Nominating the Nelson-Atkins

It's offically printed, bound, and in the hands of the Nelson-Atkins.  Can I get a woot-woot?

Moldavia

Okay, okay, okay; so it's been a few weeks since I visited the painted monasteries in Moldavia. Since then, I spent an evening in Munich (where we ate roasted duck, potato dumplings, red cabbage, and homebrewed beer; thanks Wallis!); almost missed my plane home due to an ironically late German train; and celebrated Thanksgiving with most of my family and all of my kitty. Currently, I'm trying to get my life back into some state of "normal" and trying to remember the last three months as more than a dream. The week before I left Romania, my cousin, Katharine, came to visit. She arrived on Monday, and Tuesday morning, we were on our road trip to northeastern Romania. I had planned for us to take the train and walk to see a few of the churches, but when I was casually mentioning this, three coworkers adamantly told me not to take the train if I wanted to have a good time. So, upon a recommendation, we hired a driver, Attila. The drive out took us through the Carpathians' winding roads that Attila treated with little thought to brakes and slow speeds, but we got to Moldavia about three hours before we were anticipating, which was impressive. And so were the monasteries. They are all Eastern Orthodox from the 15^th to 16^th centuries, and the forms are similar: central church surrounded by stone walls along which were ancillary buildings like dormitories and small chapels. Every square inch of the churches were painted, both inside and outside.

I could spend forever talking about the churches, but I don't feel like it. The week I was home, I had breakfast with some friends, and Moe asked me what was the most memorable experience of my trip. That's hard to pinpoint, but I had to say it was the day I bought a husband for 2Lei (the Romanian currency, approximately equivalent to 75 cents. Attila had driven back to Cluj through amazing scenery, and at one point, we had to take a pee break at a petrol station. As Katharine and I were leaving the disgusting facilities, I noticed Attila in the car, laughing and a Romania guy with a window squeegee approaching us, saying, "Doi lei." Figuring we had to pay for the use of the hole in the floor and wet toilet paper, I protested slightly, but the squeegee wielding attendant kissed my and Katharine's feet. I tipped him. As we were pulling away, I asked Attila what was so funny. Here is the conversation as I remember it:

Me: What's so funny?
Attila: He thinks you are my wives (yes, plural).
Me: *Chuckle, chuckle.*
Attila: And he said that since I have two wives, I should share and give him one.
Me: *Chuckle, chuckle.*
Attila: Then I asked which one, and he said, ehhh, it doesn't matter. Either one.
Me: *Chuckle, chuckle.*
Attila: Then I asked if it was forever, and he said, no, an hour would do.
Me: *GASP! Chuckle, chuckle.*
Attila: Then I asked if he would pay me, and he said, no, wait, she'll pay me.
Me: *Busting a gut.* AND I DID! *Guffaw all the way home.*

Brasov

Why is it that when I actually have a relaxing weekend, there seems to be nothing to write about? When things go smoothly, it's a nice experience, but when things don't go as planned, it's a better story. My weekend was incredibly relaxing – more so than my "relaxing" weekend in Gyula. Such is life, and such is a lesson I should learn: planning a time to relax is asking for trouble and anticipating trouble more often than not leads to exceeded expectations. I left for Braşov, Romania on Saturday morning. The train was supposed to leave at 10:10, but true to form, it was about 30 minutes late. I didn't mind so much this time because I didn't have a connection. It is a straight 5.5 hour shot from Cluj to the southern Transylvanian town, and I was pleasantly surprised to find a very clean and comfortable train car to take me there. Trains are hit or miss; my car to Salonta last weekend was rather dirty, and to be honest, I think I'd rather have had a kidney stone than be forced to use the WC. Friday night I even dreamed about how much I was dreading the reality that I'd probably have to use the bathroom and consoled myself that 5 minutes of discomfort out of 24 hours really isn't a horrible statistic. Oh the things I worry about. Lucky for me, since this train was new, the bathrooms weren't trashed yet (but it's a good thing I always pack a roll of tp!).

I had just finished listening to my latest Car Talk podcast when a Dutch guy sat down in the same row, but I pretended to be intent on my music. However, after listening to the conversation he and the Romanian gal opposite to us were having, I decided they weren't schmucks. I had to be careful, you see because, call me a snob, I'm not particularly keen on making small talk with strangers. I mean, I could have been stuck in that awkward situation of painfully superficial conversation for 4.5 more hours. I wanted to relax not spend hours in agony at the start of my weekend. But we had a good chat; so good in fact, that the Dutch kid missed his station. Luckily, though, he was meeting friends who would be able to come retrieve him. Dora, the Romanian student, and I were relieved that wasn't us and agreed that missing our station is something we both dread. She and I got on so well, that we made tentative plans to go to the pharmacy museum here in Cluj on Saturday (she's a pharmacy student). Look at me making friends with strangers; I'm growing up.

