Hi,
hier ist ein Bericht über das Abenteuer einer Schuhfüsslerin und ihre Reaktionen, zwar etwas "off topic" aber trotzdem interessant und zum Teil, für unsereinen, ziemlich komisch. Zudem kommt hier "die andere Seite" zum Wort.
Freundliche Grüße Otto

VIEW; Barefoot on Elizabeth Street
By ELLEN TIEN

LAST week, I was mugged. It was a quick transaction, efficient and surreal. No roughness, no ugly words. It was, in fact, oddly unthreatening, a mugging that seemed almost like an edgy Details fashion shoot. I might have processed it, repressed it and moved on as New Yorkers do, were it not that the mugger committed one unspeakable act that left me feeling less a crime victim than a fashion victim.
It was a beautiful spring day, and I was shopping for summer clothes, heading from Scoop on lower Broadway toward Calypso. And since I'm never exactly sure where Calypso is, I had simply tuned my retail antennae to detect beaded jute evening bags and was wandering east, toward NoLIta. That's how I found myself on a semideserted block of Elizabeth Street -- or was it Mott? -- glancing into shop windows, thinking deep thoughts. Did I prefer new sunglasses with blue or amber lenses? That was when I nearly stumbled into a man standing still as a stone directly in my path.
He was tallish, 30 or so and stocky, with dark, close-cropped hair. Not unpleasant looking. He wore a green army jacket and fatigues -- seasonally appropriate, although a little too matchy-matchy for my taste. As I gave him a reflexive once-over, I noticed that under his jacket he held a gun. A tiny gun, almost too small to be real. His hand was wrapped clumsily around it, as though it were a pack of turkey sausages. It looked as if he had misplaced his own gun and at the last minute had been forced to borrow his kid sister's.
''Give me all your cash,'' he said calmly.
My cash. Ah. This was reality. Tiny or not, a gun's a gun, so I reached into my Fendi baguette, shakily beginning a stream of soothing patter. ''O.K., O.K., I'm giving you all my cash, it's fine, I have plenty of cash, this will be fine,'' I muttered.
I took roughly $200 out of my wallet, patted the bills flush and put them in his hand.
He said, ''Now give me your jacket.''
My jacket. Amid the car-alarm noise sounding in my brain, I must admit I was too busy coming up with reasons for why I didn't care about losing the jacket to consider scanning the streets for help. It was a black leather jacket -- Barneys, circa 1997 -- and I had always been a bit on the fence about it anyway. I took it off, automatically folded it with the lining out (nerves made me a fastidious target of crime) and held it out for him like a cake.
He seemed about ready to leave, then at the last moment glanced down like someone making an impulse purchase at a cash register.
''Oh,'' he said. ''And give me your shoes.''
My shoes?
He wanted my shoes. This was very bad. I was using them! Every quaking muscle of my body resisted taking them off. I stood frozen. Appalled. I nearly explained that he didn't really want them since they weren't that valuable, they were last year's Gucci loafers.
Instead, I said, ''They're not going to fit you.''
He was unmoved. ''Just give me your shoes,'' he repeated levelly.
Maybe it was his stylish little gun. Maybe it was the way he was more interested in my clothes than my credit cards. But on some level, I was beginning to feel comfortable enough with my mugger to ask a favor.
''Well, can I catch a cab first?''
''You don't have any money for a cab,'' he pointed out.
So true. I couldn't really argue, particularly since he was the one holding the gun.
''Then I guess I'm giving you my shoes,'' I said. I bent over, took them off my feet, lined them up neatly, toes out, and handed them over.
There was an awkward pause. What does one say, really, at the end of such a transaction? Farewell? Wear them in good health?
''O.K.,'' I offered.
''O.K.,'' he replied.
We nodded tersely at each other. My shoes and jacket cradled in his arms, he walked calmly away.
And that was that. Except I had no shoes. And in keeping with the current fashion, I also had no socks. Granted, I was fine. Luckily, I was physically unhurt and I had sustained no great loss.
But these advantages seemed trifling in the reality of that moment: I was barefoot. Any lingering fear from the robbery was eclipsed by the humiliation of my naked feet. Some weirdo had taken my shoes, and now he had made me the weirdo.
I squelched the urge to tell fellow pedestrians that my barefooted-ness was a grim accident, that in no way did I believe this to be a good look for me. It never occurred to me to call the police, even though I was still carrying my cell phone. Every fiber of my being became focused on my feet. My brain went on auto-pilot: Must find footwear. Must cover feet.
I made a beeline for a Korean manicure place that I vaguely recalled being in the neighborhood, and went in, flushed and unshod. ''Hi,'' I said apologetically. ''The worst thing just happened. I got mugged, and the guy took my shoes. Could you please, please give me a pair of pedicure flip-flops?''
Apparently, the plaintive embarrassment of a fellow Asian, combined with my relatively fresh pedicure, were sufficient persuasion. The owner -- with the arched eyebrow of a skeptical auntie -- handed over a pair of thongs.
Later, my husband would ask why I hadn't simply gone into a store and bought another pair of shoes, since I still had my credit cards. So like a man! Obviously, you can't shop for shoes when you're not wearing any.
Feet blessedly shod, I made my way home, fixating on sterilizing my feet, assiduously ignoring the frightening might-have-beens. It was far more comforting to compare my encounter to an episode of ''Seinfeld'' than ''N.Y.P.D. Blue'' -- as comic happenstance, not serious danger. Guns and violence weren't things I could or wanted to relate to. Shoes were.
Still, as I flip-flopped my way uptown, I had an epiphany, though not the kind that people usually have after a potentially life-threatening experience. Shoes are important. People need shoes.
While I've always had great admiration for shoes, from a consumer's perspective, it wasn't until this moment that I fully appreciated their psychological place. Not merely your ticket into any 7-Eleven in the country, shoes are a vital part of being a functioning member of society.
And herein lay the subtle cruelty of my mugger's crime. Had he taken my shirt and pants, the direness of the situation would have been immediately telegraphed to passers-by. Had he taken my jewelry like any normal mugger -- hello?! a diamond Tiffany Victorian necklace and two Schlumberger rings -- the loss would have been obviously lamentable. But to rob me of my shoes was to rob me of my respectability. Missing shoes are akin to missing teeth, an embarrassing reflection of your own negligence.
What's more, the insides of your shoes are the one small piece of territory that only you inhabit. They symbolize where you stand.
I'm sure this wasn't foremost on my mugger's mind. I imagine he was more of a logo-poacher than an evil genius or even a fetishist. Nonetheless, somewhere out there, a man was now hawking what had once been my own custom-worn size-7 footholds on the world.
I hope he got a good price.

NY Times May 28, 2000