfortably and unassumingly allow me to blend in as a member of this big, bustling British city. Each morning, I wake up and choose between the few pairs I brought with me. Always a more modest man and rule-centric figure, my dear father advised to bring “only what you can fit in one suitcase.” This has meant that my shoe collection has been limited as I traversed countries throughout Europe this semester.

I did not come empty-handed, though. There are of course the coffee brown, lace-up, mid-ankle boots, padded, mint green studded flats, and chunky, clunky brown-bear-colored boats, which are sturdy as ever and ugly as sin, too. I also have a few pairs of pumps for those special occasions where I awkwardly dance in the corner at formal functions on campus and a pair of woeful tennis shoes that have not seen the light of the sun since I have arrived in England. Part of the reason for that is because there simply is no sun in this region of the world, and the other part is that the Oxford gym and I have not yet established a stable relationship. I resolved, however, not to the let the paucity of my shoe collection stop me. Upon realizing my accent truly does make me stick out like a sore thumb, and that I have an embarrassing inability to understand half of what English people say, I decided that clothing and apparel would be one frontier I could manipulate that would allow me to integrate into my surroundings.

One pair took me to a formal ball with thousands of people, endless champagne, handsomely dressed Brits and constant sources of entertainment. Indeed, that pair of gold strappy heels accompanied me as I wandered from tent to tent with break dancers in one side, a series of videogames in different one, a main room filled with burritos, pizza, hog roast, Asian fusion needles, and several spaces for enjoying the Silent Rave or the comfort of a special friend in the pink-and-red adorned Lover’s Lounge.

On less special occasions, though, when I have given up on trying to impress anyone, I slink into my thick, sturdy chocolate brown boots to help my feet avoid the lovely wetness and grime of Oxfordshire streets. Not only do this clunkers keep my feet warm but they also give me a sense of security: A month and a half into my time here and I am already comfortable enough in myself to let my fashion sense slip in favor of utility. Regardless of the fact that I noticed countless English women’s eyes darting from directly down to the horror of my thick shoes, I firmly believe (sometimes) in the value of shoes that protect one from the outside elements. It no longer matters to me that women were are perfectly coiffed with fake fur coats, thick scarves, professional looking makeup, leggings of all colors of the rainbow, and their overall hipster/preppy swag. I do not care if they dress as though the runway’s nearby at all times. I just need shoes that suit me.

In fact, moments when I have tried to sacrifice comfort for the sake of trying to look cute in the midst of wet weather or crisply cold times always come back to haunt me. For instance, one night, I thought it would me feel more authentically British to wear painfully thin shoes to a club, hoping they would help me to fit in. Instead, all I got was a story about the fact that after waiting 30 minutes in 25-degree weather with my poor toes congealing together in beginning stages of frostbite, an Oompa Loompa cut me in line. This is not a hyperbolic anecdote about an overly-tanned Snooki look-a-like: This girl literally thought it made sense that she should cut me in line spite of being painted orange, wearing a fluorescent green wig and white painted eyebrows.

At this moment, I decided those pumps were made for walking. As I hobbled myself through the cobbled streets that night and wrecked the heels themselves, I started really examining my shoe choices for this semester. It made me re-think how I carried myself and re-charged my motivation to walk about Oxford in a different, more confident way, regardless of my footwear. On the other hand, though, it also gave me a new reason to go on a new shoe-shopping expedition.

Susan J. G. Reed ’12, a Crimson magazine writer, is a history and literature concentrator in Adams House. She is currently studying abroad in Oxford, England.