WHILE I WAS growing up, my social life was largely shaped by gatherings at the Calvo-Plateros’ house. Their daughter, the endlessly charming Clio, is my best friend. With an Italian father and English mother, the multicultural family would host sprawling candlelit dinners full of fellow expats and creatives. Lasagna oozing with béchamel piled high on plates, toasts abounded, and nights would often end in an uproarious game of charades — or a Gino Paoli anthem sung by Mr. Calvo-Platero on the guitar.

While the dishes rotated, boyfriends came and went, we graduated and got jobs, some things never changed: my love for Clio and her family, and their curious shoes. The venetian slippers. The Calvo-Plateros often wore them in the house while hosting. In various shades of jewel-toned velvet, the shoes were flat and narrow to the foot with a round tongue. They were exceedingly elegant, a classy whisper spiritually at odds with whatever moody black combat boot I stormed into the apartment wearing. While my teen, eye-linered self muttered something outrageous to the most proper guest there, Clio moved like a ballerina in these delicate shoes — daintily refilling Champagne glasses.

The style has a long history. Known as furlane, friulane, or scarpez in Italian, they originated in twentieth-century Friuli (a countryside region just outside Venice) in a time of post-World War II scarcity. Women reused the velvet curtains of shuttered theaters (or old tablecloths, jute sacks — any found fabrics) for the tops of the shoes, and deflated tire scraps for the soles. The style spread to Venice, its city dwellers drawn to the nimble comfort the shoes provided on uneven cobblestone streets. Most notably, the furlane was perfect for gondoliers, who could wear the soft-soled style without scratching the surfaces of their glossy boats, while the rubber kept them from slipping. The shoe thus became a beloved local symbol, somewhere between style and utility.

Now, decades later, the furlane is having a moment, popping up in street style on the feet of celebrities and style icons. A wave of brands dedicated to the heritage piece have been emerging as well, joining their classic purveyors. While even Spain’s given their take, I’ve been surveying the shoe’s Italian iterations, from OG ones at Piedàterre (whose shop’s been selling slippers on the historic Rialto Bridge in Venice since 1952) to reinvented classics from Venetian sister-run Vibi Venezia, to the latest from England via the cult-favorite brand Le Monde Béryl, whose version I’m currently wearing while writing this article, planted in a cafe and guzzling an Aperol spritz. I mean coffee.

However funny it is to see these slippers on my own feet, their practicality cannot be denied. The walkability, formality, and packability check every box defining the ultimate travel shoe. They’re also just undeniably beautiful. I ordered Le Monde Béryl’s Soft Venetian in Baltic Amber Velvet, a shade that feels both neutral and lustrous. Ochre-ish, it’s somewhere between flesh-toned and metallic, i.e. endlessly versatile yet dressy. An almond-shaped toe topped by a tongue that’s slightly more pointed keeps the pair feeling sharper and sexier than some other versions that tend rounder in shape. The hand-stitched rubber sole has a nice bit of bounce. Slim, the shoes add proportional balance to flowy trousers. They elevate shorts and pair well with slip dresses, a garment that I think looks best sans shoes (the fitted venetian, the equivalent of a bodycon dress but for the foot, being thus the next best thing).

I called Clio the other day to ask her about the furlane. “It’s interesting what it’s become, this chic thing that’s like $200. I used to find ones for 25 euros. It was just the easy thing to slip on. Remember I used to wear them in high school? And you were like, ‘What are these minute slippers you have on that are falling apart?’”

Memory is a funny thing.

A scrappy origin story, comfort, European association — like any cultural export, the lore around venetian slippers will attract different people for different reasons. What I like most about them? When I look down, they remind me of Clio, a person who’s loved me perhaps longer than anyone. No matter what I say, do, or wear.