Well, a belated Merry Christmas to all! Christmas here in Moldova was simple but very unique and special.
The festivities commenced on Friday when volunteers were invited to attend a Christmas party hosted by the Ambassador. This was a unique opportunity for all of us volunteers, it is rare that an Ambassador would be so willing to open his home to group of strangers. We were given a warm reception when we arrived, and we were all shocked at the spread put forth that included some luxuries from home we all miss *cough, Dr. Pepper, cough*. The Ambassador and his family were so gracious to have hosted us, and I know I speak for everyone who attended the gathering when I say thank you, it truly made for a special holiday. It was a memory we will never forget, and brought a sense of the traditional American Christmas to our minds and hearts as we ate and drank familiar foods in the warmth of your beautiful home.
Just after the party I ventured over to the North Station with a few other volunteers where we met a few friendly Moldovan's also heading to Balti (a city in the north). They were extremely nice and we all had a great time making small talk and laughing about the differences in culture between Moldova and the US. We all got on to the rutiera (mini-bus) and continued our conversation with our newly made friends before everyone drifted off into a daze gazing at the darkened countryside passing by our breath-clouded windows.
The following day, Christmas Eve, was spent at a leisurely pace, we all woke with the sun peering into the windows. After a few mugs of instant coffee we decided to venture out into the city for a couple of hours. We munched on warm brinza placinta (pastry filled with cheese) as we walked through the main square and further into the market. The market is a hectic place with stands and booths lining up and down, row after row. We mazed our way through the different sections,-- produce, cookies and chocolate, housewares and everyday essentials, clothing and shoes,--all the way to the second hand clothes section. We meandered around in search of a diamond in the rough. After plowing my way through multiple piles of sweaters I came out with a gem. A big ole' wool sweater with a pattern that would make any ugly sweater party proud. I happily handed over the requested 15 lei (about $1.25) and carried away my new prized sweater. A bit more peering about and ogling some old Communist era pins before we headed back to the apartment. For dinner that night we got our inspiration from Christmas in July and prepared cheeseburgers, french fries and coleslaw. The night was ended watching football and drinking a glass of Ukraine's finest beer.
Thanks to technology I was able to share in many of the traditions that my family and I have back home. So, during the wee hours of Christmas morning I woke and booted up my computer so that I could Skype-in to the Christmas eve midnight service at my church. My dad, being the tech savvy guy that he is, had no problem hooking up all sorts of gadgets in the sanctuary so that I could feel like I was home and not missing out on any of the moments that make Christmas special. There I sat, thousands of miles away, watching on as so many of the people that I know and love took part in the yearly Christmas eve candlelit service. I was a big old softy and cried three times during the service, it wasn't because I was sad, it was because I was seeing all the people I wanted to hug, all the people I wanted to whisper Merry Christmas to. It was, as it always is, a beautiful service. I even was prepared and lit my own candle and sang along to the songs in my darkened room. The soft light from the candles was beautifully reflected on my little screen and when I closed my eyes it was like I was sitting in a pew. It might have been a little over the top to have Skyped my church service, but it honestly made me feel less homesick. Being able to turn the computer off at the end of the service and crawl back in to bed for a few more hours of sleep made me feel like I was falling asleep while everyone else in my little town also snuggled into their blankets. We were sharing Christmas together after-all.
Christmas morning we woke up and quickly threw on 'church clothes' so that we wouldn't miss Christmas morning mass at the local catholic church. I am not Catholic, but I thought it would be a neat memory to have attended mass here in Moldova. When we arrived I quickly felt out of place, not only do I not know when to kneel, or chant, or do the cross thing, the entire service was given in Russian and Polish. What language have I been learning? Romanian. So, I sat there silently for the next hour and half trying not to look completely out of place. When mass finally ended we all headed back to the apartment where I prepared a big breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. The rest of the day was spent at a leisurely pace, I was able to Skype with my family and we all opened presents together, and again when the entire family got together at my Grandmas. It was a simple day, nothing over the top, but for being so far from home I felt close.
It was a Christmas I will remember forever.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Anytime is a good time for a 'Masa'
Over the past few weeks I have been going to the Casa de Creati (Crafting House) to both meet with the kids who attend the school and begin to learn how to needlepoint. It is a humbling experience to sew significantly below the level of the 8 year old girls that accompany me, but hey, you have to start somewhere, right?
The fist day I went to the craft house I was received with confusion. The girls were, naturally, confused why a grown woman was, first, in the class and second, why I didn't have the basic knowledge or the feminine pedicure to gracefully stitch myself into oblivion. By the end of the first day, one flower and a leaf later, I was asked to return the next day for a celebration. It was, after-all, Saint Andrews day, we must celebrate.
So, the following day I gathered the courage to make myself look like an incompetent fool and ventured back to the Craft House. When I arrived I quickly realized that today would not be a normal class. The room had been turned into a stage with chairs lining the parameter. I was called over to sit next to the teacher. I awkwardly took my seat and tried my hardest to blend into the background while the girls rehearsed their lines. A couple of older women had joined the mix today. They were providing us with a musical contribution. The two ladies sat happily perched on their chairs singing little melodies in celebration of Saint Andrew. A few more people joined the audience before the performance began, and than we were off.
The girls read their parts with clear enunciated voices. The two visiting women sang their well-worn songs. The audience consisting of me, a young boy, the director of the school and a neighbor, sat watching on attentively. The performance was coming to an end when the teacher asked for me to contribute to the performance. I had no idea what to say, I was hoping to get by with just a smile, my face was burning red, I looked around to see if I could get out of it, the handful of people in the room were expecting me to say something. With all eyes on me I was able to choke out a thank you and that I had had a wonderful time. I was hoping that after this I would be able to sneak out the door while no one was looking, but of course that just wasn't meant to be.
The director of the school, an older gentlemen with a warm smile ushered me into an adjoining room. Where a spread of sandwiches and snacks were being set for a 'masa' (meal). Chairs were brought in and all of the adults were taking their seats, handing out cups and napkins and getting ready for the meal. Three large bottles of house wine were set on the table, and with that final flourish, the meal began. I let the singing ladies take the reigns on this masa. They chattered away, I happily smiled and quietly downed cup after cup of house wine. There were toasts to health, happiness, successful collaboration in the future... and of course for my future husband and babies. The women sang the songs they have sung for years, well worn songs that everyone who grew up in Moldova knows, drumming their calloused hands on the table, filling the masa with music. Keeping a plucky beat for an evening that turned out to be one of my favorite in Moldova. Sitting amid these people, speaking their language, listening to their songs and stories, eating their food and drinking their wine, these are the moments I truly do love being here.
Peace to you on this chilly winter day.
The fist day I went to the craft house I was received with confusion. The girls were, naturally, confused why a grown woman was, first, in the class and second, why I didn't have the basic knowledge or the feminine pedicure to gracefully stitch myself into oblivion. By the end of the first day, one flower and a leaf later, I was asked to return the next day for a celebration. It was, after-all, Saint Andrews day, we must celebrate.
So, the following day I gathered the courage to make myself look like an incompetent fool and ventured back to the Craft House. When I arrived I quickly realized that today would not be a normal class. The room had been turned into a stage with chairs lining the parameter. I was called over to sit next to the teacher. I awkwardly took my seat and tried my hardest to blend into the background while the girls rehearsed their lines. A couple of older women had joined the mix today. They were providing us with a musical contribution. The two ladies sat happily perched on their chairs singing little melodies in celebration of Saint Andrew. A few more people joined the audience before the performance began, and than we were off.
The girls read their parts with clear enunciated voices. The two visiting women sang their well-worn songs. The audience consisting of me, a young boy, the director of the school and a neighbor, sat watching on attentively. The performance was coming to an end when the teacher asked for me to contribute to the performance. I had no idea what to say, I was hoping to get by with just a smile, my face was burning red, I looked around to see if I could get out of it, the handful of people in the room were expecting me to say something. With all eyes on me I was able to choke out a thank you and that I had had a wonderful time. I was hoping that after this I would be able to sneak out the door while no one was looking, but of course that just wasn't meant to be.
The director of the school, an older gentlemen with a warm smile ushered me into an adjoining room. Where a spread of sandwiches and snacks were being set for a 'masa' (meal). Chairs were brought in and all of the adults were taking their seats, handing out cups and napkins and getting ready for the meal. Three large bottles of house wine were set on the table, and with that final flourish, the meal began. I let the singing ladies take the reigns on this masa. They chattered away, I happily smiled and quietly downed cup after cup of house wine. There were toasts to health, happiness, successful collaboration in the future... and of course for my future husband and babies. The women sang the songs they have sung for years, well worn songs that everyone who grew up in Moldova knows, drumming their calloused hands on the table, filling the masa with music. Keeping a plucky beat for an evening that turned out to be one of my favorite in Moldova. Sitting amid these people, speaking their language, listening to their songs and stories, eating their food and drinking their wine, these are the moments I truly do love being here.