Braşov is a quaint town in the Carpathian Mountains. It was settled by the Saxons back in the 13^th or 14^th century, and is there really anything more impressive than historic buildings set against the backdrop of a mountain? I was slightly disappointed to not find any snow, even on the mountain tops, but I couldn't complain about the sunny 60 degree weather I had all weekend. When I got to town, it was twilight, but people were out in droves. After checking in to my hotel (Bella Muzica - in the picture above - is located right on the main square and is inside a 400 year old building; it was great), I spent the next few hours wandering the small streets. I had one of those perfect moments that evening when I was walking down the pedestrian Strada Republicii. The sky was a brilliant dark blue with darker blue clouds; there were the mountains; there were elegantly lit historic buildings with people inside and outside; the weather was warm with a beautifully fresh breeze; and a man playing a guitar as the crowds meandered. I felt like I was in my own movie. Later that evening, I stumbled upon a Baroque church that was built between 1776-1782. I loved thinking that during the construction of this place, people halfway around the world were fighting for independence. I went in and was just in time for mass. It was in Hungarian, but the music was beautiful, so I stayed.

That night I ate dinner at the hotel. Their restaurant is in the cellar, and there was even a non-smoking room. Ironically, it was the least charming room of the restaurant, but it was still a wonderful atmosphere and I wasn't forced to ingest noxious fumes with my dinner. When it was time to order, I pushed the little red button next to the table and the waiter appeared. Brilliant. I had their goulash, cabbage salad, and an Ursus (a Romanian beer). I admit that I'm becoming quite a fan of the variations of this meal. Each chef makes it differently, so it's never true that if you've had it once, you've had it all. This version was the spiciest I've had and came with a side of traditional corn polenta instead of potatoes. Before the meal was brought, I was given chips and salsa (the restaurant specializes in traditional Transylvanian dishes and Mexican food) and a complimentary shot of palinka. This traditional Romanian drink is plum brandy, and with an alcohol content of about 40588%, it's strong enough to kill a cow. However, it's strangely tasty. I slept very well that night.

After a hearty complimentary breakfast Sunday, I walked around some more, finding a trail in the mountain to follow and another underground Romanian restaurant to try. I will be eating salad and oatmeal for the next month to make up for this meal. First course: Transylvanian sour soup = sour cream and butter with fatty pieces of smoked ham and some veggies. Main course: on the menu it read "pancakes stuffed with meat and mushrooms – A traditional Braşov recipe." It failed to mention it was fried, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't eat it all. It was also at this restaurant that I figured out why so many people smell like onions here (let's be honest, there are worse scents). As an appetizer, I was given a plate of what I can only assume was deep fried fat and raw red onions. I refrained from eating it, but the ladies at the table next to me were eating the sliced onions like they were bread slices (Dad, you're jealous, aren't you). I waddled around after that meal and found myself at St. Nicholas Church. My guidebook said it was here that in the 15^th century, Vlad Ţepeş ate his dinner while walking around the victims he had just impaled. Luckily, my traditional Romanian meals never included that entertainment.

Photos here: http://amandakloughlin.shutterfly.com/

Next Stop. . . Salonta?

When showing the border guard my passport, the last thing I expected him to do is run away with it, but there he went. I watched him jump from the train and run between the buildings, and then I panicked. My "relaxing" weekend in Gyula, Hungary ended up being more of a "try to relax between adventures and awkward moments" weekend. My train on Friday was scheduled to depart around 3pm, and by 4pm, I was still sitting on the bench in Cluj, thinking perhaps I was waiting on the wrong platform. I knew when I finally boarded the train, on a different platform than was scheduled, around 4:30 that I would be missing my connection to Gyula; the familiar sense of dread that I had felt when trying to get to Cluj back in August started creeping back into my stomach. I consoled myself that surely there would be another train that night; I mean it's not that far from Salonta to Gyula, in theory. The scenery was at least pretty for the first hour of the trip: mountains, streams, trees, and the two people in my compartment were friendly. One even shared his Snickers bars with us. About two hours into the journey, they were scheduled to get off and became concerned that I wasn't departing too. Needless to say that made me nervous. I asked if this was the right train to Salonta, and they both were not sure that it was – it might be, but they weren't certain. Crap. Before they left, I had the thought that I should look at their tickets to make sure the same train number was on theirs as on mine. Thankfully, it was, and in celebration, he gave me his last Snickers. Crisis averted with chocolate.

