My Adidas

Last week, we traveled to Yangon, Myanmar. That’s Burma, folks, the former Rangoon. It’s a fascinating city, and a great example of what happens when you don’t clean your room. What do I mean by that?

The British Empire extended here, and in the colonial architecture you can see what a stunning city “Rangoon” once was. Some of these buildings rival the great Victorian and Edwardian buildings of London. Except for one thing – they’re all run down, and many of them are totally derelict. It’s a shame. The mix of the Asian (the stupas, the temples, the food!) and the European (the architecture, the grand boulevards, the cocktails!) must have been striking.

But after years of military rule and neglect, Yangon is a shadow of it’s past glory. The people are perhaps the nicest we’ve met on the trip – everyone smiles and says hello, EVERYONE – but the town could use an enema.

Which leads me to another derelict item which has seen better days. My Adidas.

Like Yangon, my blue suede Adidas Campus sneakers were constructed in Asia to serve a distant European commercial entity. And again like Yangon, my Adidas are falling apart.

They’re the sneakers I wore as I boarded the flight in New York, and they were the first thing to hit Japanese soil when we landed. In their year-and-a-half life, they’ve seen three continents, 15 countries, and New Year’s Eves in Panama City in 2012 and Ho Chi Minh City in 2013. They’ve been to North Korea, and lived to tell the tale.

Their soles have touched liquids unimaginable, and stepped in organic matter I care not to discuss. They have stood sentinel over the world’s worst squatty potties, provided a lift in back-alley bathrooms, and a half-inch barrier between my feet and certain dysentery. I am ever thankful that they have not been under one of those blacklights they use in Lysol commercials.

But Adidas, it’s time for you to go. As a certifiable heel-dragger, I have worn you down. Walking around last week, what I thought was an irritating small pebble in my shoe turned out to be a staple – A STAPLE – that had poked through the thinning sole of the right sneaker. And that was just the right sneaker. The dominant left foot heel is so worn down, there’s a small rock I’ve been carrying around for who-knows-how-long, a stowaway on our Asian voyage.

Photographic evidence indicates the blue suede shoes were purchased in the summer of 2012, as revealed in this Labor Day photo taken in Henry David Thoreau’s cabin at Walden Pond. Little would we know at the time that these sneakers would accompany us on our own search “to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.”

Sharp-eyed readers will notice something interesting in that Walden photo: the Brazil t-shirt. One night in Cambodia, while drinking a beer with Mr. Ox, he asked about that very t-shirt which I was wearing. I explained it was a Brazil soccer jersey replica, and he said, unremarkably, “nice shirt.” I looked around, and saw this honest man, who fought the Khmer Rouge, making an honest living trying to support his wife, soon-to-be five kids, and a mother-in-law for dollars a day on a beach in Cambodia. And come to think of it, I never saw him wear a shirt. So I literally gave him the shirt off my back. And the next day when we left Castaways, he was wearing the shirt, and a grin.

So Adidas, we’ve come full circle. You were born in Asia (Indonesia, to be exact), and you’ll stay in Asia, where you’re hopefully making someone as happy as Ox seemed to be wearing that t-shirt. Yes, you’re worn down, you’re dirty, and at times, your smell has rivaled that of a sick farm animal. But for someone on the cleaning staff at our Yangon hotel, who likely makes under $200 a month and wears $1 flip-flops every day, I bet you were a welcome addition.

Adios, Adidas, and good luck. But don’t worry about your replacement. Nothing could be more American than skateboarding, California, and Jeff Spicoli. You’re being replaced by these kick-ass American Vans – made in Thailand.