Splish Splash, He Was Taking a Bath

The other day (or maybe it was "long about a Saturday night"), Jerry was splishing and splashing in the tub. Really, he was splishing and splashing in the shower, but that's not the point. Dudo likes to keep him company. The bathroom door was open and, as I walked by, I spotted Dudo up on the counter with something dangling from between his teeth. I saw that it was the rubber drain plug hanging at the end of its chain. I watched Dudo carefully maneuver the rubber plug over to the drain in the sink.

TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW IT WORKS.

GETTING THE HANG OF IT.

Once Dudo had the drain plug positioned, he turned on both taps, adjusted the temperature, filled the sink with water, and stepped in for a bath. 

A PERFECT FIT.

I may have exaggerated (well... lied) about Dudo getting the drain plug into position. I also may have exaggerated (well... lied) about him filling the sink with water — his little paws haven't been able to manage the faucets just yet (although he has tried). But he did step in and give himself a bath.

NO BUBBLES. NO SOAPY TASTE.

"A LITTLE PRIVACY, PLEASE!"

Clumsy or Just in Love?

San Geraldo watches out for me. Always. And his concern becomes especially pronounced following one of my careless moments. Like after I've sliced off the tip of my finger while cutting kitchen tiles; or knocked myself out by standing up at full-speed and slamming the bridge of my nose into the car's hatchback that I forgot was open... on three different occasions... on three different cars... (or in the same way, the top of my head into the fireplace mantle; my eye into the kitchen cabinet; the back of my head into the table...); or after I've picked up the cast-iron pot lid with my bare hand even though I had just been told it had that moment come out of the oven; or stuck my hand blindly into a shrub to extract a dead leaf only to be stung by a bee (I'm allergic) hiding in the leaf that I decided to hand-pulverize (thus shooting every last bit of venom into my finger); or — most recently — after I've rolled out of bed and onto the floor.

A DAILY DISH OF DELICIOUS, WITH A LIFE OF ITS OWN.

Every evening, San Geraldo, prepares a plate of cheese, crackers, and apple slices for me to enjoy while I sit at my computer. Usually, I help out by carrying it from the kitchen myself (again, it's the very least I can do). The crackers and apples tend to slide around on the plate if you move too fast. They can easily fly off the plate and onto the floor. Every single day, as I pick up the full plate, San Geraldo says, "Be careful now."

LUNCH AT CAFE SANTA MARTA YESTERDAY. (CHURCH OF SAN ANDRES IN BACKGROUND).
FLAMENQUIN. HAM ROLLED AROUND CHICKEN AND CHEESE, AND THEN BATTERED AND DEEP-FRIED.
HOT, MELTY, (OBSCENE), AND DANGEROUS ON SO MANY LEVELS.

Whenever I pick up a knife in the kitchen, San Geraldo warns, "Don't cut yourself."

CHERRIES. "THEY HAVE PITS."

When he puts a pan from the stove into the sink, San Geraldo looks lovingly into my eyes. Then he smiles and says, "Hot."

 I'd be offended if I didn't so need the reminders.

THE DANGERS OF SLEEPING.
(DOING MUCH BETTER SINCE I SHAVED THE AREA TO PREP FOR THE BANDAGE).
NEVER TO BE SHOWN: THE BLACK & BLUE ON MY RIGHT GLUTE.

Since my roll out of bed and onto the floor Thursday morning, a new caution has been added to the list. When I say goodnight, San Geraldo now says, "Sleep well," and then adds, "And be careful."

NO CAUTIONS NEEDED FOR LAST NIGHTS HOME-MADE BANANA BREAD!
(WELL... "SMALL BITES.")

If this had all started only after I had met San Geraldo all those years ago, I'd say, 'I just can't help it. It's love.' It is that. But, sometimes, I'm just plain clumsy.

Corpus Christi is Not Only in Texas (and I'm So Glad)

Yesterday, as I mentioned yesterday, was Corpus Christi. Sevilla is one of the few cities in Spain that celebrates the holiday on its original date, 60 days after Easter Sunday. Once again, all the brotherhoods in the city participated, this time in one long, slow procession. It began just before 8:30 with guards and musicians marching to the Cathedral.

AT THE SOUTH END OF PLAZA DE SAN FRANCISCO. HEADING TO THE CATHEDRAL.

