People, calm the heck down. I have identified a fourth, yes fourth, knitting store in this fine town. Granted it is full of the same stuff and same two brands as the other three shops I have found but I can fool myself into thinking I have variety here. We are into sock overdrive. Ceramic tile floors make me feel like I am being cryogenically saved from the feet up. It is 85 outside and I have thick woolens on.
Update #2: I have somehow made the washer go down from 119 minutes to 96. I am serious that nobody better touch that thing.
Update #3: We signed for the apartment today--woohoo! We move in July 1 and we have a parking spot (though the rule of thumb here seems to be if you put two wheels up on the curb-voila-you have a parking spot). But it came with the place, so thank you we will accept. Luckily this place is down the street from knitting shop #3 and the best outdoor market in town (whatever this means as they are everywhere). Mr. Left is still perplexed by the idea that no one refrigerates the eggs here and says they taste 'gamey'. I love them, and they remind me of the days in Kenya when you could buy them one-one fresh out of the chicken's butt. That's quality assurance.
Today's topic is lingering. To not linger is to be rude. (Yet to stare is...normal, but I digress.) When you go into a restaurant, you pick your table and sit. You order a drink. Soda is more expensive, milliliter for milliliter than beer. Or wine. Water is more expensive than everything that I'm surprised OPEC hasn't tried to make a cartel out of it yet. So you order the beer, a half-liter of it, and it's realllllly good. And you order the food, and eat it. All the while the waiter is not hounding you like they do in the states so they can turn the table. Here, you get the table all night. In fact, you are considered very rude if you don't linger. Even after you eat you are supposed to hang out and let it all digest. This is harder than you think. Imagine. Just. Sitting. And. Relaxing. Bizarre. By the time you are done with dinner and sober enough from your half-liter beer to tackle the mile of cobblestones back to the streetcars, it's 10:30pm. If you were smart enough to plan ahead, you would have bought your beer in a flasche (bottle) because here you can walk around with it and drink it and even take it home with you on the streetcar, enjoying it all the way home (which might be a better deal since I have a small bladder!). Cheers!