Peace to you on this chilly winter day.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Rewriting the Meaning of Success
As part of the Peace Corps 50th anniversary celebrations, Peace Corps Moldova put together a blog called "365 days of Peace and Friendship". Volunteers in Moldova are the contributors to the blog and everyday a different volunteer serves up his/her story from Moldova. There are no parameters for contributions which allows all volunteers full creative license. I posted to this blog last week and because I am at a loss for what to post I have decided to re-post what I contributed here. Feel free to explore the 365 website at this address to read the stories of my fellow volunteers in Moldova.
https://sites.google.com/a/365peaceandfriendship.com/365peaceandfriendship/home
Like many of my fellow volunteers, I joined the Peace Corps straight out of University. I came from a hyper active bubble of academia, strict deadlines, and fast paced classrooms. I had a typical college schedule filled with late nights, tons of coffee and a thirst for productivity. I kept a schedule, worked off a check-list, stressed about nearly every aspect of my life and always thought at least ten steps ahead. And so, when I decided to join the Peace Corps I thought, like most type-A volunteers do, that I would venture off to a new country, learn a language and make a meaningful impact in a community that was waiting on the edge of their seats for my arrival.
I made check-lists of all the wonderful things I wanted to accomplish, I made timelines of how I would complete project after successful project and I filed away deadlines in my mind that would allow for optimal success. I knew my planned ‘awesomeness’ could not go astray, it couldn’t, I had built such a strong Peace
Corps syllabus for myself, the classrooms I had spent four years of my life in couldn’t fail me, not if I prepared.
As the time neared to take off on this great adventure the people in my life all talked about how wonderful they thought it was that I was going to give two years of my life. I smiled, and said how I was excited for the challenge and to go get work done. It was so simple to plan, and dream, and get caught in the excitement and anticipation of my pre-departure period. I took my final exams, walked in my graduation robes, celebrated with friends and family, and packed my bags for the next 27 months. The time was going to fly by.
The M26 group, Peace Corps Moldova, landed in Chisinau on June 8 2011. We carried with us not only heavy bags filled with warm winter clothes we were warned were necessary for the cold winter months, but dreams of big change and hopes for our future in this little land locked post-soviet nation.
As I started settling in after the first two months of training, I began to realize life in Moldova was not going to be what I had expected of it. My coffee addiction was traded for tea. My list of projects were all deemed un-fit, un-sustainable or un-important. My timeline was passing deadlines with no progress. Not every person I encountered was overjoyed to have me living in their country. My life had to happen within the hours of sunlight. And ultimately, my idea of success had to be reworked. Was this what I spent over a year applying for?
At first I fought it; this wasn’t what it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be the superhero. Instead I ended most days feeling tired, confused and often utterly dejected. As time passed I began to wonder why any of us had chosen to leave our family and friends to be in this place. And then, one day I woke up and realized that my idea of success had changed. Success wasn’t the number of successful projects I completed, or the amount of money I was able to raise. Success would be my ability to live happily in this community, my ability to share in the everyday experiences. My ability to make my neighbor smile when I walked pass her on my way to work, my ability to share my little knowledge of computers with the people in my office, my ability to prepare pancakes for my host mom on a Sunday morning, my ability to simply live would be my success.
My new goal, that I try to live by everyday, is that if I am the only American that the people in my community ever come in contact with, they will think highly of the people and the country that I represent, that will be what makes me proud, that will be my success. That will be my small, unglamorous, contribution. And, that will be enough for me.
https://sites.google.com/a/365peaceandfriendship.com/365peaceandfriendship/home
Like many of my fellow volunteers, I joined the Peace Corps straight out of University. I came from a hyper active bubble of academia, strict deadlines, and fast paced classrooms. I had a typical college schedule filled with late nights, tons of coffee and a thirst for productivity. I kept a schedule, worked off a check-list, stressed about nearly every aspect of my life and always thought at least ten steps ahead. And so, when I decided to join the Peace Corps I thought, like most type-A volunteers do, that I would venture off to a new country, learn a language and make a meaningful impact in a community that was waiting on the edge of their seats for my arrival.
I made check-lists of all the wonderful things I wanted to accomplish, I made timelines of how I would complete project after successful project and I filed away deadlines in my mind that would allow for optimal success. I knew my planned ‘awesomeness’ could not go astray, it couldn’t, I had built such a strong Peace
Corps syllabus for myself, the classrooms I had spent four years of my life in couldn’t fail me, not if I prepared.
As the time neared to take off on this great adventure the people in my life all talked about how wonderful they thought it was that I was going to give two years of my life. I smiled, and said how I was excited for the challenge and to go get work done. It was so simple to plan, and dream, and get caught in the excitement and anticipation of my pre-departure period. I took my final exams, walked in my graduation robes, celebrated with friends and family, and packed my bags for the next 27 months. The time was going to fly by.
The M26 group, Peace Corps Moldova, landed in Chisinau on June 8 2011. We carried with us not only heavy bags filled with warm winter clothes we were warned were necessary for the cold winter months, but dreams of big change and hopes for our future in this little land locked post-soviet nation.
As I started settling in after the first two months of training, I began to realize life in Moldova was not going to be what I had expected of it. My coffee addiction was traded for tea. My list of projects were all deemed un-fit, un-sustainable or un-important. My timeline was passing deadlines with no progress. Not every person I encountered was overjoyed to have me living in their country. My life had to happen within the hours of sunlight. And ultimately, my idea of success had to be reworked. Was this what I spent over a year applying for?
At first I fought it; this wasn’t what it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be the superhero. Instead I ended most days feeling tired, confused and often utterly dejected. As time passed I began to wonder why any of us had chosen to leave our family and friends to be in this place. And then, one day I woke up and realized that my idea of success had changed. Success wasn’t the number of successful projects I completed, or the amount of money I was able to raise. Success would be my ability to live happily in this community, my ability to share in the everyday experiences. My ability to make my neighbor smile when I walked pass her on my way to work, my ability to share my little knowledge of computers with the people in my office, my ability to prepare pancakes for my host mom on a Sunday morning, my ability to simply live would be my success.
My new goal, that I try to live by everyday, is that if I am the only American that the people in my community ever come in contact with, they will think highly of the people and the country that I represent, that will be what makes me proud, that will be my success. That will be my small, unglamorous, contribution. And, that will be enough for me.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Tis' The Season?
It's a typical Tuesday morning. I am sitting in my office at work. I am staring at my computer screen. I am thinking I should write something so I don't get the 'where is a new post?' email from my Dad. I am entirely drawing a blank. What should I write about? Nothing is happening... I am lost for words. (Let me know if there is anything you want to hear about... I'm completely open and hoping for suggestions)
Getting in the holiday spirit. How does one do this in a foreign land? In the US it is simple. It's made easy, because we all have traditions that fill the season and make it unique. We also live in a society that commercializes the crap out of the holiday, so the in-your-face approach will tackle a person whether holiday cheer is wanted, or not. Some people hate the commercialization of the holiday... the people who know me best know that I can't help but love the craziness of it all. No, I don't think that people camping out on black Friday is healthy or normal, but I do love the piles of cotton snow, countless strings of lights, and carols blaring from speakers forming the soundtrack of the season.
In Moldova it is a bit more of a challenge to identify the season. Other than the cold, it is just like any other time of the year. When I go into the capital I am able to detect Christmas, with lots of fake trees for sale in the market, but this isn't exactly what I had in mind. When I get on the rutiera (mini-bus) I hope for Christmas music, no. When I step out my door and can see my breath in the air, I hope for snow, no. When I walk through the center of town I hope for wreaths--or lights-- or a tree, no. It all makes finding the 'magic of Christmas' a challenge.
Now, before you start judging and thinking the only part of Christmas I like is the atmosphere and push to 'buy-buy-buy', I must remind you that I am a specimen of my upbringing, these are just some of the elements that contribute to what makes the Holiday season special to me.
I also have begun to miss the advent season at church more than I have in the past. I miss the stories, and the lighting of the advent wreath. I miss seeing the members of my community in their newest winter sweaters and pulling tags from the 'giving tree'. I miss the sound of the choir singing the classic songs that solidify that it is, in fact, the most wonderful time of the year.
How have I chosen to get myself in the holiday spirit? I guess it would be the little things. I have busied myself making homemade Christmas gifts for people, host mom has done a good job at showing her amusement of my crafting ability. I have also upped my hot beverage in take. This includes the special 'christmas mystery' tea I was introduced to earlier in the year by another volunteer, and digging into my coveted swiss-miss cocoa reserve that my grandma sent me. I also spent an hour streaming approximately five Christmas songs on youtube (slow internet this time of year translates into a lack of x-mas tunes). This weekend I have plans to watch Christmas movies with another volunteer and purchase a, never-thought-I-would-say-it, fake tree. The weekend after I am planning to bake Christmas cookies, and perhaps, attempt a gingerbread house. None of these things are grand gestures, but they are all small nods to the holiday that I hope will shine some light on this otherwise cold and dark time of the year.
I hope you can embrace the corny Christmas-land that surrounds you in the US. It's not perfect, but it 'Tis' the Season'.
Peace from Moldova
Getting in the holiday spirit. How does one do this in a foreign land? In the US it is simple. It's made easy, because we all have traditions that fill the season and make it unique. We also live in a society that commercializes the crap out of the holiday, so the in-your-face approach will tackle a person whether holiday cheer is wanted, or not. Some people hate the commercialization of the holiday... the people who know me best know that I can't help but love the craziness of it all. No, I don't think that people camping out on black Friday is healthy or normal, but I do love the piles of cotton snow, countless strings of lights, and carols blaring from speakers forming the soundtrack of the season.
