It may be one of my favourite things about summer, my dirty soles at the end of a day. It means I’ve dashed around this hot and dirty city, or better yet, sat barefoot in a park or on someone’s porch. As a child, I was essentially barefoot for two months of the summer. Occasionally, I’d put flippers on to dive for urchins. That I associate barefootedness with freedom, luxury and innocence is a privilege.