My first summer in this city was in 2010. At that time, I would only sneak over to my wife’s apartment building, into which I moved two years later. It’s been four years since that summer, and from the time I got lost looking for Mrs. Tuazon’s address for our first date to last Friday’s walk back home from work, one feature remained constant: Mr. Lù and his roadside shoe repair shop.
A pair of Banana Republic bluchers in brown. Just before my first year of teaching, I concluded that my first career gig required my own pair of dress shoes, no longer the rubber-soled slip-ons pilfered from my dad’s shoe closet. Out of habit I’ve worn these lace-ups about twice a week for the past five years. A stalwart pair that endured my pre shoe care days, the seams finally split from my Pacific Islander feet. Sentiment resolved me to salvage the pair, and I could only think of one option: Mr. Lù and his roadside shoe repair shop.
Squatted on the gravel-worn corners of footstools, I stepped into Mr. Lù’s workshop: a five-foot square occupancy at the gate of a small apartment community. He works facing the bars of the gate, which serve as the consulting area on the street side for customers to explain their request and hand over their shoes between the wrought iron. Mr. Lù pulls in the pair, tells them to come back in a few hours, and gets to work, rain or shine. At daytime, Mr. Lù is protected from sun & rain by a convenience store patio umbrella. In this evening, the only source of light aside cars passing through the busy street is a single bulb dangling halfway up the gate.
After a brief exchange mediated by my wife’s translation, he reminded my shoes will be good as new by tomorrow with repaired stitching and replaced rubber soles. I then finally had the chance to inquire Mr. Lù about his enduring roadside shop. Turns out, it’s really a family affair.
Only one in ten people who live in the megacity of Shenzhen are actually native-born in this town. The rest are made of outsiders trying to secure a better life in a city with more promise and progress than the typical countryside village. Such was the case for Mr. Lù, who emigrated from Hubei province in search of a future for his children.
“My wife and I could not find a job, and I was doing some work with a supplier of shoe repair parts, so we ended up fixing shoes.”
After fifteen years, Mr. and Mrs. Lù have turned an odd job into a tradition of dependable service for the neighborhood’s ill-fallen soles and heels.
While they listened to Laura’s interpret my questions, Mr. and Mrs. Lù would look intently, with kind, hazel eyes, stealing glances at their machine-like handiwork. With a hooked needle, Mrs. Lù poked, pulled, looped and pulled.
From the shop’s beginning, everything was a sort of trial-and-error in fixing a pair of shoes adequately. Shoe repair is an old trade learned through apprenticeship, for which the Lùs had no master. The only training Mr. Lù could recall was in childhood.
“We didn’t buy shoes back then. My family made all their own.” 
Without a formal background, Mr. & Mrs. Lù made created original solutions for every form of damaged shoe. From the Lù’s footstools everything they need is within reach. A faded cookie tin houses various hand tools, unidentifiable parts and spools of thread. A hefty stench of rubber lingers from the stacks of replacement heels and soles. The edges and grooves of the rotary sander and manual shoe-stitching machine have softened from repetition and rainfall.
Between tools and techniques, none of the success of this repair shop would be possible without the teamwork between Mr. and Mrs. Lù, which — as any good marriage — is maintained by daily work and a clear understanding of each other.
“He does all the big work, and I do all the small work.”
Without words exchanged, and Mr. & Mrs. Lù trust each other in their strengths at the bench.
The effort and unfailing presence of Mr. Lù’s repair shop has not gone unnoticed. Regular customers visit with families to bring a noisy sneaker or reinforce a toddler’s sandals, confident in the shop’s ability to remain open, rain or shine, weekend or holiday.
“We treat every pair like our own, and we want to be here when a customer wants their shoes. If they come here, and we’re gone, it’s a waste of time for them; they are depending on us.”
Mr. and Mrs. Lù’s customer-turned friends often try to share their appreciation with invitations to dinner to their homes, but the two find it necessary to refuse.
“We don’t belong there. We fix their shoes. This repair shop is all we know.” 
The next day I picked up my lace-ups. New, balanced heels. Fresh, sanded soles. Tight stitches. My half-decade shoes, my first self-bought shoes, my first teaching shoes were new again to walk though another half-decade. Each step was strong, celebrating the craftsmanship of a pair dedicated to their work. A pair that sacrificed many for their children’s future. A pair that treated their neighbors’ belongings as their own. A pair that has earned the respect and admiration of a community.
Mr. and Mrs. Lù belong atop every pedestal reserved for artisans, whether they accept it or not. I will pass by their gate tomorrow with my renewed shoes, flash a smile and show my respect. A I know is that I’m sure they will be there to see it.