I arrived in Salonta around 7:30, and discovered that my connection was gone; I wouldn't be able to get to my hotel in Gyula until the next morning. I confess that I started crying. Here I was, in a tiny little town, in the dark, uncertain what I could even do. There were no hotels or pensions near the train station, and I wasn't too keen on walking around in the dark, looking for one. On the other hand, staying in the train station was impossible. Did I try to take a taxi? I decided to call Iulia to see what she thought would be best. Within 10 minutes, she had found me a hotel, and they were on their way to pick me up at the station. Then my phone ran out of minutes, and I was grateful that I'd had enough to call Iulia. But I still needed to call the hotel in Gyula to tell them I wouldn't be there until tomorrow. Iulia had given me the license plate number of the car sent to fetch me, and when it arrived, I was elated to find a young gal who spoke perfect English and her father. They laughed because they thought it was all a joke; they were happy it was not, and I was ecstatic they had a bed for me. I was even able to use their phone to call Gyula, so crisis three and four were taken care of.

The four star Hotel Slavia is located in a great classical building, and the 40 euro price I was quoted included a full suite with a wonderfully luxurious double bed (with a massaging mattress!) and a humongous shower. Everything looked new; it was clean and quiet and had a huge breakfast buffet in the morning. The waitress even made me an omelet. When I checked out, the price for all of this came to 35 euro, and they even took me to the train station without letting me pay for the ride.

The one-car 9am train to Gyula was on time, and it was on this one car that I surrendered my passport to the border guard. My experience with border guards had been that they asked for the passport, compared my horrible picture to the reality, smirked, stamped it, and gave it back, all within one minute. If there is anything I dread about traveling, it's the loss of my passport, and when I saw the man running away with mine, I sensed that's what just happened. It was too easy: pose as a policeman, demand passport, run away, and laugh at stupid tourist. I grabbed my backpack, and ran to the train conductor, trying to explain, "Politizia! Passport! He ran away with it! Nu stiu; nu inteleg [I don't know; I don't understand]!" He was a very jovial man, and when he saw my panicked face and tears I could not keep from welling up, he laughed at me. "OK! Stamp!" he said while making the gesture of stamping the passport with his hands. He patted me on the shoulder, and led me back to my seat, chuckling. The "gypsy" policeman, who was in fact, legitimate, ran back to the train with my passport, and I almost kissed him with glee. Instead, I kissed my passport as the conductor walked by me. When we crossed the border, the Hungarian guard was wise to me, and asked me very kindly to come with him. The conductor was explaining my anxiety to everyone, and everyone was laughing. By this time, I found it funny, so I stuck out my tongue at them and laughed too. The guard let me accompany my passport to the stamping process; he even wished me an enjoyable trip. I arrived to Gyula unscathed, and found the town very peaceful as I walked to my hotel: lots of trees and birds. When I reached my room, I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself, so I went for a walk. I found a coffee shop and had a cup o' joe for less than $1. Nice. The town is really pedestrian- and bike-friendly. Clearly delineated paths that the people use appropriately; I almost got run over by a biker until I realized I was in the wrong "lane." A small trick-or-treat stand was open in one of the square, so I sat and watched the kiddies for a bit. Then I found a castle to go explore.

Now, Gyula is known for its thermal baths, and by 3pm, I had talked myself into attempting to enjoy them. I sensed that this experience would be awkward, and after the past 24 hours, I was recharging my courage. The baths are part of a huge park, and there was an entrance to the park conveniently located right across from my hotel. I paid the 2000HUF entrance fee, and stood there unsure of where to go. I went inside the first building I found, and was disappointed to find a swimming pool and a sauna. Confused, I went down to the changing rooms, where I found a cleaning lady. She gestured me out of the building, and said, "Thermal baths; park," and she motioned me to follow the tree-lined path (the trees had identification tags!) into the park. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood. I soon found another building and two outdoor thermal pools, but though people were everywhere, I could not find out how to enter the building. I must have walked back and forth between the pools and the building about 10 times before finding a bench to sit and cry some tears of frustration. I couldn't read the signs; there was no one to ask; and all I had wanted to do is relax in some warm coffee-colored water for a few hours. [I must say that, in general, I don't cry very often, but my tear ducts got a great workout this weekend.] An hour later, I spied a couple walking toward the building, so I followed them. They found the door, and I felt a bit justified in my frustration because it was completely hidden; there wasn't even a sign indicating this was where to go.