In Moldova it is a bit more of a challenge to identify the season. Other than the cold, it is just like any other time of the year. When I go into the capital I am able to detect Christmas, with lots of fake trees for sale in the market, but this isn't exactly what I had in mind. When I get on the rutiera (mini-bus) I hope for Christmas music, no. When I step out my door and can see my breath in the air, I hope for snow, no. When I walk through the center of town I hope for wreaths--or lights-- or a tree, no. It all makes finding the 'magic of Christmas' a challenge.
Now, before you start judging and thinking the only part of Christmas I like is the atmosphere and push to 'buy-buy-buy', I must remind you that I am a specimen of my upbringing, these are just some of the elements that contribute to what makes the Holiday season special to me.
I also have begun to miss the advent season at church more than I have in the past. I miss the stories, and the lighting of the advent wreath. I miss seeing the members of my community in their newest winter sweaters and pulling tags from the 'giving tree'. I miss the sound of the choir singing the classic songs that solidify that it is, in fact, the most wonderful time of the year.
How have I chosen to get myself in the holiday spirit? I guess it would be the little things. I have busied myself making homemade Christmas gifts for people, host mom has done a good job at showing her amusement of my crafting ability. I have also upped my hot beverage in take. This includes the special 'christmas mystery' tea I was introduced to earlier in the year by another volunteer, and digging into my coveted swiss-miss cocoa reserve that my grandma sent me. I also spent an hour streaming approximately five Christmas songs on youtube (slow internet this time of year translates into a lack of x-mas tunes). This weekend I have plans to watch Christmas movies with another volunteer and purchase a, never-thought-I-would-say-it, fake tree. The weekend after I am planning to bake Christmas cookies, and perhaps, attempt a gingerbread house. None of these things are grand gestures, but they are all small nods to the holiday that I hope will shine some light on this otherwise cold and dark time of the year.
I hope you can embrace the corny Christmas-land that surrounds you in the US. It's not perfect, but it 'Tis' the Season'.
Peace from Moldova
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
The Grand Tour
The grand tour of Nisporeni (my new site) happened about a week ago. I have been living in Nisporeni for almost a month now, but have only really seen the main road that I walk each day to and from work. I was excited to get to see more of my new home.
My partner, Vlad, picked me up at my house at around 8:30pm to take me on my 'official tour'. He drives a common car in Moldova. I don't know the exact name, but it reminds me of a cross between a truck and a van. I guess it is kind of like a mail delivery vehicle in the US. Anyways, by 8:30pm the sun had long since fallen from the horizon, and with the cold nights of winter quickly approaching I was thankful he had the heat on full blast when I hopped into the passenger seat.
We zoomed off down the street, Vlad pointing out buildings of importance as I tried my best to take everything in. We passed factory after factory, Vlad explaining that all of these buildings had once been in working condition during the soviet era, but were now closed. Most of the buildings he was pointing out had been the pillars of industry and production for the region, during their prime they created jobs and exports that gave Moldova a name for itself in agricultural production in all of the Soviet Union. It was hard to believe that these run down old buildings were once the churning cog of the economy. It was hard to see the decay of what was clearly once a prosperous economic town.
Luckily for me Vlad speaks English well, and so he and I regularly have conversations in Romanian, English and sometimes both. I can't lie, I still get a kick out of the fact that we can talk in two different languages. I will ask him a question in English, he will respond in Romanian, it's entertaining ...probably not to him, but I get a weird enjoyment out of it.
I also have run into a weird phenomenon, I seem to be losing my English. I should preface this with the fact that I, in no way, have good enough Romanian to be losing any vocabulary from my native language (even that, 'native language', I had to ask for help to remember the name of). It's not usually a problem, when I am speaking with other Americans, they generally get the main idea. It becomes a problem when I am speaking with my partner and he asks me what a word is in English after we are talking about it in Romanian. My mind blanks, I know the Romanian, it makes sense, I can't remember the English. Usually I am able to say, 'It's ok, I understand', but, on the rare occasion when he says 'No, I want to know what it is in English' I sit there fumbling for the word. This happened twice on the tour. The first time we were talking about 'fabricat', Vlad asked me what the translation was, it took me way too many minutes to finally come to the word...'factory'. Anyone might find this funny, I find this utterly pathetic. Here I am, barely able to communicate coherently in Romania and I am beginning to forget basic English. Let's hope this is a temporary problem.
The tour continued and we stopped over in one of the adjoining villages to pick up Vlad's friend. They were planning to go out to the disco after my tour. Vlad and his friend enjoyed giving me a comedic perspective of their home. We passed the locals mayors office and Vlad's friend chirped up in his rough English that we were passing the 'White House'. We all laughed and Vlad corrected him saying 'No, this is the mayors office'. Vlad's friend didn't miss a beat and replied 'No, look it's Obama's car'. He was pointing to a giant antique-looking tractor, saying 'It's a special car for our roads'. We all laughed as we bumped and rattled down the street.
A few minutes later, after politely declining their invitations to join them at the disco, I was back home. A tad car sick, but filled with significantly more information about the community I live in. And hey, now I know where the White House is!
My partner, Vlad, picked me up at my house at around 8:30pm to take me on my 'official tour'. He drives a common car in Moldova. I don't know the exact name, but it reminds me of a cross between a truck and a van. I guess it is kind of like a mail delivery vehicle in the US. Anyways, by 8:30pm the sun had long since fallen from the horizon, and with the cold nights of winter quickly approaching I was thankful he had the heat on full blast when I hopped into the passenger seat.
We zoomed off down the street, Vlad pointing out buildings of importance as I tried my best to take everything in. We passed factory after factory, Vlad explaining that all of these buildings had once been in working condition during the soviet era, but were now closed. Most of the buildings he was pointing out had been the pillars of industry and production for the region, during their prime they created jobs and exports that gave Moldova a name for itself in agricultural production in all of the Soviet Union. It was hard to believe that these run down old buildings were once the churning cog of the economy. It was hard to see the decay of what was clearly once a prosperous economic town.
Luckily for me Vlad speaks English well, and so he and I regularly have conversations in Romanian, English and sometimes both. I can't lie, I still get a kick out of the fact that we can talk in two different languages. I will ask him a question in English, he will respond in Romanian, it's entertaining ...probably not to him, but I get a weird enjoyment out of it.
I also have run into a weird phenomenon, I seem to be losing my English. I should preface this with the fact that I, in no way, have good enough Romanian to be losing any vocabulary from my native language (even that, 'native language', I had to ask for help to remember the name of). It's not usually a problem, when I am speaking with other Americans, they generally get the main idea. It becomes a problem when I am speaking with my partner and he asks me what a word is in English after we are talking about it in Romanian. My mind blanks, I know the Romanian, it makes sense, I can't remember the English. Usually I am able to say, 'It's ok, I understand', but, on the rare occasion when he says 'No, I want to know what it is in English' I sit there fumbling for the word. This happened twice on the tour. The first time we were talking about 'fabricat', Vlad asked me what the translation was, it took me way too many minutes to finally come to the word...'factory'. Anyone might find this funny, I find this utterly pathetic. Here I am, barely able to communicate coherently in Romania and I am beginning to forget basic English. Let's hope this is a temporary problem.
The tour continued and we stopped over in one of the adjoining villages to pick up Vlad's friend. They were planning to go out to the disco after my tour. Vlad and his friend enjoyed giving me a comedic perspective of their home. We passed the locals mayors office and Vlad's friend chirped up in his rough English that we were passing the 'White House'. We all laughed and Vlad corrected him saying 'No, this is the mayors office'. Vlad's friend didn't miss a beat and replied 'No, look it's Obama's car'. He was pointing to a giant antique-looking tractor, saying 'It's a special car for our roads'. We all laughed as we bumped and rattled down the street.
A few minutes later, after politely declining their invitations to join them at the disco, I was back home. A tad car sick, but filled with significantly more information about the community I live in. And hey, now I know where the White House is!
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Full of Thanks on Thanksgiving
Happy Thanksgiving! Ziua Recunostintei!
Today will mark the beginning of my first holiday season away from my family. I can't honestly say that I'm fully okay with this reality, but, this is the commitment I made when I joined the Peace Corps. I knew that I would be giving up the holiday season with my family and friends...but just like everything else, it is much easier to talk about it, than to actually be living.
Being here, in Moldova has given me a lot of free time to think. As Thanksgiving approached I naturally began to think about all the traditions I share with my family, and how much I truly love spending this time of year with all of them. Of course, no family is perfect, but when you are far from home, the idea of 'home' becomes a magical place where everyone is happy, healthy, and full of holiday cheer. At first thinking about all that I was going to be missing overwhelmed me with sadness and self pity. 'Poor me, I am all alone...' everyone has been there. But than, while sitting on a rutiera one Saturday morning, heading in to Chisinau to meet with another volunteer I realized something. I was sad that I would be missing this holiday because I have such a wonderful family. I was sad because I would be missing out on the fun. I was sad I wouldn't be able to drink too much wine with Dani and Hannah, eat too much food with Sam, talk to Lorri and Lynn about the 'new man in my life', and wake up at John and Sues' on Friday only to stumble over to Settlers Green to get 'the wicked good deals'.
