So… you know how I like to knit socks? Well, come next month, I’m going to fly out to Portland, Oregon, to the first ever Sock Summit, a knitting extravaganza for those of us obsessed with creating clothing for feet.

When they opened up registration back at the end of May, the enthusiasm of knitters worldwide caused a system crash the likes of which hadn’t been seen since Iceland’s economy flat-lined. Thirty thousand simultaneous hits on a site, while flattering, do not do good things to its servers. The site crashed, took a long time to reboot, and then experienced some hiccups in showing what availability existed in classes.

I was one of the lucky knitters. I hopped back onto the site shortly after it came back up and, not finding any openings in the longer classes I was interested in, managed to enroll in four hour-long classes on Saturday and Sunday. I have two mini classes related to knitting socks from the toe up (I’m much more comfortable with knitting a sock from the top down), a lecture on Turkish colorwork (which includes the opportunity to try some techniques), and an hour devoted to ergonomically correct knitting (personally, I’m hoping some massage technique tips get worked into that one). None of those classes were originally on my radar, but I bet they’re going to be fascinating and that I will learn a lot.

I’d enrolled in those classes while at my folks’ and was on a plane heading home when the organizers realized that classes weren’t showing up properly on the schedule. When I got back to the Burrow to the message that additional classes had opened up, I was able to add a half-day class on knitting fancy cuffs on my socks — some to make my socks more girly and others to appeal to my more manly recipients. It was a class I’d been really interested in, so I was delighted. (And lucky. There were tons of knitters out there who got shut out altogether.)

I admit that while I reserved a hotel room back in April, long before registration opened, I had waited to book a flight until I knew that I had managed to secure a class or two. The price of flights had been high all spring, so I was sure that prices had to come down sooner or later.

I waited.

I compared travel discount sites and low-cost carriers.

To be frank, I started to stress.

I contemplated selling off my classes.

Earlier this week, the Sock Summit organizers wrote, saying they were going to hold a lottery to distribute the last returned slots. I decided this was do or die. If I got into an additional class, I’d suck it up and buy a plane ticket.

Tonight I got an email from one of the Sock Team 2 members, asking if I was still interested in the knee sock class.

I bought my plane ticket.

Pacific Northwest, watch out!

Saturday dawned clear-skied and brilliant blue, a welcome change after Friday night’s hail storm. For the second week in a row, I rose with the early birds, awakening at an hour when most people were still fast asleep. But there was a special reason to get moving with the sun — we were heading to the beach!

We’d heard fearsome tales of the Bay Bridge and its mythical traffic jams, so Rudi wanted to get an especially early jump on the trip. I am not, however, a morning person, so Rudi’s desired start time inched later and later until it was a more reasonable 7 a.m. when we walked out the door.

Suffice it to say, it was a beautiful day for spending at the shore. Bethany Beach, Delaware, is a cute town, reminiscent of some of the beach towns along Route 1 in Connecticut. It isn’t as built up as some of the other beaches in the area, such as Ocean City and Rehoboth, supposedly are, and its boardwalk offers only a small selection of vendors, so it tends to attract more families than singles. Having grown up at family beaches, I felt right at home with little kids scrambling around us.

By one, a little more than two hours of our visit had lapsed, and I was already thinking fondly of the day as one of the nicest days I’d spent at the beach this decade. Sarah, Rudi, and I were just reapplying sun screen when I happened to look up, glancing between bodies at the water off to my right.

“I think,” I announced, trying to keep my cool, “that I just saw either a dolphin or a shark.” (more…)

I’m off by a day or two because of the long weekend. I’m not complaining, though.

Three beautiful things from the past week:

1. On Saturday, I spent time in Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Vermont, and Connecticut. Rudi did the same, substituting New Hampshire for Rhode Island. With the exception of Maine, we covered all of New England. It was good to be home.

2. On 91 north of Brattleboro, the highway travels through and above your typical northeastern forestland. But Vermont’s air is so much cleaner than southern New England’s that you really notice the pine scent as it wafts through your windows. (And earlier in the morning, I could smell the sea at one point, even if I had a tough time actually finding the South Shore.)

