VALENCIA, Spain – The cobblers’ tools covered a wooden table: long sewing needles, a fabric awl, scissors, spools of ribbon, a lighter and, naturally, a glass of sparkling wine.
At Handmade, a boutique shoe store bordering an old-town plaza in this coastal Mediterranean city, shoemaking workshops come with cava and a smorgasbord of Spanish snacks.
The goal of the recent winter afternoon activity was for participants to design their own pair of espadrilles. The traditional Spanish footwear originated in the fields of Catalonia, shod the feet of Republican soldiers battling fascists during the Spanish Civil War and rose to the upper echelons of society thanks to a Surrealist artist with a mandible-shaped mustache. Today, they appear on fashion runways and beachy boardwalks.
Handmade’s classes, offered at the company’s nine locations, are part of a flourishing sector of immersive experiences. Through this hands-on, feet-in approach, visitors gain a deeper understanding of the object’s history and cultural significance. Best of all, participants take home the fruits of their labor, aided by cava and little cakes.
“Whether espadrilles, Roman sandals or Dutch clogs, each pair is a link to a place and a trip,” said Ulrich Grimm, a Parsons School of Design lecturer and former Calvin Klein executive.
From Catalan fields to haute couture
Though the French might disagree, the shoes are Spanish-born.
Elizabeth Semmelhack, senior curator at the Bata Shoe Museum in Toronto, said coiled-soled sandals from 6,200 years ago were unearthed from Cueva de los Murciélagos, in the Spanish province of Córdoba. They are the oldest evidence of espadrilles.
“In Spain, espadrilles are an ancient, authentic, folkloric item,” said Luis Moreno, 39, who founded Handmade in 2010 and has since expanded to Italy and the Caribbean. “My grandfather was working with the plant we use to make espadrilles almost 80 years ago, and my parents made soles.”
Throughout Spain and the wider Mediterranean region, visitors can buy espadrilles in souvenir shops and clothing stores for roughly the same price as a pan of paella. In Valencia, the going rate is about $15 for a basic pair.
While I considered purchasing a pair off the shelves and moving on, I ultimately decided to spend a couple of hours with the shoe to honor it before wearing it.
The word “espadrille” derives from “espardenya,” the Catalan name for the shoe, which, in turn, refers to “esparto,” a resilient grass that thrives in hot, dry climates. Esparto is the item’s defining feature: true espadrilles must have soles made of the organic material or a close relative like jute.
Long ago, farmers in Catalonia discovered the fiber plant growing on their land. They tossed the weed in the river. More sprouted. At the dump site, they had a eureka moment: the water-soaked grass had mutated into a durable yet pliable substance they could use as a raw material, similar to twine or rope.
For the top, the innovators used leftover scraps of canvas. The shoe came in one size that didn’t always fit all. To keep them from flying off, they incorporated ties or ribbons.
The espadrille experienced a Cinderella-esque transformation when Salvador Dalí, the iconoclastic Surrealist artist, started swanning around Spain in the humble shoe.
“He was high class, but he liked to hang out with poor people,” said Sofia Del Valle, who works at Handmade’s workshop in Valencia. “He started a trend in a small region of Catalonia.”
According to fashion experts, the espadrille climbed even higher in stature and status when Yves Saint Laurent reimagined the shoe with a wedge in the 1970s, which “further cemented the espadrille into the world of fashion,” Semmelhack said.
Moreno also credits Coco Chanel, who befriended Dalí when he fled the Spanish Civil War for Paris, for the espadrille’s haute makeover.
“Those two turned it into a luxury item,” he said.
Making your own shoes
In Valencia, the Handmade workshop is held daily inside a shop that feels like a shoe addict’s closet. Espadrilles scale the walls, from floor to ceiling. The array of styles is vast: flat and wedge, bare and ornate, braided ribbons and hand-painted designs in a pinwheel of colors.
During my visit, Del Valle and Catalina Stadlin Agudelo, the tag-teaming instructors, wore tocados de flor, or flower headdresses, in their hair. Two months shy of Valencia’s espadrille season, which typically runs from March through November, the pair bundled up in warmer footwear.
The class, which typically costs about $90, focuses on the traditional flats. I didn’t have to worry about catching a wedge in Valencia’s cobblestone lanes.
A place mat with a map illustrated the regional variations. Del Valle said the Catalan style, favored by Dalí, is the simplest design. The Pamplonica is more intricate because the wearer needed sturdy getaway gear when outrunning bulls. The alpargatas from Andalusia are the most difficult, requiring eight needles and as many hours to construct.
“This one is impossible to make” for novice shoemakers, Del Valle said.
She sent me into a stack of shoes to select a color. I flipped through beige, pink, black and navy blue before settling on sea-foam green. Ribbons came next.
“There is meaning behind the colors of the ribbons,” Moreno said. They may designate a region, a family, an occasion or an event. Yellow, for instance, represents Catalonia as well as the fight for independence. White is reserved for weddings. Black and white is classic – the ‘shoe of a peasant,’” he said.
After much deliberation, I chose ocean blue, inspired by the shifting shades of the Mediterranean Sea under a peekaboo sun. Del Valle instructed me to poke eight holes in the top of the shoe. It felt sacrilegious until the ribbon refused to exit. From then on, I was merciless, boring holes large enough to fit a cigarillo.
“Chicken, chicken, chicken,” she exclaimed, as I flapped my arm like a fowl to extricate the needle without impaling my chin.
After crisscrossing the ribbon until it covered the toe section, I threaded the silky material through four holes on each side. The ends trailed behind like kite strings.
A new appreciation for professionals
“It’s cava time!” Del Valle announced, tinkling a bell.
To accompany the wine, she set down a tray of goodies: salami, coca de llanda (a mini-sponge cake) and anise-flavored rosquilletas (breadsticks).
I wish I could say the second espadrille was easier to make, but it wasn’t. I cross-stitched inside the shoe and knotted the ribbon several times. Del Valle mended my mistakes with aplomb.
“We can hide that hole,” she said when I accidentally stabbed the ribbon.
More than two hours later, I tried them on, and she showed me how to lace them up. I glanced at my foot, which was less jet-setting socialite and more gladiator attending a barre class. I was proud of the creation and my tiny contribution to the espadrille’s lore – definitely worth paying three times the price for the shoe alone. (I paid $50, a discounted price on some third-party platforms.)
Del Valle wrapped them in the map like fish in newspaper, where they remain.
The ribbons, to be honest, are a bit fancy for a regular beach jaunt. So, I bought a pair of basic espadrilles, too.