I then heard glorious organ music from within the Cathedral, followed by the powerful ringing of all the bells of the Giralda, which I was able to watch from below. That was inspiring. I was told the procession is traditionally led from the Cathedral by six children carrying hatchets. I'm grateful to SOONKS (see the comments below) for explaining that to me. Someone had done a literal translation of the words hachas or hachones into the English word, hatchets. What is really meant by that is the long candles they carry (which as you can see in the photo are different from the unadorned long candles carried by the brotherhoods.

NOT REALLY "HATCHETS." HACHAS OR HACHONES.

Following the boys with hatchas are statues or relics representing famous saints and events in Sevillano and Catholic history. Each image is followed by a brotherhood (in order of longevity). I stood (with all my aches and pains from my battle with the bed) for about two-and-a-half hours. I'm very glad I took the time to be there.

SANTA ANGELA DE LA CRUZ.
(FOUNDER OF THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE CROSS)

The oldest record of this event in Sevilla is from 1428. In 1532, the procession began to take the route it still takes today — 480 years later. (By comparison, I once worked in the same place for 5-1/2 consecutive years; but I changed my commuting route regularly because I desperately needed some kind of change.) They processed through nearby streets and the celebration continued with a large event in Plaza de San Francisco. I instead went and met Jerry for breakfast.

SANTA JUSTA AND SANTA RUFINA, BOTH OF SEVILLA.
(FLANKING A BEAUTIFUL BRONZE REPLICA OF THE GIRALDA.)

BISHOP ISIDORE (SAN YSIDRO) OF SEVILLA.

BISHOP LEANDER (SAN LEANDRO) OF SEVILLA.

I didn't follow the procession along its entire route; I simply stayed in the vicinity of the Cathedral until I saw the statue of King Ferdinand III of Castille (San Geraldo's 22-greats grandfather, which I'm sure you remember by now). It looked to me like that was the end of the procession, but I've since read that there are four other relics that process. I don't now if they were simply mixed in with what I had already seen or if they actually followed San Leandro. Maybe I'll find out next year.

GREATS-GRANDPA KING FERDINAND III — SAN FERNANDO EL REY.

(WRAPPED, JUST FOR THE OCCASION, IN HIS ERMINE CAPE.)

It was fascinating to compare the dress and comportment of the different brotherhoods — from oldest to newest. The earlier groups were dressed consistently and formally. Later groups were at times very casual. The last brotherhood I saw included teens in jeans and chinos, with obviously no previous discussion about an overall look for the group. A very early and prominent brotherhood was led by men (including a lawyer we know) in formal morning suits.

SENSIBLE SHOES? SOME OF THE BROTHERHOOD MEMBERS AS THEY MARCHED. 

The streets were strewn with sprigs of a variety of evergreens. It smelled luscious but was obviously not easy to walk on. The women marchers in some of the brotherhoods wore matching, and practical, low-heeled shoes. Later women were decked out in very trendy heels. Some bordered on "Joan Crawfords" — not very practical for marching and standing and marching and standing and marching and standing. But they're feet and legs looked great. And I suppose that's all that matters.

SENSIBLE SHOES! A PEAK AT A GROUP OF COSTALEROS.

And the little one said: Roll over / Y el pequeño dijo: Dese la vuelta

La versión en español está después de la versión en inglés.

THERE’S A SONG FROM MY childhood that I don't think My-Mother-The-Dowager-Duchess knows. Most of my friends have been unfamiliar with it, but I always enjoyed it and love to share it with new generations. I thought of the song this morning — with good reason.

Today is Corpus Christi. It's an Andalusian holiday. And, yes, there was a procession. This one didn't come by our house, however. It proceeded from the Cathedral at 8:30 in the morning and continued with a large schedule of events in the Plaza de San Francisco. I didn't want to miss any of the procession, especially since Great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-Grandpa San Fernando (the most important paso in the procession) was going to be paraded through the streets in an ermine cape (not that I was specifically thrilled about the ermine cape). I set my alarm for 7:00.

I woke up during the night and rolled over to check the time. What I didn't realize was that I was already right at the edge of the bed. There was nothing remaining to roll over onto — except the floor.