I was sad because I have a wonderful family? No, that doesn't make sense... I am sad because have something to miss. I began to think about all the reasons I love my family. I began to realize just how thankful I truly am. This realization brought me to tears on that rutiera. (Yes, peace corps has turned me into an emotional sap.) Instead of thinking about how sad I was about not being with my family, I decided that it was time to give thanks for all that I do have: a family that fills my heart with more love than I could ever need. Sure, it sucks I won't be in that little New England town celebrating with the larger-than-necessary turkey, but I know it will all be there for me when I get home.
And, even though I am away from home I am still celebrating Thanksgiving. Sure, it isn't the same, but in its own way it is exactly what it should be. A group of volunteers, whom I now call close friends, piecing together the elements of thanksgiving that make it a holiday; food, friends and much to be thankful for. Will I 'play it cool' when Skypeing with my family today, no probably not, but I will be filled with a deep thanks that I have never felt before.
Today, when my family sits down at the table for dinner they will go around in a circle and say what it is they are most thankful for. Today, I won't be seated at that table but they all should know that what I am most thankful for, more than anything else and more than ever, I am thankful for all of them.
With hopes for love and peace to you on this Thanksgiving ~
Today will mark the beginning of my first holiday season away from my family. I can't honestly say that I'm fully okay with this reality, but, this is the commitment I made when I joined the Peace Corps. I knew that I would be giving up the holiday season with my family and friends...but just like everything else, it is much easier to talk about it, than to actually be living.
Being here, in Moldova has given me a lot of free time to think. As Thanksgiving approached I naturally began to think about all the traditions I share with my family, and how much I truly love spending this time of year with all of them. Of course, no family is perfect, but when you are far from home, the idea of 'home' becomes a magical place where everyone is happy, healthy, and full of holiday cheer. At first thinking about all that I was going to be missing overwhelmed me with sadness and self pity. 'Poor me, I am all alone...' everyone has been there. But than, while sitting on a rutiera one Saturday morning, heading in to Chisinau to meet with another volunteer I realized something. I was sad that I would be missing this holiday because I have such a wonderful family. I was sad because I would be missing out on the fun. I was sad I wouldn't be able to drink too much wine with Dani and Hannah, eat too much food with Sam, talk to Lorri and Lynn about the 'new man in my life', and wake up at John and Sues' on Friday only to stumble over to Settlers Green to get 'the wicked good deals'.
I was sad because I have a wonderful family? No, that doesn't make sense... I am sad because have something to miss. I began to think about all the reasons I love my family. I began to realize just how thankful I truly am. This realization brought me to tears on that rutiera. (Yes, peace corps has turned me into an emotional sap.) Instead of thinking about how sad I was about not being with my family, I decided that it was time to give thanks for all that I do have: a family that fills my heart with more love than I could ever need. Sure, it sucks I won't be in that little New England town celebrating with the larger-than-necessary turkey, but I know it will all be there for me when I get home.
And, even though I am away from home I am still celebrating Thanksgiving. Sure, it isn't the same, but in its own way it is exactly what it should be. A group of volunteers, whom I now call close friends, piecing together the elements of thanksgiving that make it a holiday; food, friends and much to be thankful for. Will I 'play it cool' when Skypeing with my family today, no probably not, but I will be filled with a deep thanks that I have never felt before.
Today, when my family sits down at the table for dinner they will go around in a circle and say what it is they are most thankful for. Today, I won't be seated at that table but they all should know that what I am most thankful for, more than anything else and more than ever, I am thankful for all of them.
With hopes for love and peace to you on this Thanksgiving ~
Monday, November 14, 2011
Zile de Odihnă - Weekend
First weekend at my new site, welcome to my life in Nisporeni:
Friday, after work, I decided I needed to replenish my dwindling supply of cash. I walked to the atm in town and was flustered when I realized that the atm was empty. So, I plucked up the courage and walked into the bank, knowing full well that I had the language capacity to ask for assistance. After I jumbled together a sentence and tossed my ID and atm card through the hole, the young woman behind the counter answered in English "oh, you are American?". "Da," I said, slightly thrown off by the English, and responding in Romanian. We had a short conversation, her using English, my answering in Romanian. She was curious why I was in Moldova, if I liked Moldova and for how long I would be staying. She was surprised at all of my answers. Explaining that I was in Moldova working for the Raion Council (County Office) as a Peace Corps volunteer, that I thought Moldova was beautiful, and that I would be living here for another year and a half astonished her. Her response was simple to all of these answers, "But, why?".
Everywhere I go in Moldova, people always want to know why we, peace corps volunteers, have chosen to leave the US and live in Moldova for two years of our life. Sometimes, honestly, I wonder the same thing. But then, I meet people like this bank teller, who in some small way make an impact on me and make me assured in my decision to stay here and do what I can. I'm not living in an unrealistic world, I'm not expecting to bring great change to this country, I'm just here. I'm here to be, I'm here to enter the lives of people I wouldn't have otherwise known, and maybe, if I am lucky, they will gain something from their relationship with me. I know the biggest change that I will make while in the Peace Corps is the person I will become. I just hope that a fraction of what I am able to gain is mirrored in the work that I do and the relationships that I build while I am here.
Saturday, I woke up and took my time emerging from my warm bed. You know when you find that perfect spot, you could just lie there forever. After a few cups of tea and a good chunk of my book read, I decided to find host Mom and see what she was up to. I'm always surprised at how busy Moldovan's are, working around the clock. I found her in the summer kitchen preparing soup. I asked if I could help. Usually, when you ask to help here you get a confused response. Luckily, host mom had a PC volunteer awhile back and hadn't forgotten our uncommon curiosity for how life is lived. She happily let me cut up the vegetables for the Zeama (chicken soup) and watch her make the homemade pasta. She added spices and bullion base to taste, and let me taste until we both deemed the soup 'gata' (done). She told me that she had a wedding to attend later that day, her niece was getting married. Zeama is a traditional dish, to be prepared for the morning after a wedding. After a long night of eating and drinking the soup is supposed to help one feel better, ie the Moldovan hangover cure. The soup is delicious, so any excuse to eat it I am in complete agreeance with. Host mom also shared a Moldovan saying with me, it goes-- 'Cand pregatesc zeama cu gaina de casa, zeama este mai gustoasa.' (When you prepare Zeama with a chicken from your home, it is more delicious.') I like little rhymes like this, so I found myself saying it the rest of the day.
Sunday, I met my site-mate Anita at the piata (market) in town. Sunday is the largest market of the week, so it is the best opportunity to find whatever it is ones heart desires. We poked around the different stalls. Marveling at some of the fashions we saw, both for sale and worn by some of the market-goers. We both made a few purchases. I got a sweet mug. I drink so much tea and coffee that I feel bad always occupying the largest mug in the house, I knew it was time to buy my own. And, I can't lie, it was pretty and in my budget. After the market we made a stop off at Fornetti. A bakery chain in Moldova. It is one of the few (if not only) places in town one can get hot prepared food. I decided to get to know the woman working there, since I'm sure we will be seeing each other on a frequent basis. Her name is Vera, she isn't much older than me, she seems entertained by my Romanian. I have found the more I can laugh about myself the more people will warm to me. Everyone who knows me knows I have no issue with making a fool of myself, this equates to funny looks and sometimes if I am lucky, smiles. When we had deemed our shopping trip complete I made my way to the entrance of the piata where lots of buses can be found. I asked the drivers if they would be going to the 'gara' (bus station). One friendly driver told me that he wouldn't be leaving for an hour, but that if I waited on the street a bus would come that would leave in 15 minutes. When the bus arrived I confirmed with the driver that he would be going to the gara. I waited outside the packed bus, as to not get in the way, I would be the first to get off, the bus had a destination to another village. I handed the bus driver the two lei fare, he smiled and handed it back to me. I was surprised by this kind gesture, it made my day.
So, there you have it. A peek into my weekend. I didn't include the fact that I also watched the first four Harry Potter movies, but if I haven't mentioned it before my night-life has turned into that of a shut-ins. I drink tea, watch movies off my hard drive and read. Glamorous, right?! Just another weekend in the life of a peace corps volunteer.
Be well ~
Friday, after work, I decided I needed to replenish my dwindling supply of cash. I walked to the atm in town and was flustered when I realized that the atm was empty. So, I plucked up the courage and walked into the bank, knowing full well that I had the language capacity to ask for assistance. After I jumbled together a sentence and tossed my ID and atm card through the hole, the young woman behind the counter answered in English "oh, you are American?". "Da," I said, slightly thrown off by the English, and responding in Romanian. We had a short conversation, her using English, my answering in Romanian. She was curious why I was in Moldova, if I liked Moldova and for how long I would be staying. She was surprised at all of my answers. Explaining that I was in Moldova working for the Raion Council (County Office) as a Peace Corps volunteer, that I thought Moldova was beautiful, and that I would be living here for another year and a half astonished her. Her response was simple to all of these answers, "But, why?".
Everywhere I go in Moldova, people always want to know why we, peace corps volunteers, have chosen to leave the US and live in Moldova for two years of our life. Sometimes, honestly, I wonder the same thing. But then, I meet people like this bank teller, who in some small way make an impact on me and make me assured in my decision to stay here and do what I can. I'm not living in an unrealistic world, I'm not expecting to bring great change to this country, I'm just here. I'm here to be, I'm here to enter the lives of people I wouldn't have otherwise known, and maybe, if I am lucky, they will gain something from their relationship with me. I know the biggest change that I will make while in the Peace Corps is the person I will become. I just hope that a fraction of what I am able to gain is mirrored in the work that I do and the relationships that I build while I am here.
