I know… I know… The only excuse I had is that I wrote this post out in its entirety once and then some hotel-internet-related mishap caused it to disappear entirely. I could have cried. Instead I put the computer away and went to bed.

My introduction to Sock Summit began the way many of my days do — with me trying to sidle into a room, tardy and hoping not to inconvenience anyone. Of course, normally I’m not trying to do this as the room is lead in a loud chant, as my two dozen classmates in Stephen Houghton’s Hip Hems for Him and Her were when I opened the door. I did offer to do a cheer as I made my way to an empty chair around the horseshoe of tables familiar to any college student, but thankfully no one took me up on the offer. Sock Summit was on.

I was looking forward to this class for two reasons: One, Stephen hosts a knitting podcast (which I haven’t heard, although I did hear his appearance on Stash and Burn), which led me to hope that he was good at communicating with people. Two, the class description had promised to help decorate your sock top with manly or girly edging. I tried a picot hem last summer and had given up in frustration (For those who don’t follow fashion, picot is that feminine, v-shaped edging often found on little girls’ dresses.), so I was particularly interested to find that on the class’ itinerary.

Stephen was everything one could hope for in a teacher — charismatic, patient, knowledgeable, and funny. As we practiced our handiwork, he regaled us with stories of the teachers’ dinner the night before. (I would share with you the photo of him I took, but the shot is not flattering, so that seems rather mean-spirited. Instead, I’ll offer you a picot edge (knit flat to save time), successfully completed to my great satisfaction. Even if I came away with nothing else from Sock Summit, I would have considered the trip a success.) We also learned folded hems, the Channel Island cast-on, and the Italian tubular cast-on, of which the latter two are included in that top shot.

At the conclusion of class (when Stephen included some last-minute tips for including color in your hems), my Sock Summit day was done. The marketplace would open later for students, but I had evening plans that demanded I forgo the shopping. But there was still time to explore Portland further.

I wandered down to the Hawthorne district, a neighborhood of Portland that seems to attract a young, artsy, politically active crowd. In my packing frenzy I had forgotten two things I would need for Sock Summit — straight needles for Friday’s world record attempt and worsted weight yarn for Friday and Sunday’s classes. Luckily, the Yarn Garden on Hawthorne had just what I wanted, plus staff with an idea of the cross street on which my lunch might be found. With needles and yarn tucked safely into my bag, I trekked up the street, passing a number of bars, a one-screen theater, and a hostel featuring extensive use of green design.

After a very reasonable walk, I found myself at the Waffle Window, a take-away waffle shop built into the side of a more traditional cafe (Bread and Ink). While they featured enough enticing options to feed you for a month’s worth of breakfasts and desserts, I had heard about one in particular and would not be swayed from my choice, even by local marionberries. This is the Purl Two Waffle. It boasts blueberries and raspberries and an orange yogurt panna cotta with homemade Oregon apricot jam. It was just as good as it looks. One of my regrets of the weekend was that there just wasn’t enough time to make it back over there to sample another flavor.

Lunch over, I knew it was time to start heading back, but not before stopping in one or two shops on my way. Portland really likes vinyl still, and the Hawthorne district would make a fine spot to hit for those who own a record player. Knowing I’d need to pack whatever I bought, I opted to keep walking, and instead found myself in a bookstore that sells only mysteries.

Murder by the Book knows its niche in the world. It doesn’t have every mystery every written and doesn’t even include every mystery writer, but it does possess a great selection housed in a way to help you complete collections and find new discoveries. The store is broken into sections — British procedurals, political thrillers, women writers, locals, paranormals, classics, etc. — that make it easy for you to find something that won’t bore or scare you, depending on your taste. Authors are shelved alphabetically within each section, with series running chronologically along the bookcases. There are both new and used copies to choose amongst, and a story that meets the high standards of the staff features a star on its spine.

I’d only brought one novel with me and, having picked up only one more at Powells on Wednesday, I figured I’d better buy a couple for safekeeping. I found an Aunt Dimity book and a Richard Jury book I hadn’t read, and tucked them under my arm before turning my attention to the local authors section.

[Let me pause here to say that I wish every independent music and bookstore did this. I’ve inquired about it at Politics and Prose and at Melody, but apparently they think I’m the only one who likes to investigate local books and tunes when I’m visiting someplace.]

I asked the woman who’d explained the shop’s organization to me (and, who, I believe, may have been one of the co-owners) if she had any local favorites. She pointed me toward Conrad Haynes (whose Harry Bishop teaches at a local college) and April Henry (whose Claire Montrose works for the Oregon DMV). She and I and the other seller, John, talked a bit about mysteries in general, the D.C. book scene, and knitting. I told them I’d been unimpressed with the Maggie Sefton book I’d read and of my theory that genre-specific stories often weren’t as good. They agreed, but suggested I should try Sally Goldenbaum’s recent book, which takes place in a Massachusetts seaside village, since it had a good reputation. I left with a fond feeling toward the bookshop — and my five novels.

A little while later I found myself on MAX, Portland’s metro, fully engrossed in the Haynes novel. Expecting to pick it back up again after I transferred onto the C-Tran bus that would take me over over to Vancouver, Washington, I hastily stuffed the book into my bag before realizing I didn’t have the right bills for my bus fare. Dull stares met my plea for assistance, but an older man at the front of the bus dug into his bag, pulled out a wallet and offered me the singles I needed. I thanked him and sat down, waiting for the next stop to pay.

But before I could do that or become entwined back into my mystery, I was distracted by the same man. He pulled out a balloon and an air pump, inflated the balloon, and proceeded to make a dog. He balanced it on the railing next to him and selected another balloon. Again and again he repeated the motions. Sometimes he’d tweak an already finished creation, but generally he made new ones. No one else paid him any mind, which I find tends to happen in cities, but I was entranced.

A burst of air sent a dog tumbling to the ground and I hurried to rescue it. He thanked me, mumbled something I didn’t catch, and went to work on another creation. Moments later he presented me with a flower and a little animal, which he said was a mouse with a piece of cheese in its stomach.

Enchanted, I asked him how long he’d been making balloon animals. Tony, for that was his name, replied he’d taken it up back when he worked at trade shows and needed a hook to draw people to his booth. He’d long since left the company, but the hobby had stuck with him. He spends long hours on mass transit and goes through 200-300 balloons a week, most of which he leaves for other passengers to enjoy and take. Sometimes, he said, he’d make a bunch of them and then move to another part of the bus or train so he could watch the reactions. Flowers were a recent addition to his repertoire, but they’d quickly become one of his favorites. I waved as I got off the bus, where another man was busy sharing how much his grandchild had enjoyed a balloon critter the last time they’d met.

Can I tell you how much street cred you gain when you present a 2 1/2-year-old with a balloon animal when you first meet? It’s a lot. (The flower went to Rebs.)

Rebs, Rick, and Joseph came to pick me up at the local bus transfer station, and Joseph and I became quick friends. He’s a very loveable, laughter-filled kid, and it’s clear Rebs and Rick are doing a great job with him. Joseph and I played some and read a story and, after he headed off to bed, Rebs and Rick and I got a chance to chat for a while. It was a nice visit, but I had to reverse the commute, so we called it an early evening and I headed back to my hotel.

Day one was in the record books.