From the moment I set eyes on my father’s Gucci loafers, it was love. Even as a toddler I recognized their magnificence. Italian craftsmanship at its finest: soft leather topped with gold horsebit detailing. Perfection. As the years went by I would observe, mesmerized, the ritualistic way in which Dad would meticulously polish, brush and clean his Guccis before setting them in a row. Black leather, brown suede, patent, navy. At least 10 pairs, each one well loved and worn but beautifully maintained. I also saw how he styled them. Elevating a Breton T-shirt, jeans and neck scarf with bare ankles and a loafer. Classic elegance when paired with a suit. The sound of the buckle clinking as he walked, now synonymous with my memory of him.
Since Dad passed away in 2014 he left some impossibly large shoes to fill. Metaphorically, you understand—he did not have big feet. But given that my size 35s often fall into the kids’ shoe category, they were never going to fit me. Nope, if I were ever to take a walk in Dad’s shoes, I was going to have to find a pair of Guccis of my own. And recently, a few weeks before my 30th birthday, it was decided that my moment had come. Tori, you shall go to the ball! My then-fiancé now-husband, Jamie, said, “Meet me at the Gucci store in half an hour.”
But a Cinderella story this is not. After being informed by a shop assistant that a loafer like Dad’s was waitlisted, I settled on trying a pair of Gucci backless mules, being told, “That’s what’s in fashion these days.” Whether they’re in style right now or not, they were not what I wanted and, quite frankly, defeated the purpose. I never saw Dad polish or, worse, wear a pair of mules! (He may have been a stylish man, but a backless, fur-lined mule would have been a step too far. Literally.) I voiced my concerns over the slip-ons. Regardless of my personal backstory, which was of seemingly no interest to the store staff, I struggled to walk in them without feeling like I was going to kick them off. My worries, however, were quickly quashed by my sales friend, who said, in a thick Eastern European accent, “Of course, you don’t walk in the shoes.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You don’t walk in the shoes!”
“Oh? Well, what do we do in the shoes?”
“Go from house to car. But no driving. It is too dangerous. You need chauffeur.”
Needless to say, that was a bigger investment than we had planned. We swiftly exited the store leaving, perhaps, the dream of owning my very own pair of Gucci loafers behind … that is, until my mother got involved.
Mum surprised me on my birthday, travelling from Florida to Vancouver. She’d come to tell me I’d have my Gucci shoes and would walk in them, regardless of what I’d been told. This set in motion part 2 of our Gucci Mission. First stop: Nordstrom, where I tried on the black patent original 1953 loafer. Beautiful? Yes. The ones I wanted? Not quite. By this point I had indulged myself by swooning over the collection online. And I had my eye on a particularly gorgeous floral embroidered pair. I was already imagining them with outfits. Silk pajama suit plus velvet smoking jacket plus Gucci loafers = OOTD perfection.
But it turns out that getting through the gates of style heaven is no easy task. One small, very delicate step in a Gucci loafer, one large leap, a hop, a skip and a jump through numerous hoops for mama-kind to source them. It’s lucky she wasn’t wearing her Guccis. The pair I wanted was no longer available (typical) in North America according to Gucci.com. But then we found hope at Saks online. One pair in size 35! That was, before the site crashed, we had a power outage and then they were sold out. Back to the drawing board.
In our desperation Mum confided in an old family friend and owner of many a designer loafer. Her advice? “You are good Val. Mission possible. Gucci loafers are important, especially the first pair!” Armed with those words, Mum’s determination couldn’t be dampened! She was prepared to do whatever it took to source the shoes. Two days and numerous phone calls later I received a text from Mum: “I spoke to Alessandro in Milan. We’ve got the shoes.”
My knee-jerk response: “The Alessandro? Alessandro Michele, creative director of Gucci?”
“No,” she responded. “I did think about escalating it, but he’s at fashion week apparently.”
Of course, if he hadn’t been so caught up, I’m sure he’d have loved to hear our story. No matter, Alessandro (the other one) did it! He found the pair, packaged them up and sent them to London, from where my Aunty Lynn would retrieve them. The payment went through on what would have been Dad’s 69th birthday. I like to think they are a gift from him, too (along with his uncanny ability to find himself in ridiculous and hilarious situations).
Thanks Dad.
If I were to describe my father as an object, it would be (what else?) a Gucci loafer. Timelessly stylish, classy, a little over the top, but loved and revered by all—especially me. And now that I’ve walked in his shoes (and I have walked in them) I realize that he truly was always, as I suspected, one step ahead. Am I walking in his shadow? No. I’m dancing in his legacy! (Yes, I danced in the shoes, too!)
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