3. If I can have a book in my possession, I’d much prefer to read rather than listen to it. (I’m not putting down those who listen to audiobooks, but my brain processes the two experiences in totally different ways, so I find it impossible to say that when I listen to a book that it’s reading.) That said, clearly one should not peruse a novel while driving. I had Plum Lucky on my iPod, so bounty hunters Stephanie and Diesel kept us company while we were stuck in late-night traffic on the Garden State. It seemed appropriate somehow, since the book is set in New Jersey.

Sur le pont d’Avignon
L’on y danse, l’on y danse.
Sur le pont d’Avignon
L’on y danse tous en rond.

On the bridge of Avignon
We all dance there, we all dance there.
On the bridge of Avignon
We all dance there in a ring.

Today’s highlight was the Pont d’Avignon (or Pont St-Bénezet), the ruins of the oldest bridge crossing the Rhone in the southern part of ancient France. It was built in the 1100s (nearly 1,000 years ago — yikes!) at the behest of a shepherd who heard the commandment from God. After laughing at him, the town/church clerics said they would build the bridge only if he would start it himself with a boulder left around from the building of a church. Feeling pretty secure in their taunt, since 20 men together hadn’t been able to budge it, weren’t they surprised when he picked it up (with or without angels’ assistance — the lore is unclear) and flung it into the river to begin the foundation?

Today was sunny again with more ridiculously strong winds, so perhaps it was better to say that we were buffeted about on the Pont d’Avignon, rather than that we danced on it, as the popular French children’s song suggests.

After doing a little shopping and grabbing a bite to eat, we caught the TGV back to Paris. We should have booked ahead, though, because while one of our tickets had a seat assignment, the other one essentially said to “grab any open seat once we take off,” a disconcerting discovery for Rudi. Luckily, he found a seat kitty corner to me, so it wasn’t too bad.

We returned to our Latin Quarter hotel and promptly headed out to supper, trying to catch some luck by arriving without a reservation at the start of the dinner hours. Luck was with us, so we ate out, then headed back to the restaurant at the Mosque for mint tea and sweets, and ended up at a bar for beer and tea. (I want American bars to serve me tea.)

Rudi is dozing and I’m trying to figure out the packing situation. We bought some liquids whilst over here and so will need to check my bag. But how to pack it to avoid breakage… This is the first time I’ve encountered the new safety regulations when they’ve actually affected me. Darn those stupid terrorists and our reaction to them…

I’m off to empty my suitcase….

A really quick post because, night owl that I am, I find myself awake at 3:30 a.m.

At the suggestion of our innkeeper, this morning we caught a local bus over the Rhone to Villeneuf lez Avignon, which holds their market day on Thursdays. As you may have noticed, I love farmers’ markets, and this was no exception. We chatted briefly with a few farmers and vendors, but most were busy trying to avoid damage to their property and wares from the nasty wind that cleared today’s skies. As folks began to pack up, Rudi and I hiked up a few blocks into town to wander a bit. Unfortunately, our timing was bad, as we arrived during the lunch break. Yep, that’s right. In much of France (particularly outside of Paris), shops close for lunch — for two or three hours. We had a bite to eat, possibly as the only non-locals in the restaurant, weighed our time constraints, and decided to forgo visiting the town’s castle in exchange for more time exploring Avignon’s Papal Palace.

The palace is impressive in size. I’m sure it doesn’t begin to compare to the Vatican, but when you consider that the construction was completed in the 1300s, it’s hard to scoff at its vastness. Audio guide tours are included with your ticket, but, oh my God!, do they go on! I’m not sure who would have time to listen to each and every feature, but that would have you there all day! The highlight of the palace has to be the view from one of the turrets. The winds were nasty — a gust tore my hat from my head — but even with numb fingers and runny noses, we were really glad to get outside to see the views over the Rhone.