The bed has a heavy wood frame that creates a small ledge along the sides. It's got a hard, sharp edge (sharp, if you're descended, as I am, from the princess of "The Princess and the Pea"). I hit my leg on the wood frame before sliding from there to the wood floor, hitting my head and shoulder as I landed.

My head, neck, and shoulder simply hurt. The leg wasn't pretty. The only adhesive bandages ("plasters") we had were small, so I created a patchwork to cover the cut and scrapes and went back to bed. I didn't sleep. At 7:00, I rolled out of bed — much more carefully — slid a pair of jeans over the achy, pulling, patchwork, and headed out for the festivities. I walked 10 minutes there, spent more than 2 hours watching the processions, and then walked back to meet San Geraldo for breakfast. (He had slept through my entire mishap.) By this time, the hodge-podge of bandages were painfully pulling at skin and hair.

After breakfast, Nurse San Geraldo went to the store and picked up a collection of gauze, cloth tape, and adhesive bandages. This time around, I used ointment and did a slightly better job patching myself up. (San Geraldo wanted to do it for me, but I insisted.) Given the sizes and positions of the cut and scrapes and the sizes of bandages San Geraldo could find at the only store open on this holiday, the patch-job looks absurd. And it doesn't adhere well, except to the hair on my leg. But it's definitely better than before.

We had lunch downstairs and, when I told Teré what I had done, she burst out laughing (although she tried really hard not to). After lunch, Jerry went upstairs and I stayed to pay the bill. As I walked out the door, Teré called loudly to me in Spanish. "Be careful." She then smiled wickedly and continued "in bed!" It may have done wonders for my reputation. I received some [admiring] glances.

Tomorrow I'll share with you what I saw on the streets this morning — despite my injuries. Right now, I need some ibuprofen and a nap. I'm fine, Mom.

HAY UNA CANCIÓN DE MI infancia que no creo que mi-madre-la-duquesa-viuda conozca. La mayoría de mis amigos no lo han conocido, pero siempre lo disfruté y me encanta compartirlo con las nuevas generaciones. Pensé en la canción esta mañana, con razón.

Hoy es Corpus Christi. Es una fiesta andaluza. Y sí, hubo una procesión. Sin embargo, éste no pasó por nuestra casa. Partió de la Catedral a las 8:30 de la mañana y continuó con una nutrida agenda de actos en la Plaza de San Francisco. No quería perderme nada de la procesión, especialmente desde Tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara El tatara-tatara-tatara-abuelo San Fernando (el paso más importante de la procesión) iba a desfilar por las calles con una capa de armiño (no es que me emocionara específicamente la capa de armiño). Configuré mi alarma para las 7:00.

Me desperté durante la noche y me di la vuelta para comprobar la hora. De lo que no me di cuenta fue de que ya estaba en el borde de la cama. No quedaba nada sobre lo que rodar, excepto el suelo.

La cama tiene un marco de madera pesada que crea una pequeña repisa a los lados. Tiene un borde duro y afilado (afilado, si eres descendiente, como yo, de la princesa de "La princesa y el guisante"). Golpeé mi pierna contra el marco de madera antes de deslizarme desde allí hasta el piso de madera, golpeándome la cabeza y el hombro mientras aterrizaba.

Simplemente me duelen la cabeza, el cuello y el hombro. La pierna no era bonita. Las únicas vendas adhesivas ("tiritas") que teníamos eran pequeñas, así que creé un mosaico para cubrir el corte y los rasguños y volví a la cama. No dormí. A las 7:00, me levanté de la cama, con mucho más cuidado, me deslicé un par de jeans sobre el adolorido, tirando, patchwork, y me dirigí a la fiesta. Caminé 10 minutos allí, pasé más de 2 horas viendo las procesiones y luego regresé para encontrarme con San Geraldo para desayunar. (Se había dormido durante todo mi accidente.) Para entonces, la mezcolanza de vendas tiraba dolorosamente de la piel y el cabello.

Después del desayuno, la enfermera San Geraldo fue a la tienda y recogió una colección de gasa, cinta de tela y vendas adhesivas. Esta vez, usé ungüento e hice un trabajo un poco mejor al repararme. (San Geraldo quiso hacerlo por mí, pero yo insistí.) Dados los tamaños y posiciones de los cortes y raspaduras y los tamaños de las vendas que San Geraldo pudo encontrar en la única tienda abierta en esta festividad, el parche parece absurdo. Y no se adhiere bien, excepto al pelo de mi pierna. Pero definitivamente es mejor que antes.

