Just a few steps from my subway stop is Boris Shoe Store, a dusty, cramped shop stuffed to the brim with outlandish shoes (which one blogger described as "kooky shoe contraptions") that hardly ever sell. The owner is not, as you might expect, named Boris (that's his son, who I don't think has anything to do with the shop), but Arkadiy, an Uzbek who arrived in the US in 1993 according to a local newspaper article pasted proudly on the shop's window. 

Arkadiy is the only person I've ever met from one of the "Stans," and I'm sad to say he's not the region's best ambassador. Because his shop is convenient, we've stopped there on several occasions to have our shoes resoled, but Arkadiy is always cranky. "Business is bad," he gripes in his deeply accented English. He can't understand why no one wants to buy his custom-designed shoes that are handcrafted with leather, metal, and all manner of trim-- though it seems obvious enough to me that there are at least three reasons: (1) location (he's not exactly in the Fashion District and he's in a subway station next to a barber shop, an employment center, and a pizza shop, for God's sake); (2) price point (his shoes start in the hundreds and keep going up); and (3) style (while the same blogger raves admiringly that Arkadiy is a "bad ass" shoemaker, I can't imagine myself traipsing around in a boot-looking foot-covering that has a wheel in the heel and purple leather cut-outs all the way up the calf.). Francisco, ever friendly and diplomatic, offers gentle advice--"Maybe you should wash the windows and organize the inventory a bit"-- but my very own Borat is the kind of guy who enjoys complaining and doesn't really want a feasible suggestion to be offered. "People just don't appreciate me!"he gripes. "In my country, I am a respected shoemaker!"

Arkadiy's repair work is solid, but it's not elegant. The repairs on my shoes never fail to hold up, but I often wonder whether the new sole is sourced directly from a Uzbek yak hide. I also wonder why we always have to fight about his prices. He put a snap on my purse-- choosing a color that totally didn't match and then throwing the snap down impatiently when I suggested a different color-- and wanted to charge $10, which was more than the purse cost and more than the work was worth. "I got to pay rent, you know!" he muttered, wiping his forehead.

I don't know why we still go there, really, but everytime I pass Boris Shoe Store, I wish him the best and make a mental note to learn more about the 'Stans.