The thing about sock knitters is that, while they’re nice and all, when they talk to you, they stare at your feet.
This is, of course, not rude, like when guys talk to your chest. My breasts don’t say a lot about me as a person, but, I suppose, my foot clothing does say something about me as a knitter of socks.
As such, one of my great regrets of Sock Summit is that I did not bring enough socks for the whole time I was there.
In my defense, Portland had just survived a 107-degree heatwave. I felt justified in assuming that half the time I’d want to be wearing my flip flops, which are my summer footwear of choice in D.C. once the weather hits 75. I just hadn’t counted on the fact that Oregon in August would not hit 75…
The Saturday of Sock Summit can be divided into five distinct parts:
The day began with a swim. I’d picked the hotel I stayed at because it had a pool. This was the only day I managed to avail myself of it, which was a real shame.
I spent my lunchtime at Saturday Market, a Portland institution Rebs first told me about back in college. I hadn’t made it to the open-air crafts market in either of my previous visits to the city, so I made sure to allot myself a couple of hours to head across the river to check it out.
Saturday Market is nice, but it’s not especially different from D.C.’s own Eastern Market. It does have more incense and patchouli and palm readers, but less African American art.