Review: Merrel Traveler

A shoe, like a woman, must be able to endure the pains of childbirth, the wetness of rain, and the impatient protestations of the little goldsmith whose lifelong effort towards repairing the intricate layers of filigree that comprise my golden carpets is frustrated anew by the constant trampling.

A proper shoe must be well-behaved, and modest. Its greatest feet must be two light and run down dogs of a uniquely satisfied pedestrian. A proper shoe must empower its owner to go where naked nature would not take him (or her, if we allow women to be rugged). A proper shoe must be forged to greatness in the fires of Necessity, Coolness, and Comfort,  where the fate of every great hike or walk has already been determined. A proper shoe does not hesitiate at the mocking puddle, nor does it falter on the cold and callous ice or dancefloor. It must be self-posessed. It must be philosphical. It must demonstrate, to the boundless collection of inferior footwear that surrounds it, that there is no terrain that cannot yet be tread.

Perhaps this is why the Merrel Traveler may aptly be called the pedestrian's Range Rover. Its refined, yet rugged demeanor, composed in the face of adversity, yet sympathetic in the face of a screaming woman's blood-soaked hands, exudes an understated odor of the foot. It is the earth. It is toned, yet silent. It is muscular, yet free of the steroids that pervade its peers and indeed, to an overwhelming degree, the modern shoe in general.