When I got to the changing room, I realized I had forgotten a towel. The building is sprawling, so instead of allowing myself to be frustrated again, I just went exploring, eventually finding one of the big pools. This one was circular, and had different areas where you could just sit and soak with Jacuzzi bubbles or be caught in a tide that circled around the Jacuzzi part. This was my favorite part; it smelled like eucalyptus, and I laughed with the kids who also in this part of the pool as the water pushed me around and around. This water wasn't the same as the pools I had passed earlier, so I decided to go see what it was like to soak in brown water: it was great. Really warm and only slightly disturbing that the water was so dark I couldn't see my toes. It was then I was really able relax. I thought back to the time I had spent with Sandy's family in the spa at Budapest. I must have looked funny sitting there by myself laughing, but I kept remembering the funny things about that trip: the shock of seeing very large naked women, having a massage and getting smacked on the rear when it was finished, trying to find a place to eat and being led to an Italian restaurant by a very nice local. I looked around and was grateful that everyone was mostly covered.

Dinner that night was splendid: cream of garlic soup, pork and mushrooms cooked in butter, cabbage salad, and a Hungarian beer. It was so good that I forgot to tip the waiter. At breakfast the next morning, I realized this fact when I saw the same waiter. I asked the lady at the front desk how much of a tip is appropriate, and she said 50%! I pretended to hear wrong. I went back into the restaurant to give the waiter his tip, but I couldn't find him. I tried to ask the other guy, but he didn't understand. The front-desk lady came to interpret, and after 20 awkward minutes, my waiter came back. I apologized and gave him his tip. He just smiled awkwardly, and then said he didn't remember. My face was bright red as I left, but I brightened up a bit that he didn't remember because if that were so, he wouldn't remember how much tip he should have received. I found solace that morning by sitting in the park, reading and listening to the various birds. It was a cold but sunny day, and I decided to spend some more time just walking around. I had another wonderful lunch: tenderloin stuffed with Gyula sausage and roasted potatoes on the side. This time, I remembered the tip.

My trains home were on time; I didn't worry too much when my passport was removed from the trains, and when I got back to Cluj, I had enough courage to take a taxi home. He didn't know the street I gave him, but I was confident enough that I could get us there with the little bit of Romanian I knew, and I did.

Weekend Fun

One month from today, I will be eating turkey with my family. It's not really hard to believe that two of my three months have gone; the pace seems to be just right, actually: not flying and not dragging. What is hard to believe is that I have only three more weekends in Romania, and that reality spurred me to start planning. Next weekend I'm heading to Gyula, Hungary for a bit of R&R (and a much-needed stamp in my passport). The weekend after that I'll bite the bullet and take the six hour train ride to Brasov, even though I'll be leaving at five in the morning. This weekend, I just decided to stay in Cluj. I had traveled down to Sibiu again on Friday with a group of Romanian students. The tour was in Romanian, but I just took more pictures.* Saturday was absolutely beautiful: upper 60s and sunshine, so I went in search of the Botanical Gardens' 10' diameter African lily pads. (On my walk, I decided to get lost, and ended up finding a fairly large remnant of the second medieval city wall.) Apparently I went in the wrong season to view the large lily pads, but the trip wasn't a total bust. I enjoyed hiking around the grounds. The terrain is very steep in parts, and at one hill, I realized too late that I would have to slide down the muddy embankment. Amazingly I didn't fall down, but it was quite embarrassing when the lady in the high heels behind me (where'd she come from?) made it down before I did. To be fair, she walked down the steep, slippery, moss-laden rocks while I opted for the more stable mud, and my foot got stuck just as a group of smooching teenagers passed on the path below me. I stood there, looking around, pretending that it was perfectly normal for a person with a submerged foot to take photographs with a camera that she later realized was not turned on. Ah, well; nothing hurt but my pride.

