“Underneath this heavy cross, Lies my poor mother-in-law. Three more days should she have lived, I’d lie dead here, and she’d read (this cross). You, who here are passing by, Not to wake her up please try! Good stay, dear mother-in-law!” When people think of travel, they typically picture exotic views, delicious food, and white sand beaches. My story is a little different — it brought me to a graveyard. Before we begin: can you think of the best dark joke you‘ve ever heard? Whether we’re laughing off terrible news, marriage lowlights, or an egregious restaurant order, few things match Romanian dark humor. Now, if you believe Mexicans have a fascinating way of commemorating the dead, get ready to hear about the Romanians: they set their favorite joke about somebody in stone — literally, on their tombstone. Cruel, you might think? Well, not quite. In 1935, as Amelia Earhart flew solo across the Pacific ocean and the Great Depression reached its peak, something unusual was taking place in a charmingly picturesque Romanian village: the first tombstone of the “Merry Cemetery” was adorned. A local craftsman decided to inject some humor into the sullen atmosphere of the cemetery, by engraving epitaphs with salient moments of people’s lives on brightly-colored, wooden memorials. He thought that misery and grief shouldn’t be the focus of death, but rather, we should celebrate the life that just ended. So, with chisel and mallet in hand, he set out determined to prove this. Stan Pătraș, who created the world's most spectacular cemetery, sadly passed away in 1977, leaving his house and belongings to his apprentice, Dumitru Pop, who continues the 85-year tradition. Traveling through the lofty mountains and pastoral valleys of northern Romania, and halting at the sun-drenched village of Săpânța, I was fortunate enough to meet the apprentice of Stan Pătraș who, quite possibly, may be the very last person to perpetuate this tradition. Because frankly, “Tombstone sculptor in a remote Eastern European village” doesn’t rank very high on the “dream job” list for most people, so it might have been my only chance at a personal interview before this unique, esoteric craft is lost. Stepping into the “Merry Cemetery”, I was struck by its joyous ambiance and rich palette of vibrant colors. The freshly blooming cherry trees were scattering pink-silvery petals into the crisp vernal air. I noticed an old, sage workman with grizzled hair in a well-worn coat sitting on a rickety chair, surrounded only by his tools and paints. He was etching letters on an unfinished tombstone. As I approached him, a myriad of worries about disturbing him started pouring in my mind, but he turned to me with a smiley, welcoming face. “You’re here about the stones?” he asked in a broken accent. I stammered a confused “yes”. “Follow me” he said. “You’re the third one today.” Fitting to Romanian hospitality, rural houses constantly keep wide-open gates, so visitors can stop by freely. There was a tourist group in the lush green front yard when we arrived, waiting to meet the Master. I should have known, the man carves joyful poetry on defunct people’s stones for a living, I couldn’t have possibly been the only one curious about his work. He was kind enough to provide a quick “demonstration”: sculpting a bright blue gravestone with roses around its poem. As I was listening to his tenacious cutter making its way through the heavy walnut wood, I couldn’t help but wonder how my beloved friends and family would later commemorate me. Would my stone be embellished in caring words and precious memories flattered by dainty flowers? Would its shining colors and merry poesy make people happy and cheerful, after I no longer could? Dumitru had the whole house smelling like sawdust but made up for it by serving us traditional Balkan cheesecake, a tradeoff I would happily indulge again. Every once in a while, I think about the friendly craftsman — his cordial aura, positive outlook on life, and his heartfelt parting words: “Happiness is not a goal. It’s what remains after a life well-lived”. It must have been Romanian humor, for the last thing I expected was to receive life advice from a tombstone maker.