Saturday, I woke up and took my time emerging from my warm bed. You know when you find that perfect spot, you could just lie there forever. After a few cups of tea and a good chunk of my book read, I decided to find host Mom and see what she was up to. I'm always surprised at how busy Moldovan's are, working around the clock. I found her in the summer kitchen preparing soup. I asked if I could help. Usually, when you ask to help here you get a confused response. Luckily, host mom had a PC volunteer awhile back and hadn't forgotten our uncommon curiosity for how life is lived. She happily let me cut up the vegetables for the Zeama (chicken soup) and watch her make the homemade pasta. She added spices and bullion base to taste, and let me taste until we both deemed the soup 'gata' (done). She told me that she had a wedding to attend later that day, her niece was getting married. Zeama is a traditional dish, to be prepared for the morning after a wedding. After a long night of eating and drinking the soup is supposed to help one feel better, ie the Moldovan hangover cure. The soup is delicious, so any excuse to eat it I am in complete agreeance with. Host mom also shared a Moldovan saying with me, it goes-- 'Cand pregatesc zeama cu gaina de casa, zeama este mai gustoasa.' (When you prepare Zeama with a chicken from your home, it is more delicious.') I like little rhymes like this, so I found myself saying it the rest of the day.
Sunday, I met my site-mate Anita at the piata (market) in town. Sunday is the largest market of the week, so it is the best opportunity to find whatever it is ones heart desires. We poked around the different stalls. Marveling at some of the fashions we saw, both for sale and worn by some of the market-goers. We both made a few purchases. I got a sweet mug. I drink so much tea and coffee that I feel bad always occupying the largest mug in the house, I knew it was time to buy my own. And, I can't lie, it was pretty and in my budget. After the market we made a stop off at Fornetti. A bakery chain in Moldova. It is one of the few (if not only) places in town one can get hot prepared food. I decided to get to know the woman working there, since I'm sure we will be seeing each other on a frequent basis. Her name is Vera, she isn't much older than me, she seems entertained by my Romanian. I have found the more I can laugh about myself the more people will warm to me. Everyone who knows me knows I have no issue with making a fool of myself, this equates to funny looks and sometimes if I am lucky, smiles. When we had deemed our shopping trip complete I made my way to the entrance of the piata where lots of buses can be found. I asked the drivers if they would be going to the 'gara' (bus station). One friendly driver told me that he wouldn't be leaving for an hour, but that if I waited on the street a bus would come that would leave in 15 minutes. When the bus arrived I confirmed with the driver that he would be going to the gara. I waited outside the packed bus, as to not get in the way, I would be the first to get off, the bus had a destination to another village. I handed the bus driver the two lei fare, he smiled and handed it back to me. I was surprised by this kind gesture, it made my day.
So, there you have it. A peek into my weekend. I didn't include the fact that I also watched the first four Harry Potter movies, but if I haven't mentioned it before my night-life has turned into that of a shut-ins. I drink tea, watch movies off my hard drive and read. Glamorous, right?! Just another weekend in the life of a peace corps volunteer.
Be well ~
Friday, November 11, 2011
First Snow In A New Place
The first snow of the season carry's with it a bit of magic.
It's the first sign of winter, the first sign of tea and snuggling under a quilt season, the first sign that I should probably put away my sandals. It's also too early to be annoyed by the snow, too early to be put-off by the white stuff, too early to be mad at the seemingly never-ending darkness of winter.
And so, when I exited my house in Nisporeni and saw the perfect delicate little flakes falling down from an overcast sky I took in a deep breath and smiled up at the winter gods. I recently switched sites due to a number of reasons, but I have quickly fallen in love with my new town. My walk to work got a little longer, but it gives me a chance to see a good bit of town everyday as I hike down the hill to work, and back up the hill at days end. Today, on my walk, a few cars stopped asking if I would like a ride. A courtesy I would usually accept, today, I choose to pass on and instead walk in the brisk morning air, breathing in the coming of winter and watching the flittering snow flakes cascade down upon my new home.
It wasn't a long walk this morning, my thoughts buzzing about my future in this new town. The snow might not accumulate from this little wintery shower, but I know it's coming.
And this year, I choose to love the snow.
It's the first sign of winter, the first sign of tea and snuggling under a quilt season, the first sign that I should probably put away my sandals. It's also too early to be annoyed by the snow, too early to be put-off by the white stuff, too early to be mad at the seemingly never-ending darkness of winter.
And so, when I exited my house in Nisporeni and saw the perfect delicate little flakes falling down from an overcast sky I took in a deep breath and smiled up at the winter gods. I recently switched sites due to a number of reasons, but I have quickly fallen in love with my new town. My walk to work got a little longer, but it gives me a chance to see a good bit of town everyday as I hike down the hill to work, and back up the hill at days end. Today, on my walk, a few cars stopped asking if I would like a ride. A courtesy I would usually accept, today, I choose to pass on and instead walk in the brisk morning air, breathing in the coming of winter and watching the flittering snow flakes cascade down upon my new home.
It wasn't a long walk this morning, my thoughts buzzing about my future in this new town. The snow might not accumulate from this little wintery shower, but I know it's coming.
And this year, I choose to love the snow.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Hitch
One of the most common forms of transportation in Moldova is hitchhiking.
Now, being from the US I am in the mindset that hitching a ride is dangerous. I'm sure my family would argue that hitching a ride anywhere is dangerous. However, in Moldova it is common and almost expected of people to hitch a ride every now and again. My 'now and again' happened a couple of weeks back.
I was headed to Balti, a city in the north, to visit with a few volunteer friends. The timeline fell so that I needed to get a rutiera (mini-bus) just after 5pm. After consulting the online bus schedule (...multiple times) I settled on the 5:20pm bus. The second to last rutiera to Balti leaving that day, that way if I missed it or the tickets were all sold I could take the last rutiera at 5:40pm (see Dad, I was trying to plan ahead).
So, I packed my bag and left my house giving myself plenty of time to walk to the station, get my ticket and sit around waiting for my ride to a fun evening. When I arrived at the station, I went to the ticket booth and asked to purchase ticket. The woman gave me a snappy response that I understood as "No, wait outside". This isn't uncommon, frequently one will buy a rutiera ticket directly from the driver rather than purchasing a ticket. So, I took my bags and sat outside next to a friendly older woman. We both sat for awhile making small talk, while I stole glances at my watch seeing the minutes pass with no rutiera in sight. Finally, at 5:45 when I had realized either both the rutieras were running uncommonly late, or the schedule online that I had planned around had been wrong, I begrudgingly walked back into the station to ask the short-tempered ticket lady if the rutiera for Balti would be arriving soon. She was clearly happy to see me again, and spat "what do you want lady?". I asked again about the rutiera to Balti and she told me "No, no more rutieras today. You will have to go wait for a car on the road." --hitchhiking?! Ummm, Brittany from little town NH doesn't hitchhike.
So, there I was in Falesti, just before 6pm, contemplating going home to an empty house and leaving the following morning, or getting up the courage to hitch the 45 minute ride to Balti. After a frantic call to my friends explaining that I didn't know if I would make it I decided that going back to an empty house was just not the way I wanted to spend my evening. I decided that I would walk back to my house, but along the way try and wave down a car. If someone stopped and I got a ride, it was meant to be, if no one stopped I would be going back to my house for the night.
First car I waved down stopped. "La Balti?" I shouted from across the street, and with a nod from the driver I was officially on my way. I hopped in the back seat. Sitting next to me was a Baba (Grandmother) adorned in the typical outfit of a floral dressing robe, sweater and head scarf. In the front seat was a young woman, my guess would be the drivers wife. The driver was a young man. They were a good looking family. The woman, with her gold rings and long fake finger nails, the husband with his track jacket and running shoes. The music was bumpin', I felt as if I were in a club, the techno blared out the speakers as we zoomed down the road to Balti. I was happy the music was on and loud, it meant I didn't have to make small talk. We finally pulled into Balti and they asked me where I wanted to be dropped off, it was only then that they realized I was a foreigner. I paid them what I would have paid for the rutiera; the standard fair is what is expected when you hitchhike in Moldova. I said goodbye and thanked them for the ride.
I made it to my destination, safe and sound. I had an excellent time with my friend. And, I walked down the street, feeling slightly more bad-ass than I had 50 minutes earlier.
Guess I can check that off my list of things to do.
Hitchhike in Eastern Europe, check.
Now, being from the US I am in the mindset that hitching a ride is dangerous. I'm sure my family would argue that hitching a ride anywhere is dangerous. However, in Moldova it is common and almost expected of people to hitch a ride every now and again. My 'now and again' happened a couple of weeks back.
I was headed to Balti, a city in the north, to visit with a few volunteer friends. The timeline fell so that I needed to get a rutiera (mini-bus) just after 5pm. After consulting the online bus schedule (...multiple times) I settled on the 5:20pm bus. The second to last rutiera to Balti leaving that day, that way if I missed it or the tickets were all sold I could take the last rutiera at 5:40pm (see Dad, I was trying to plan ahead).