After pausing at a small patisserie for warm refreshment, we wandered back toward the center of town and found ourselves in the pedestrian-only shopping district. Surprised to find stores open still (because, yes, after reopening at 3 following lunch, generally stores close promptly at six), we realized that Thursdays are the one night a week that shops remain open later. The atmosphere reminded me of the Christmas season, but without the stress. Lots of residents out and about, shopping, picking up odds and ends… The spirit of goodwill is probably emphasized because the French, being a polite people, dictate that the shopper greets the shop owner upon entering (“Bon jour/soir, madame/monsieur.”) and that they also exchange niceties before departing (“Au revoir, monsieur/madame.”) It just seems so … connected. I wonder what the clerks at Rite Aid would think if I called a greeting to them every time I stopped by for cat food or toilet paper…

After the shops closed at seven, we continued wandering for a bit, but the wind (have I mentioned the wind?) just tore at us, and I demanded that we seek shelter. Seven is really too early for a French dinner, so we headed to a bar on the main drag where I could get tea. Rudi sampled the local anise-flavored liqueur, pastis, which is so strong that it’s served with a carafe of water to cut it to your taste. He describes it as ouzo done right.

We finished the night with a late dinner at a restaurant near our hotel. As with most of our meals in France, this was well-cooked and quite tasty. And I have to say that the wait staffs of nearly everywhere I’ve visited have been very helpful in explaining to me what certain culinary terms mean as I attempt to navigate around the meatier dishes. And when I end up with food that contains things I don’t eat (such as tonight’s ravioli and shrimp dish), Rudi is always happy to pitch in and consume the expensive parts of my meal. I like it when everyone leaves happy.

Tomorrow we go to see the Pont d’Avignon, a broken bridge across the Rhone. Our hotel owner says that every year they dance on it. I hope to find out why tomorrow. I do know there’s a French children’s song about it — kind of a “London Bridge”-type thing, I believe. In the afternoon, we catch a train back to Paris. How sad to be leaving already; it feels like we just arrived…

Today was laid back. We spent most of the day in Aix, retracing many of last evening’s steps through a now-open city. The day was rainy, so we either moseyed under umbrellas or sat in cafes or restaurants. We ate a ridiculously late breakfast (I slept in this morning and nearly caused us to miss out on a morning repast), wrote some postcards, and then moved on to lunch at Chez Maxime. Despite the fact that I ended up with an appetizer that had ham in it (I just scraped it off and passed it on to Rudi) and sat myself in a spot with a drip (darn those “covered” dining sections), it was a great meal — and I learned a new word. “Volaille” means chicken, and I was pleased to be able to use my new vocabulary this evening when perusing the dinner menus. (By law, menus in France must be posted outside restaurants so you can see your options before walking in…)

After visiting Aix’s cathedral, a lovely, living building, we returned to the hotel, where we’d stashed our bags, bid adieu to the city, and caught a train northwest. The train, which plodded along compared to the one we were on yesterday, took us past hobo camps (I’m embarrassed to say my first thought was, “Oh, look! Some locals are having a picnic in the rain!”), and deposited us in Marseilles, France’s oldest and second largest city. An hour’s layover later, and we were bound for Avignon.

Avignon is a walled city and the train station sits directly opposite the front gate, so it’s really an impressive introduction to the place. The main paved streets have sparklies embedded in them, while the older ones are rough cobble stones. All I can say is that good walking shoes are a must in any visitor’s wardrobe to this country.

The Let’s Go! Guide worked out for us again, offering us a great recommendation for a family-run hotel. We may have neglected to inquire about staying a second night when we checked in, so we’ll need to take care of that in the morning.

Tomorrow we plan to take in the Papal Palace, home to the pope for 68 years back in the 1300s. Crazy, I know! Also on the agenda is figuring out our return to Paris on Friday, buying stamps (our hotel is right across the street from the post office), and finding some souvenirs/cadeaux to bring back with us. We haven’t done so well on that front thus far (baked goods just don’t travel well…), and are running out of time. Suggestions for good gifts so I don’t have to result to the lame duty free shop at the airport are much appreciated.