After flying all night from Santiago I just pulled my Crocs from my ski bag.

You see you’re only allowed fifty pounds in your main bag.  So we ended up stuffing all kinds of accoutrements in our ski bags.  On the way down, my Crocs rode in my TravelPro, but on the way back they were transported via the K2 ski bag my father bought in the early seventies which I still use as a tribute to him.

Actually, I was doing okay until I pulled my skis from the other compartment of the bag.  My helmet, my Helly Hansen ski suit, my long underwear, none of them got under my skin.  But when I extricated my Rossis, my heart sank.

We parted ways with our new buddies in Dallas, Felice has already been in e-mail touch with them, but I didn’t feel that the trip was over until I realized that I wouldn’t be putting my boots in those bindings for months.  And that the withdrawal process had just begun.  And would be depressing.

But just moments before, I was elated.  Because when I removed my orange Crocs from the K2 bag I thought of all the stories they contained.

Last spring, after writing about seeing a baby in Crocs in Vail, I was contacted by the company’s marketing manager.  He said to send me sizes, and he’d send Crocs.

The first time I wore them was to the bookstore.  Because I’d told Kate, Amy and Jeff about the shoes, but they had never seen them.  They laughed.

And when I went to Mexico last month, I took them along.  I figured they’d be perfect for the beach.  But what I didn’t expect was that I’d shunt my Nikes aside for my new friends.  I realized you just popped the strap on top, instead of behind, and they were so COMFORTABLE!

But Felice wouldn’t wear hers.  She said they were too damn UGLY!

But I brought them along to Portillo.  I figured they’d be good for the hot tub.

Little did I know they’d be perfect for the walk down to the basement, to get our ski boots.

For a place that’s so hard to get to, thirty hairpin turns and a mile higher than Santiago, Portillo is remarkably convenient once you get there.  They store your boots two doors away from the snow, all told about a twenty foot hike, within which you retrieve your skis.

And one of the great things about the experience is the bootmaster remembers you.  You don’t have to show him your ticket.  Seeing your face he retrieves your boots.  And when you come in from the snow, he’s got your hotel shoes ready.  My Crocs.

After dressing up, in our sixth floor room, I’d slide into my Crocs, no lacing required, no finger at the back of the shoe even necessary to slip in, and I’d stride to the elevator.  And after descending to the basement, I’d walk about thirty feet to the shoe kiosk and VOILA, the exchange would be made, just that fast.  I started waxing rhapsodic, how great my Crocs were for this task, combating Felice’s revulsion upon seeing me extract them from my suitcase.

But Felice wouldn’t give up, she wouldn’t come over to the dark side, she wouldn’t stop giving me shit.

But then, when Felice went in early, and I skied til 4:30 with Steve, I noticed he was wearing Crocs too.  AFTER, Felice had told me I was the only damn person in the whole hotel who had them.

And Steve’s macho personified.  I exulted upon seeing his footwear cousins.  I reveled in our brotherhood.

I had to bring this up at dinner.  That not only was I not the only person in Portillo with Crocs, but our new buddy had them too!

But then, like the Texan he is, Steve had to give me shit, about the color.  At least he was smart enough to go for BLACK!

And maybe it was then that I decided to ONLY wear my Crocs.  As a protest against both Felice and Steve, demonstrating that they couldn’t get under my skin, I could cope with their criticism, because I loved my Crocs SO MUCH!

Like Steve said, they were comfortable.  But, what I didn’t know was they also FLOATED!  He told me they were good on the water.  Not that I’ve been out on the water recently.

And after a few days, I forgot I was wearing them.  And was surprised to realize the two Frenchmen in the elevator were talking about me.  The sandy-haired twentysomething was pointing my shoes out to his buddy.  And then he asked me, what were they called again?

"CROCS."

And it was then that he said it.  Not to me, but his friend.  ALL THE FAMOUS PEOPLE WEAR THEM!

And contrary to my ugly American instincts, very little of the help spoke English, and there were a good number of foreign nationals staying at the hotel also.  But I could never seem to remember this.  So when the cutest little kid got on the elevator with her mom and dad and older sister the day before I left, I engaged her in my native tongue, which turned out not to be hers.

So then I spoke a little bit of Spanish.  The traveler’s mantra.

"Habla Ingles?"

I guess I was stunned that this little kid could comprehend me, probably not even three.  How could she know Spanish when I didn’t?

But this tiny little voice emitted a "No."

And I started acting out, trying to connect via sign language.

And on the way out, figuring I’d never comprehend, the father leaned down and spoke in his little girl’s ear.  I can’t recite the whole sentence, but one word was clear.  ZAPATOS!  And then they all started laughing.

Funny, you think you’ll be remembered for your looks, or your conversation.  But it appears most people in Portillo will remember me for my Crocs.

And that’s fine with me.