. . . where the chairs, food, and signs have been there since 1950. On walking in, the smell of decay hits my nose with a ferocity, that I was forced to look around and see if there was some pathetic incontinent ancient family dog laying in a corner. There wasn't, only old containers of food laying around, a TV tuned to a Polish station, and the counter woman couldn't find the clothes that went with our ticket. Luckily the owner was there - friendly man, efficient, and personable. Unfortunately, once they found our stuff, and we got it home, we found the cuffs of the shirts we had laundered were grey, and a bit 'ring-around-the-collary'-y, and I determined that I wouldn't intentionally take clothes back again. This one was one and done!