Almorzamos abajo y, cuando le conté a Teré lo que había hecho, se echó a reír (aunque se esforzó mucho en no hacerlo). Después del almuerzo, Jerry subió las escaleras y yo me quedé para pagar la cuenta. Mientras salía por la puerta, Teré me llamó en voz alta en español. "Ten cuidado." Luego sonrió con malicia y continuó "¡en la cama!" Puede que haya hecho maravillas con mi reputación. Recibí algunas miradas [de admiración].

Mañana compartiré con vosotros lo que vi en las calles esta mañana, a pesar de mis heridas. Ahora mismo, necesito ibuprofeno y una siesta. Estoy bien, mamá.

I'm So Confused

Sometimes, Jerry's "isms" completely baffle me. This morning, as San-Geraldo-aka-Jerry and I were walking over to Emperador Trajano for breakfast, we saw a small delivery van barreling down the road in our direction. On most streets in the old part of Sevilla, sidewalks go from somewhat accommodating pedestrians to barely leaving room for a shoe width, and then back again. At moments, sidewalks may disappear completely. So, a walk in our neighborhood involves maneuvering at times alongside moving traffic. When Jerry first saw the little white van coming at us, we were in the road, there being only an extremely narrow sidewalk at that point.

NO ROOM TO BREATHE.

JUST BARELY SQUEAKING BY. ONE OF THE WIDER STREETS IN THE BARRIO DE SANTA CRUZ.

Jerry warned, "Uh-oh, better get out of the way. He's coming at us booming like six-pins."

"What?" I couldn't even figure out what that was supposed to be. "Did you say, 'booming like sixes?' I asked.

"No," he responded, and then continued with a question in his tone, "I said 'booming like six-pins?" He paused. "But I have no idea what that means."

NOW OUR EVERY-MORNING DESTINATION: EMPERADOR TRAJANO.

Well, this time he had lost me. I tried to connect this latest Jerryism with some reality based bit of American English. All I could think of was, "coming at us with six-guns blazing." But, as I thought about it, I wasn't convinced there was a "six" in that expression at all. Isn't the expression simply "with guns blazing"? Yes it is.

AFTER THIS MORNING'S VAIN BRAIN EXERCISE, I WAS TEMPTED TO HAVE
A SLICE OF TARTA DE QUESO (CHEESECAKE... DEE-LICIOUS) OR
CHOCOLATE Y NARANJA (CHOCOLATE AND ORANGE CAKE... SINFUL). I RESISTED.

Maybe one of the language schools here should offer a course in 'Jerrynglish.' Unfortunately, I don't know who would teach it. I usually can translate him, but not well enough to teach a class. I only speak 'broken Jerrynglish.' And, although Jerry speaks perfect Jerrynglish (if that's not an oxymoron), he himself often doesn't understand what he says. As our friend Jim once wrote in poetic tribute:

"Who translates Jerry when others despair to?"

Well, I certainly try.

A Telented Freeend. Bork, Bork, Bork!

My friend Siri, although born and raised in Sweden, is nothing like the Muppets' Swedish Chef.  Well, except when she speaks Swedish. Then, I am struck by how well the Muppets' creators captured the sounds of the Swedish language.

Some years back, I found a web app that "dialectizes" English into "Swedish Chef." With that discovery, I was filled with joy (well, wicked glee) to be able to write to Siri in 'her native dialect.' For example, if I wanted to say, "I miss you terribly and wish you lived right here in Spain," I could dialectize that to Swedish Chef and say:

"I meess yoouu terreebly und feesh

yoouu leeffed reeght here-a in Speeee"

Fortunately, I can tease Siri about it (as I love to do) because her English is better than the English of just about any American I know.

It wasn't always that way. When Siri was a college student newly arrived in the United States, her English was already apparently excellent, but if she didn't know a term or expression she would simply do a literal translation from Swedish. It makes sense. Except when she wanted to vacuum the apartment and asked her new roommate where she kept the "dust sucker." (And imagine the sound of that with just the very slightest Swedish lilt.)

