Softball questions . . .

So my travel agent screwed up and instead of sending me to Romania I ended up in northern New Jersey. It was an understandable mistake and I'm sure a lot of people don't know the difference. So far it's been unending fun and if I squint at the signs just right they look like they're Romanian.

Some of them are probably written in Romanian, part of the New Jersey transportation department's campaign to make getting around the state even more impossible than it already is. I'd slow down enough to identify the alphabet but traveling at anything less than the speed of a Bruce Springsteen song is dangerous here.

Fortunately I spent some formative years in the state and every so often I pass a landmark that looks familiar. There was a cemetery I passed last night where I'm sure I puked in when I was fourteen or fifteen. Several times, in fact.

The puking, not the passing. Once I saw it I found my way easily.

I still have some time here but so far I haven't gotten lost and even have learned a thing or two. The tour started with a reading group that graciously allowed me to sit closest to the door and didn't even bother to insist I check my weapons. They asked easy questions, too, like, "Who's your favorite author?"

The last one who bought me a drink, of course.