So, I packed my bag and left my house giving myself plenty of time to walk to the station, get my ticket and sit around waiting for my ride to a fun evening. When I arrived at the station, I went to the ticket booth and asked to purchase ticket. The woman gave me a snappy response that I understood as "No, wait outside". This isn't uncommon, frequently one will buy a rutiera ticket directly from the driver rather than purchasing a ticket. So, I took my bags and sat outside next to a friendly older woman. We both sat for awhile making small talk, while I stole glances at my watch seeing the minutes pass with no rutiera in sight. Finally, at 5:45 when I had realized either both the rutieras were running uncommonly late, or the schedule online that I had planned around had been wrong, I begrudgingly walked back into the station to ask the short-tempered ticket lady if the rutiera for Balti would be arriving soon. She was clearly happy to see me again, and spat "what do you want lady?". I asked again about the rutiera to Balti and she told me "No, no more rutieras today. You will have to go wait for a car on the road." --hitchhiking?! Ummm, Brittany from little town NH doesn't hitchhike.
So, there I was in Falesti, just before 6pm, contemplating going home to an empty house and leaving the following morning, or getting up the courage to hitch the 45 minute ride to Balti. After a frantic call to my friends explaining that I didn't know if I would make it I decided that going back to an empty house was just not the way I wanted to spend my evening. I decided that I would walk back to my house, but along the way try and wave down a car. If someone stopped and I got a ride, it was meant to be, if no one stopped I would be going back to my house for the night.
First car I waved down stopped. "La Balti?" I shouted from across the street, and with a nod from the driver I was officially on my way. I hopped in the back seat. Sitting next to me was a Baba (Grandmother) adorned in the typical outfit of a floral dressing robe, sweater and head scarf. In the front seat was a young woman, my guess would be the drivers wife. The driver was a young man. They were a good looking family. The woman, with her gold rings and long fake finger nails, the husband with his track jacket and running shoes. The music was bumpin', I felt as if I were in a club, the techno blared out the speakers as we zoomed down the road to Balti. I was happy the music was on and loud, it meant I didn't have to make small talk. We finally pulled into Balti and they asked me where I wanted to be dropped off, it was only then that they realized I was a foreigner. I paid them what I would have paid for the rutiera; the standard fair is what is expected when you hitchhike in Moldova. I said goodbye and thanked them for the ride.
I made it to my destination, safe and sound. I had an excellent time with my friend. And, I walked down the street, feeling slightly more bad-ass than I had 50 minutes earlier.
Guess I can check that off my list of things to do.
Hitchhike in Eastern Europe, check.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
My first Hram
Most cities and towns in Moldova have a designated day each year in celebration of the place and it's people. This day is known as Hram. Last weekend I was invited to attend Hram with my friend, and fellow volunteer Lyndsey, in her town Izvoare. Izvoare is a village within the raion (similar to a county) in Falesti.
Sunday morning, I woke up and prepared for this day of celebration. I walked down to the bus station in town and waited for the rutiera that would cart me off to Izvoare for a day of good company, good food, and a change of scenery from my usual Sunday routine within the walls of my house. The ruteria finally arrived, and as I waited outside the door for the packed ruteria to empty I quickly realized the rutiera wouldn't be emptying. Instead, I would need to cram myself into this already overcrowded mini-bus if I wanted any chance to celebrate Hram with Lyndsey. And so, from out in the cold breath-smoke air I pushed and shuffled my way onto the hot rutiera. Within a matter of seconds I began to question my decision to leave my warm bed. Somehow, the driver was able to close the door and we were off.
I was standing between a woman with a baby who was screaming from displeasure, and a man with a very shall-we-say interesting smelling sweater. I was unable to see out the windows partially from my awkward standing position, partly from the breathy fog covering the windows. It was hot, I could feel myself sweating through my tee-shirt, sweatshirt and quickly to my jacket. I hadn't had a chance to take a car sickness pill, and well, that was a bad mistake. Every bump and turn became a growing issue. The lump in my throat wasn't going to go away until I was out of that mini-bus. Forty-five minutes and some serious will power later I was standing in Izvoare. I waited at the bus stop for Lyndsey, happily breathing in frigid fresh air.
Lyndsey met me at the stop and we headed to her house. It had rained the past few days so the roads were washed out and muddy. We squished and slipped our way down the dirt roads to her house. When we arrived I met her host mother, two host sisters and their children. We went into her house and her host mom prepared the soba (similar to a wood stove). For awhile we sat beside the soba talking about our previous week, warming our feet on the hot bricks. An hour later host mom was calling us for the meal.
We all crowded into the casa mic (small house) where a table had been filled with plates of traditional Moldovan foods. We all sat down and the first round of house wine was quickly poured. This is where we stayed for the next two hours-- talking, eating, drinking. This was a celebration. After the food had been eaten and a couple of pitchers of wine had been drank, Lyndsey and I meandered outside to see what her host brother-in-law was doing. We were lucky enough to come upon him finishing off the barbecuing of a rabbit. So we stood around the fire, munching on pieces of rabbit talking about the kind of wild animals one could find in the woods of Moldova until the rest of the meat had been deemed finished. We returned back into the little house for one more round of food and wine.
After our sufficient in take of food and wine it was time to go down to the casa de cultura (cultural house) for some traditional music and dancing. The band played, the dancers held hands and danced the hora. A group of on-looking grown-ups decided the dancing wasn't meant for just the kids and started their own group, with interlocked arms they danced, and kicked, and laughed. My favorite musician was the beer-bellied tuba player, with a cigarette hanging from his lip, so he could take a drag when he wasn't blowing into his instrument. The town was out, you could see the local pride in peoples faces, it was neat to be a part of.
Lyndsey walked me back to the bus stop in time for me to catch another overcrowded rutiera ride home. Her host sister and two little host nephews were also on the rutiera. I had come to Izvoare that day knowing only Lyndsey. I left knowing an entirely new family, one that had graciously let me into their celebration with open arms and a pitcher of wine, knowing only my name and that I was a Peace Corps Volunteer. This is the peace and friendship we are asked to live in our daily lives. I could have stayed within the security of my home that day, but instead I took the overcrowded rutiera ride to a village I didn't know... and I am so happy I did.
Peace
Sunday morning, I woke up and prepared for this day of celebration. I walked down to the bus station in town and waited for the rutiera that would cart me off to Izvoare for a day of good company, good food, and a change of scenery from my usual Sunday routine within the walls of my house. The ruteria finally arrived, and as I waited outside the door for the packed ruteria to empty I quickly realized the rutiera wouldn't be emptying. Instead, I would need to cram myself into this already overcrowded mini-bus if I wanted any chance to celebrate Hram with Lyndsey. And so, from out in the cold breath-smoke air I pushed and shuffled my way onto the hot rutiera. Within a matter of seconds I began to question my decision to leave my warm bed. Somehow, the driver was able to close the door and we were off.
I was standing between a woman with a baby who was screaming from displeasure, and a man with a very shall-we-say interesting smelling sweater. I was unable to see out the windows partially from my awkward standing position, partly from the breathy fog covering the windows. It was hot, I could feel myself sweating through my tee-shirt, sweatshirt and quickly to my jacket. I hadn't had a chance to take a car sickness pill, and well, that was a bad mistake. Every bump and turn became a growing issue. The lump in my throat wasn't going to go away until I was out of that mini-bus. Forty-five minutes and some serious will power later I was standing in Izvoare. I waited at the bus stop for Lyndsey, happily breathing in frigid fresh air.
Lyndsey met me at the stop and we headed to her house. It had rained the past few days so the roads were washed out and muddy. We squished and slipped our way down the dirt roads to her house. When we arrived I met her host mother, two host sisters and their children. We went into her house and her host mom prepared the soba (similar to a wood stove). For awhile we sat beside the soba talking about our previous week, warming our feet on the hot bricks. An hour later host mom was calling us for the meal.
We all crowded into the casa mic (small house) where a table had been filled with plates of traditional Moldovan foods. We all sat down and the first round of house wine was quickly poured. This is where we stayed for the next two hours-- talking, eating, drinking. This was a celebration. After the food had been eaten and a couple of pitchers of wine had been drank, Lyndsey and I meandered outside to see what her host brother-in-law was doing. We were lucky enough to come upon him finishing off the barbecuing of a rabbit. So we stood around the fire, munching on pieces of rabbit talking about the kind of wild animals one could find in the woods of Moldova until the rest of the meat had been deemed finished. We returned back into the little house for one more round of food and wine.
After our sufficient in take of food and wine it was time to go down to the casa de cultura (cultural house) for some traditional music and dancing. The band played, the dancers held hands and danced the hora. A group of on-looking grown-ups decided the dancing wasn't meant for just the kids and started their own group, with interlocked arms they danced, and kicked, and laughed. My favorite musician was the beer-bellied tuba player, with a cigarette hanging from his lip, so he could take a drag when he wasn't blowing into his instrument. The town was out, you could see the local pride in peoples faces, it was neat to be a part of.
Lyndsey walked me back to the bus stop in time for me to catch another overcrowded rutiera ride home. Her host sister and two little host nephews were also on the rutiera. I had come to Izvoare that day knowing only Lyndsey. I left knowing an entirely new family, one that had graciously let me into their celebration with open arms and a pitcher of wine, knowing only my name and that I was a Peace Corps Volunteer. This is the peace and friendship we are asked to live in our daily lives. I could have stayed within the security of my home that day, but instead I took the overcrowded rutiera ride to a village I didn't know... and I am so happy I did.
Peace
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Home Alone
For the past few days I have been home alone.