Sunday had me walking to the post office in town to mail some postcards. The postal system here is very interesting. The only mailboxes I've found in the city are at the post office and in one of the main squares, and I wonder, how do people mail letters? Maybe they don't; as my coworker, Karola, asked one afternoon when handing me some mail, "Why don't they just email you? It'd be easier." True, true, but not as fun. Two and a half weeks ago, my mom mailed me a package, which I was informed today, was waiting at the other post office on the other side of town. When I said that I'd go pick it up, I was told that I could not. Though it is addressed to me, it has the Foundation's address, so poor Karola has to make a special trip to pick it up, with forms, stamps, and proof that it's okay for her to do so. She also informed me that I will be paying the taxi fair for her to perform this task; it's so embarrassing, and all told, this package will cost 10 times what the contents are worth to receive. All I wanted was a sweatshirt I forgot to pack…and a new stash of Roasterie coffee because I ran out and have been forced to drink ground dirt for the last three weeks.

As I was walking out of my apartment this morning, I was met by the landlord who came to change the hot water supply line under my kitchen sink. I have a two-week-running Sunday routine of knocking at his door with a water-related problem. Last weekend, my hot water didn't exist, and my heat wouldn't turn on. After pantomiming and resetting the water heater, I realized that when I was washing the dishes or taking a bath, I should turn off the heat; this prevents the water heater from freaking out, "Tub or radiator?! Tub or radiator!? I can't handle it! I'm just going to stop trying and make all my lights blink!" Yesterday, I had just finished washing my dinner dishes, when I heard a very loud gushing/spraying sound. Since I had just turned the water off, I was a bit confused until I looked down to see the waterfall flowing out from under the cabinet. When I opened the cabinet doors, I was blasted by a warm spray of water from who knows where. I couldn't figure out how to turn the water off, so soaking, I ran back to the landlord's door. I frantically motioned for him to follow me, saying, "Apa! Apa! [Water! Water!]." He saw my dripping figure, and ran back to the apartment with me where he found the right nozzle to stop the flow. By this time there was a lake in the kitchen, so his wife mopped it up for me, all the while, we're all three laughing because I'm sopping wet and can't explain what happened except by pointing to words in my dictionary. He asked the gal next door to me to come interpret, and I'm happy to say, that I had understood what he was trying to tell me through the few words I know and pantomiming. True to his word, he was at my door before 8:30 with the new parts. It seems a hole developed in the supply line. As I was leaving, I saw him removing the sink, and I thought it best not to watch.

*I've uploaded more photographs of Sibiu and added some of Cluj to my Shutterfly site.

Mall Rat

I was told before coming to Cluj that it was less westernized than Prague, a city in which I spent the first few months of 2003. Prague was my only real reference to Eastern Europe, so I was interested to see what a less westernized city was like. Not that I really felt Prague was much like the US; I mean, we don't have 15^th century anything where I'm from…unless you count dirt, maybe. But one night while trying to find an underground bar that someone had recommended, my friends and I ended up in a hole-in-the-wall café, asking directions (which in itself is comical when considering that I, a female, was the one who was the least insistent on direction-getting). While in the wall's hole, Dan ate some funny tasting brownies, Brian tried asking directions, and I was yelled at by the drunken Czech about how it is my fault that KFC is the demise of Prague. Please. You're telling me that after hundreds of years of various attacking peoples, Nazi occupation, and Communism, an American food chain is the worst thing that ever happened to the city? Whatever. I couldn't reason with him; since I was (am) American, it must be my fault. (And, in case you're wondering, no, they don't have biscuits at Czech KFCs, right Sandy?) We eventually found the bar, no thanks to any directions received. Dan was happy the rest of the evening; I contemplated exit strategies out of an underground cave, and Brian, well, Brian just had some pivo. I don't pass a KFC now without remembering that evening.

This afternoon I passed not only a KFC but a Pizza Hut, McDonald's, and a Starbucks (and I'd be willing to argue with anyone who will listen that Starbucks is the demise of all cities they enter. Bluck.). No, I'm not back in the US; I went to the mall, and holy crap; that's one of the nicest malls I've ever been inside. Talk about American, though. FREE toilets (even the malls in Prague made you pay) that were sparkling; a hypermarket; store after store after store; and a cinema, which was the purpose of my visit. That and curiosity. The food court puts to shame most in the US (and, as an aside, Happy Meals here still come in the cute little paperboard boxes that we children of the 80s loved; no stupid paper sacks); I bought a piece of chocolate cake from a local bakery. It wasn't very good, but the people-watching was amazing. There were areas where people sat on their laptops using free internet or using the provided internet kiosk. I swear I heard more English spoken here than anywhere else, as if just being in the mall brought out the Western in everyone. And the movie experience: reserved seating, expensive drinks (my small Fanta cost more than my chocolate cake), and comfortable, clean seating. (I saw Julie & Julia, Elli!) I left in a daze, half thinking that I was no longer in Europe.