Siri and I met when I was with the Publications Office at the University of California, San Diego, and she had her own graphic design business. She did a lot of work for our office and she and I became good friends, a friendship that only grew stronger after San Geraldo and I left San Diego. It's hard to believe she and I have been friends for nearly 20 years.

Siri is a brilliant artist and designer,whatever the medium — paint, mosaic, collage, sculpture. A few years back, she fell in love with the art of beading and began to make jewelry. The more skilled she became, the more unusual became the jewelry. She decided to change her business focus from graphic design to jewelry design — since nothing made her happier than spending her days creating one-of-a-kind pieces. I haven't written this post to plug Siri's business, Sirious Design, although I suppose that's what I'm doing. I've written this post to share some beautiful creations, to make your day a little more beautiful, and to make you "ooh and aah"! Or to make you — as the Swedish Chef would say according to the Dialectizer — "ouh und eeh!"

A ONE-OF-A-KIND CUFF. SIRI SEES THESE PIECES AS PAINTINGS.

IN COMBINATION WITH HER OWN METAL WORK (YEP, SHE DOES THAT, TOO).

SIRI'S VERSION OF A LEI.

ANOTHER ONE-OF-A-KIND CUFF.

I COMPLAINED TO SIRI THAT SHE HAD NO DESIGNS FOR MEN AND SHE CAME UP WITH CHAINMAILLE.
I'VE GOT THE ABOVE IN SILVER AND ALSO IN COPPER (BOTH WITH BLACK RUBBER).  VERY MACHO.
I THINK I MAY NEED TO GO "OVER THE RAINBOW" AS A BIRTHDAY PRESENT TO MYSELF.

THE DOWAGER DUCHESS WEARS A HEART LIKE THIS ONE.

As the Swedish Chef would say, "Bork, bork, bork!"

My Cup Runneth Over

Jerry and I went to our new Sevillano doctor recently. He's just up the street.  He and his nurse/assistant were very kind, although they speak no English. I guess I'll have to sit in the examining room with Jerry from now on and tell him what to do and when to do it.

"Cough." (Well, I think he'll be able to figure that one out.)

Friday, we headed over to the lab, also in easy walking distance. The staff there was also very kind and also spoke no English. Jerry still managed to have a running conversation with the technician who drew his blood. From what I could hear from my seat in the waiting room, neither knew exactly what the other was talking about. But they seemed to enjoy themselves.

As part of our lab work we were handed little plastic-wrapped cups by the receptionist. They had instructions, in Spanish, on the side — accompanied by illustrations (nothing too "graphic"; just of a cup and a test tube, also provided).

Before spending all these years with Jerry, I never would have even talked about this. My family called the "bathroom" the "office"; Jerry's family described what they did there — in detail. I've loosened up over the years (no pun intended). You might all now wish I hadn't.

Before having our blood drawn, we were to go into the bathroom and... well... Oh, what the hell! We had to pee into the cup.

The instructions showed that once you... peed... into the cup, you were to pour the contents into the test tube and then seal the tube with the provided plastic lid.

My first thought when I entered the bathroom and unwrapped the cup? 'You've got to be kidding! I have to pour it from the wide cup into the narrow test tube?!? This is like cooking!"

A while later, as we headed out of the lab, Jerry turned to me and said very sympathetically, "I almost knocked on the bathroom door to offer to pour for you. I hope you didn't have any trouble. I worried you were going to feel like you were cooking."

Now, if that's not love, what is?

Jump In!

Sunday was a warm and sunny day here in Sevilla and, since my allergies seem to be easing up a bit, I am back to taking long meanders all around town.

In the afternoon I decided to see if I could locate the Andalusia Center for Contemporary Art, which I learned on Google Maps is just across the river on the Island of Cartuja. It looked like a bit of a hike, but it turned out to be much closer than I thought — another great destination less than 15 minutes from home. It's a contemporary property developed within an old ceramics factory. A fascinating blending of buildings, old and new. Something else to explore and blog about one of these days.

As I headed across the bridge to the island, I came upon a bunch of teenagers in bathing suits running toward me. All along the island side of the river is a park with jogging and bike paths, places for picnics and sunbathing, and opportunities for swimming. A lot of kids were having a ball jumping off a modern boardwalk/pier into the river. But the gang that I saw approaching looked like they intended to jump off the bridge. Three of them did. The rest malingered, talked big, and walked back down to sit on the grass.