Since arriving home on Sunday host mom has been in Chisinau. This has led to an entire slew of fun new experiences for me. To be honest, I enjoy living by myself. Independence is something I highly value, however, this sort of living alone comes with its special characteristics.
I like to think of these past few days as my: I-once-was-a-girl-scout-let's-see-what-I-remember test. It's surprising how similar being alone in this house is to being at girl scout camp in a cabin. The biggest similarities include; the lack of running water and heat. The biggest difference include; the ability to access the internet and the absence of 11 other awkward nerdy girls stuffing their sports bras. I can't say I mind those differences. This sort of living alone however does come with a few extra challenges that we little girl scouts didn't go over in our tie-dying, trail mix making, camp fire singing, scavenger hunting lessons.
October in Moldova is pretty nippy and without host mom home I don't know how to work the two different heating sources in the house. Well, to be fair, with host mom I don't know how to work them either. This has lead me to become pretty dependent on my bed. I spend most of my time under the big thick blankets so that I stay warm. Looks like my winter, while at home, will consist mostly of reading books, sipping tea, and watching movies. I'm now taking any and all suggestions for good books, feel free to drop a comment with your list of favorites.
The water in our house was shut off. I'm assuming host mom shut it off before she left for Chisinau so that the pipes didn't freeze, smart lady, but waterless Brittany. At first I was able to get by with the water I had left myself in my filter and some that I had stored in bottles. This lasted about a day and half. I decided it was time I take my maiden voyage to the well. It's right outside my house...I probably should have done this earlier, but like the market, I have weird fears.
I got the well pail. I walked outside my gate and set my pail on the bench. Unhooked the well bucket, and helped the chain slowly fall down the shaft into the water below. I did that crank move to make sure the bucket had been submerged in water and was full. I was totally handling this like a pro, what up! I cranked that bucket up with one arm...because let's face it I would have looked like an amateur if I had to use both my arms. By the time the bucket finally got to the top my right arm was feeling a little fatigued, but I didn't care I had successfully gotten my water. I pulled the bucket out and began to pour the water into my pail. And then the chain began to quickly fall back down into the well. Crap, what will happen if the chain goes taught and I'm holding the empty bucket? I reached up to stop the crank but I didn't realize how strong the pressure would be. Instead of stopping the crank I ended up getting a nice beating on my forearm. Finally the chain stopped moving and I pulled it back up, re-hooked the bucket and covered the well. I may have almost broken the well, and got a huge black and blue on my arm, but hey, at least I got some water?
By the fourth day I knew it was time to bathe. I had been dreading it and putting it off, but I knew someone at the office would probably say something if I showed up yet another day with my hair in a greasy french braid. So, I took the pail of water with me to the bathroom with a dunk mug. Warmed up all the water I could in the electric kettle, and poured it in with the cold water in the pail. Than I did the dunk and wash, scoop and rinse. I still stand by the fact that you can only get 'so' clean with the bucket bath.
So, this is my life, kind of like camping... kind of not. Either way, it keeps me on my toes, good or bad.
Peace
Since arriving home on Sunday host mom has been in Chisinau. This has led to an entire slew of fun new experiences for me. To be honest, I enjoy living by myself. Independence is something I highly value, however, this sort of living alone comes with its special characteristics.
I like to think of these past few days as my: I-once-was-a-girl-scout-let's-see-what-I-remember test. It's surprising how similar being alone in this house is to being at girl scout camp in a cabin. The biggest similarities include; the lack of running water and heat. The biggest difference include; the ability to access the internet and the absence of 11 other awkward nerdy girls stuffing their sports bras. I can't say I mind those differences. This sort of living alone however does come with a few extra challenges that we little girl scouts didn't go over in our tie-dying, trail mix making, camp fire singing, scavenger hunting lessons.
October in Moldova is pretty nippy and without host mom home I don't know how to work the two different heating sources in the house. Well, to be fair, with host mom I don't know how to work them either. This has lead me to become pretty dependent on my bed. I spend most of my time under the big thick blankets so that I stay warm. Looks like my winter, while at home, will consist mostly of reading books, sipping tea, and watching movies. I'm now taking any and all suggestions for good books, feel free to drop a comment with your list of favorites.
The water in our house was shut off. I'm assuming host mom shut it off before she left for Chisinau so that the pipes didn't freeze, smart lady, but waterless Brittany. At first I was able to get by with the water I had left myself in my filter and some that I had stored in bottles. This lasted about a day and half. I decided it was time I take my maiden voyage to the well. It's right outside my house...I probably should have done this earlier, but like the market, I have weird fears.
I got the well pail. I walked outside my gate and set my pail on the bench. Unhooked the well bucket, and helped the chain slowly fall down the shaft into the water below. I did that crank move to make sure the bucket had been submerged in water and was full. I was totally handling this like a pro, what up! I cranked that bucket up with one arm...because let's face it I would have looked like an amateur if I had to use both my arms. By the time the bucket finally got to the top my right arm was feeling a little fatigued, but I didn't care I had successfully gotten my water. I pulled the bucket out and began to pour the water into my pail. And then the chain began to quickly fall back down into the well. Crap, what will happen if the chain goes taught and I'm holding the empty bucket? I reached up to stop the crank but I didn't realize how strong the pressure would be. Instead of stopping the crank I ended up getting a nice beating on my forearm. Finally the chain stopped moving and I pulled it back up, re-hooked the bucket and covered the well. I may have almost broken the well, and got a huge black and blue on my arm, but hey, at least I got some water?
By the fourth day I knew it was time to bathe. I had been dreading it and putting it off, but I knew someone at the office would probably say something if I showed up yet another day with my hair in a greasy french braid. So, I took the pail of water with me to the bathroom with a dunk mug. Warmed up all the water I could in the electric kettle, and poured it in with the cold water in the pail. Than I did the dunk and wash, scoop and rinse. I still stand by the fact that you can only get 'so' clean with the bucket bath.
So, this is my life, kind of like camping... kind of not. Either way, it keeps me on my toes, good or bad.
Peace
Cold-- Wet -- Key-less
The past couple of weeks I have been in Phase 3 of training in my PST site Cirescu, a village close to the capital. This, Phase 3 of PST, is the training that comes after a volunteer has been working at site for six weeks. This also explains my 'absence' from posts. I won't bore you with the details of training, we learned Romanian, had 'tech' sessions, and spread the peace and friendship at the local bar. All and all I think we volunteers were just happy to get a chance to see one another again, things get lonely quick at site.
Training ended this past Friday and most volunteers stayed in the capital to take advantage of wine fest. A big annual festival to kick off wine making season. There were tons of vendors selling crafts, food and of course wine. It doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out that everyone in attendance at this event was having a real good time.
Sunday it was time to head back to site, back to reality. The one observation I have gathered from being in Moldova is that when it rains, it pours. Back home, when it rains you can pretty much count on it stopping in a twenty minute period. In Moldova, when it rains, it rains ...and rains, and when you think it has stopped and you step outside it rains some more. So of course, Sunday, when we all had to crawl out of our comfortable hiding places in apartments and hostels around the city we were greeted by a rain cloud that seemed to cover all of Moldova. A stopoff at the PC office to change our soaking clothes, gather our belongs and our courage before our journeys home. I'm usually the type of person who likes to walk to my destination, if it is within a reasonable distance but, on a day like this no one who has to walk would have chosen to walk. So, I tucked my stringy wet hair behind my ear and asked the guard if he would be willing to call for a cab. His response was short and to the point "No". At first I thought he was joking, but than I remembered Moldovans aren't known for their sarcasm. I asked, why? He gave me the simple explanation, "it's raining, all the cabs are full". Begrudgingly, I pulled on my soaked rain jacket, tied up the laces of my blessed L.L Bean boots, strapped on my backpack that I had clearly over-packed and stepped outside into the storm. We raced as fast as we could to the north station to get our bus home but it didn't matter how quickly we walked, we were drenched. I'm still a little convinced that every car that passed meant to hit all those puddles that splashed against my legs as if to say "sucker, we got the cab you wanted". We finally arrived at the station, purchased our tickets and waited for our bus.
I have gotten used to buses over the years. When I was a teenager I would take the Trailways bus from northern NH back down to Concord on a regular basis. Something about buses is nostalgic, calming, a sort of; "you will get there, when you get there" mantra. Buses in the US however are well ventilated, with working heating systems. Buses in Moldova, I have quickly learned, are not. On the two and half hour ride back to my city, Falesti, I had hoped to warm up and dry my jacket and pants. This is the opposite of what happened, instead I sat freezing with my hands shoved inside my wet coat pockets, my hood up over my head, and a pathetic grimace on my damp face. Finally, the bus rolled into the station in Falesti.
I decided I had made it this far without a taxi, I could walk the next twenty minutes back to my house. I also didn't feel like haggling with the idling unmarked taxi cab drivers, a decision I regretted halfway home. When I reached my house I was so excited. I dropped my huge bag under the awning of the 'casa mic' (the small summer kitchen) and went straight for the 'veceu' (outside toilet). I went to open the door of the house and it was locked. I checked the two spots I was told the key would be in. ..no key.
