"Our cities are in decay," said the Intern.

"You're overreacting," came the word from the driver's seat.

"No. Really. Take a look."

All along Mem Drive, MIT was sprawling in every direction in a fit of architectural schizophrenia. They were building something that looked like Megatron's garage right next to what looked like a mock-Loire castle.

"There are still some nice buildings going up," the Foreign Car Driver said, trying to hop from first to third since second didn't work on Sundays. "Take a look at the Waterfront, and down around South Station."

"I guess," said the Intern. "But they all look like condominiums at Vail or something."

"Still..."

"And everything else is falling apart," said the Intern. They wheeled down Huntington Ave. and there was a beating happening in front of the Opera House.

"Take a look at that," said the Intern.

"That's got nothing to do with architecture," said the Foreign Car Driver.

"Still... If God had wanted men to live in condominiums, he would have given them maitre d's."

"Righto, Champ," said the Driver as the last remaining hubcap spun down Newbury Street and hit an antique clothing store with a clang.

"Or he might have at least issued everybody mirrored sunglasses."

The press junket was for the opening of the new wing of the Museum of Fine Arts and it was being held for members, sustaining members, contributing members, patrons, benefactors, papal nuncios, photographers, brie-eaters, and people from Weston. The Intern and the Foreign Car Driver had to come in early through a back door and were talking to some models from Filene's who were hired, to stand perfectly still, like mannequins, throughout the new wing to advertise the latest fashions. One woman was wearing the latest in sweatsuit technology, complete with gamma ray sunglasses. The rest were attired in the new "peasant look," which seemed suspiciously out of place.

"I though peasants wore skins and hardy cloths," said the Intern.