The air conditioning in my car quit Thursday night. In Houston, this is a very bad thing, enough for those survivalist instincts to kick in. I knew I couldn’t take the car in on Friday, and I knew that I probably would have to scrap my plans for a Galveston trip over the weekend. Driving to work and back with no a/c is one thing, but driving to the coast, in traffic, as the temperatures and humidity rose to disgusting levels? And did I mention that it wasn’t really an air conditioning problem — the fan wouldn’t even come on at all? So no roadtrip. I rode my bike and walked everywhere Saturday and Sunday.

Anyway, my plan was to take the car in this morning to my new favorite mechanic. I found this shop this winter when my headlights had a peculiar problem. They were dim, even with two new bulbs. I hit upon a great resource to find new mechanics: the Car Talk website. Plug in location and car make, and find a shop recommended by yuppies like you. I found a place with glowing reviews over a long period of time and took the car there. The problem turned out to be a very strange (but cheap) cross circuit caused by a broken filament that was sending current across the front of my car. The guy was really tickled about the puzzle, and asked me if I’d like to keep the culprit bulb (but secretly looked like he hoped I’d say no). I let him keep the bulb, and talked to him for awhile. He services the cars of a lot of the Houston Symphony musicians, and had interesting stories about cellos and the London Symphony and such. I liked him a lot.

Anyway, I called him this morning and was crestfallen to hear a message saying he was on vacation for a week. Obviously, I can’t wait a week, so I searched again and surprisingly came up with a place right around the corner that, while they didn’t specialize in Hondas, had at least been there awhile and had two people loyal enough to give them positive reviews. So I took the car there.

It was while I was walking back that I realized “hmmm…I have just dropped my car off with a 40-year-old pregnant Romanian with a shop named *Fixers*, I don’t want to seem prejudiced against gypsies, but I am stupid about cars and so am easily duped.”

Since then, I have verified everything she has told me (ordering parts from the Honda dealer, etc.), and she gave me a really cool loaner car, a 1989 Volvo with a surfboard salt stain and over 208,000 miles on the odometer, so anyway, so far so good about “Krina” the gypsy mechanic. I stand behind my advice (two for two!) to look for mechanics on the Car Talk site.