While I was walking around before the movie, I noticed a shoe store that had newly opened here. On my walk through the city to catch the right bus to shuttle me aaallll the way out to the mall, I passed the old building in which this store was located up to the last few days. I was struck by a sense of sadness that I feel so often in American downtowns. I have become aware of a number of stores here in Cluj that seem to be closing in the historic areas of town, leaving too many vacant buildings. Like people, the malls draw the stores out of the core of the city. This is what preservationists fight in the US; we lament the degradation of our downtowns, but cannot deny the allurement of the new boxes on the outskirts of our towns. I am at this moment contemplating if this trend is an American legacy, and if it is, it makes me slightly ill and majorly embarrassed. It's not that I necessarily hate malls; it's that I hate the implications of them. We're desperately trying to salvage the hearts of our cities and bring people back to them, but how do you compete with newness?* In fairness, there are areas of the historic town that are full of life and revitalization; I just became more cognizant of the effects of the mall this afternoon. One of the things I loved about Prague was how mixed everything was: shopping, groceries, historic sites, people, parks. I feel that cohesion slipping away here, and in that sense, Cluj is more westernized than Prague. I realize it's probably unjust to compare the two cities; they're very different in many ways, but one thing they do have in common is KFC.

*Radio Lab did a great show about malls last year. Check it out here.

A Day in the Life of an Intern

Monday was fine. We went driving around the county looking for the last few structures to survey on our inventory form. We found some neat walls, but some of the other stuff we couldn't find at all (we even tried asking at the mayor's office, but they were like, what?). I'm not too surprised when the address simply says "Nerveghiu," and no one even knows what that means. I find it a wee bit strange that there is a national monument list that gives dates, addresses (even if they are wrong), general descriptions, and very long codes to each property, but there is no other information to understand why the asset is on the list or why some assets are grade A while the others are only grade B. Someone, somewhere along the way just came up with a list and gave no documentation? I cannot fathom that, but that's what we're dealing with. My co-worker, Bogi, has had the mind-numbing task of trying to find the histories of these properties, but there isn't much information. But oh well. We've seen some neat stuff, and we even had a bit of an adventure or two. One of Monday's buildings was abandoned, but a "tour guide" found us and happily showed us where to hop the rusted wire fence between the trees. My body and wire fences do not get along too well, so I wasn't too keen on doing that; I survived, though. He wants a postcard from the US, and I'd be happy to oblige, but he never gave a name. The village was so small that if I just put his name and the name of the village, it would get to him. I wonder if I simply wrote "To the guy who helped us trespass on that property back in October / Rascruci, Romania" it would get to him… He must have been 70, and he rode a moped in a fishing hat. After this escapade, we went in search of a ruined hunting tower (it's only 19^th century). We were out in the middle of nowhere, and as we're getting back in the car, I smelled gasoline, looked down, and saw it dripping from the car to the ground. Needless to say I got a bit freaked out. Iuliana (oh yeah; she happily carted us around because I am a chicken and don't want to drive here) called the Trust's mechanic who decided not to believe us. Men. Apparently, he knows about the leak and had "fixed it" by putting "glue" on that spot (it's not the gas tank that's leaking; it's the part that goes from the part where you put in the gas nozzle to the tank). If it was leaking, which of course he doubts because he obviously fixed it didn't we know, the "glue" was probably dislodged when we filled up that morning. He said it was safe, and we had no choice but to believe him. Men. (I thought about what Click and Clack would say, and had half a mind to bake the brownies.) We then went to find the old walls. These were up a hill with pot holes larger than Idaho. Luckily, we had a 4 wheel drive; unluckily, none of us knew how to use it. We didn't puncture a muffler or gas tank, though, and the walls were pretty freakin' awesome (they date to "Cetate" – another phrase no one understands. I do, though. They're old.). Our last building is now being used as a state-run psychiatric hospital. We had to go into the compound (not inside the building), and it was incredibly uncomfortable; there were the "nice" people who all wanted their pictures taken; and then the "not-so-nice(?)" people that were behind a very high fence and who kept glaring at us. This house once belonged to a prominent family, and the heiress is fighting to regain ownership. Maybe I'm just superstitious, but I think I'd let it go; it's too much like the Vaile Mansion. I then went home and made an omelet. And that was my day; the end.