CATCHING ONE DAREDEVIL MID-JUMP.

THIS POOR GUY WANTED TO JUMP, BUT COULD NEVER SUMMON THE NERVE.

I have been a risk-taker for a long time — usually choosing to shake things up and embrace change while sacrificing financial security and quite often, temporarily, emotional stability. So, I have been jumping off bridges my entire life — but only figuratively. Jerry is the same way. I'm sure we'll keep jumping, but we won't be joining the kids on the bridge.

I TRIED HARD TO CATCH THE ACTION. BUT I JUST COULDN'T KEEP UP.

DOWN BELOW. SWIMMERS. NOT JUMPERS.

AFTER HIS THIRD JUMP, HE CALLED TO HIS FRIEND WHO CONTINUOUSLY HESITATED,
"NO, I ALREADY TOLD YOU, THERE ARE NO FISH. THEY'RE MORE SCARED THAN YOU ARE."

THE VIEW NORTH OF THE BRIDGE. MUNICIPAL AUDITORIUM IN BACKGROUND.

I read somewhere that you don't need a parachute to skydive.
You only need a parachute to skydive twice.

IT'S SEVILLA. THERE WAS BOUND TO BE SOMEONE WHO COULD WALK ON WATER.
(HE HAD JUST JUMPED OFF THE LOW RAILING.)

Stoned and Plastered in Sevilla

I met my friends Saturday afternoon at La Perlita, next to the Church of the Magdalena, where I disappointed them all by nursing two small beers over a period of four hours. I'm a cheap date. The only way stoned and plastered find their way into my conversation is through the discussion of art and architecture. Sevilla has a lot of stone and plaster. I went for a walk this afternoon and decided to focus my attention on the works that adorn so much of this amazing city.

TOO MUCH CATNIP.  DUDO SLEEPING IT OFF.

My first stop was at the very grand Ayuntamiento (City Hall). The Spanish Inquisition began right here in Sevilla in 1481. After 1534, trials were held in Plaza San Francisco in front of the newly completed Ayuntamiento. Victims were then burned (either alive or, if they confessed, "mercifully" garroted first) in Plaza San Francisco or in the Prado de San Sebastian (where you can now catch one of a number of buses to the beach or other charming destinations).

THE ORIGINAL AYUNTAMIENTO FACADE ON PLAZA SAN FRANCISCO.
(GETTING READY FOR MORE SPECIAL EVENTS.)

RUNNING THE ENTIRE LENGTH OF THE ORIGINAL FACADE.

MORE FRIEZE-WORK.

A modern addition was added to the back of the Ayuntamiento in 1891; it then became the front of the building and faces onto Plaza Nueva. A major altar is being completed out back in Plaza San Francisco for upcoming festivities to honor Corpus Christi, which is Thursday. So, yes, there will be more parades (and, no, there will be no trials or burnings). We heretics are now kindly welcomed. I'll have plenty more photos of the Ayuntamiento during the week.

AYUNTAMIENTO TOWER UNDER A MOSTLY CLOUDY SKY.

WHO ARE THESE GUYS AND WHAT ARE THEY DOING TO THE CHERUB?
I'D LOVE AN INSIDER TOUR OF THE CARVINGS.

Passing the Ayuntamiento, I of course had to make a brief stop at the ornate gothic Cathedral (which was consecrated in 1507 after being built atop the Almohad Mosque, which was built in 1198). I could fill pages with photos of the sculptures and carvings. Once beyond the Cathedral, I saw lots more of course, but I've decided to save those photos (and whatever else I come across in the meantime) for future posts. So, look forward to more opportunities to get stoned and plastered with me.

ABOVE ONE OF THE CATHEDRALS MANY DOORS.
(THE ENTIRE FACADE IS CURRENTLY BEING CLEANED AND RESTORED.)

AMONG DOZENS OF HUMAN FIGURES SURROUNDING ONE SET OF CATHEDRAL DOORS.

ONE OF MY MANY FAVORITES.

NEWLY CLEANED. THE DIFFERENCE IS AMAZING.

SOME VERY ANCIENT WORK.