Panic began to set in. And so, the internal dialogue began... Ok, what should I do? I'm cold, wet, tired and fighting some sort of head-cold sickness. Should I sit out here and wait for her? Maybe, she has gone for a walk? Maybe, she is visiting a neighbor and will be back soon? No, I don't want to sit out here, it is cold. I guess I could go ask the woman who works at the store on the corner? God, I hope the woman working isn't the one who only speaks Russian, then I would be really screwed. Yes, I don't see how I have any other choice. Ok, Brittany just go and get this over with, no one is here to help you, you have to help yourself right now.
I walked down to the store. The woman working that night I had met before, she seemed friendly and she spoke Romanian, win! I pieced together what I was trying to ask and gave her a look of desperation. Somehow, after I had said what I was trying to explain in a few different ways she was able to figure out what I was saying. She didn't know where host mom was, but she did have her phone number and was willing to call her for me. (Yes, now we are getting somewhere) Host mom, as it turns out, was in Chisinau with the keys to the house. So I was locked out of my own home.
The generous woman at the store offered to host me for the night at her house. I was humbled by her offer, but all I really wanted was to sleep in the room I had finally gotten comfortable in...and I had a skype date with my Dad that I didn't want to miss. A few phone calls later and the neighbor was over helping me break into my home. With some crafty work he was able to get a window open and climb through. It never fails to impress me how handy these Moldovans are. Luckily, the front door had a key so he was able to unlock it and let me in. He wished me a good night and was on his way.
I brought my big backpack into the house. Walked down to the store and told the woman working that my house had been opened. Walked home, took off my boots and climbed into bed. I turned on my computer hoping to catch my Dad so we could chat but quickly realized I was internet-less. So, I threw all the blankets I could find on top of myself and began to think about the day I had just had. It had been a long day. I was happy to be in my bed. A little worried about how easily my neighbor was able to break into my house, but luckily I was able to sweep those thoughts away as I drifted to sleep.
If only I had known what the next few days had in store for me...but I guess I will save that for my next post.
Training ended this past Friday and most volunteers stayed in the capital to take advantage of wine fest. A big annual festival to kick off wine making season. There were tons of vendors selling crafts, food and of course wine. It doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out that everyone in attendance at this event was having a real good time.
Sunday it was time to head back to site, back to reality. The one observation I have gathered from being in Moldova is that when it rains, it pours. Back home, when it rains you can pretty much count on it stopping in a twenty minute period. In Moldova, when it rains, it rains ...and rains, and when you think it has stopped and you step outside it rains some more. So of course, Sunday, when we all had to crawl out of our comfortable hiding places in apartments and hostels around the city we were greeted by a rain cloud that seemed to cover all of Moldova. A stopoff at the PC office to change our soaking clothes, gather our belongs and our courage before our journeys home. I'm usually the type of person who likes to walk to my destination, if it is within a reasonable distance but, on a day like this no one who has to walk would have chosen to walk. So, I tucked my stringy wet hair behind my ear and asked the guard if he would be willing to call for a cab. His response was short and to the point "No". At first I thought he was joking, but than I remembered Moldovans aren't known for their sarcasm. I asked, why? He gave me the simple explanation, "it's raining, all the cabs are full". Begrudgingly, I pulled on my soaked rain jacket, tied up the laces of my blessed L.L Bean boots, strapped on my backpack that I had clearly over-packed and stepped outside into the storm. We raced as fast as we could to the north station to get our bus home but it didn't matter how quickly we walked, we were drenched. I'm still a little convinced that every car that passed meant to hit all those puddles that splashed against my legs as if to say "sucker, we got the cab you wanted". We finally arrived at the station, purchased our tickets and waited for our bus.
I have gotten used to buses over the years. When I was a teenager I would take the Trailways bus from northern NH back down to Concord on a regular basis. Something about buses is nostalgic, calming, a sort of; "you will get there, when you get there" mantra. Buses in the US however are well ventilated, with working heating systems. Buses in Moldova, I have quickly learned, are not. On the two and half hour ride back to my city, Falesti, I had hoped to warm up and dry my jacket and pants. This is the opposite of what happened, instead I sat freezing with my hands shoved inside my wet coat pockets, my hood up over my head, and a pathetic grimace on my damp face. Finally, the bus rolled into the station in Falesti.
I decided I had made it this far without a taxi, I could walk the next twenty minutes back to my house. I also didn't feel like haggling with the idling unmarked taxi cab drivers, a decision I regretted halfway home. When I reached my house I was so excited. I dropped my huge bag under the awning of the 'casa mic' (the small summer kitchen) and went straight for the 'veceu' (outside toilet). I went to open the door of the house and it was locked. I checked the two spots I was told the key would be in. ..no key.
Panic began to set in. And so, the internal dialogue began... Ok, what should I do? I'm cold, wet, tired and fighting some sort of head-cold sickness. Should I sit out here and wait for her? Maybe, she has gone for a walk? Maybe, she is visiting a neighbor and will be back soon? No, I don't want to sit out here, it is cold. I guess I could go ask the woman who works at the store on the corner? God, I hope the woman working isn't the one who only speaks Russian, then I would be really screwed. Yes, I don't see how I have any other choice. Ok, Brittany just go and get this over with, no one is here to help you, you have to help yourself right now.
I walked down to the store. The woman working that night I had met before, she seemed friendly and she spoke Romanian, win! I pieced together what I was trying to ask and gave her a look of desperation. Somehow, after I had said what I was trying to explain in a few different ways she was able to figure out what I was saying. She didn't know where host mom was, but she did have her phone number and was willing to call her for me. (Yes, now we are getting somewhere) Host mom, as it turns out, was in Chisinau with the keys to the house. So I was locked out of my own home.
The generous woman at the store offered to host me for the night at her house. I was humbled by her offer, but all I really wanted was to sleep in the room I had finally gotten comfortable in...and I had a skype date with my Dad that I didn't want to miss. A few phone calls later and the neighbor was over helping me break into my home. With some crafty work he was able to get a window open and climb through. It never fails to impress me how handy these Moldovans are. Luckily, the front door had a key so he was able to unlock it and let me in. He wished me a good night and was on his way.
I brought my big backpack into the house. Walked down to the store and told the woman working that my house had been opened. Walked home, took off my boots and climbed into bed. I turned on my computer hoping to catch my Dad so we could chat but quickly realized I was internet-less. So, I threw all the blankets I could find on top of myself and began to think about the day I had just had. It had been a long day. I was happy to be in my bed. A little worried about how easily my neighbor was able to break into my house, but luckily I was able to sweep those thoughts away as I drifted to sleep.
If only I had known what the next few days had in store for me...but I guess I will save that for my next post.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Athena: Goddess of Wisdom
Everyone has that one friend that is filled with wisdom beyond their years. The kind of friend who cheers you on no matter the context, who can find beauty in simplicity, and can illuminate your heart and mind even when you feel you are lost in darkness. I was lucky enough to find this friend my freshman year of college.
My friend Athena is a wonderfully optimistic and grounded person. She is currently a graduate student in Hawaii, studying to get her masters in Psychology, so she can someday realize her dreams of becoming a world-class sex therapist. This is a friend I am proud to say I have. As time goes by and my 'business minded' brain begins to consider thoughts outside the realm of interest rates and yield curves, I'm beginning to think she was put into my life for a reason. I'm beginning to think that my friendship with her has given me the tools I need to get through the toughest of days (and weeks...and months) I have here in Moldova.
I have had more "ah-ha" moments with her than anyone I know. Everyone knows those moments I'm talking about, where the light bulb goes off in your mind and suddenly it just 'makes sense'. I don't know if maybe I'm just slower at maturing into these realizations, but I credit her for jump starting my 'thought engine' and making me consider new ideas about how to experience life.
One of my more profound memories of our friendship was late one night. We had been talking for awhile about an assortment of different topics, nothing of grave importance, probably classes, or boys, or the lack of selection at the dining hall that night, but somehow we got on the topic of 'the future'. I remember telling her that I didn't think my life had followed the 'normal' path and that I just wanted my life to be 'normal' in the eyes of the on-looker. I remember her responding without hesitation; 'Why would you want your life to be normal? You aren't bound for normal, you are supposed to live a life that is different. It shouldn't be normal, it should be special.' I hadn't considered living outside the 'norm' before, I was an economics major, I like capitalism, I liked conformity, it was where my comfort lay. This was an early conversation in our friendship, I think it was probably a spark that started the concentrated fire within me.
Over the next four years we stayed close friends. We both had our own lives, she excelled as an RA (obviously) and later as an assistant hall director. But through it all we made sure to keep our friendship strong. Each year she taught me something new, each year she (perhaps unknowingly) helped me grow into a stronger person. Senior year she put the finishing touches on me, makes me sound like a class project, her sprinkling a bit of her 'Athena glitter' on me. I know how she feels about some of the relationships in her life, I definitely don't want to be put into the ebb and flow category, I have told her I can't be washed to sea, she is stuck with me. Her glitter is the ability to see beauty in everything. She can find it in the most unexpected of places, watching a caterpillar crawling along a table, the taste of an excellent hot chocolate, the wind whistling through a tree...I could go on. Stopping to notice the little things, this was her final lesson for me. This has been one of the most important lessons I have carried with me to my Peace Corps service.
These past couple of weeks have been tough for me. Finding my footing and mixing myself into the grain of society has been more of a challenge than I originally thought. The feeling of homesickness has loomed in my mind every moment. People back home remind me of 'how proud they are of me' and how 'I shouldn't worry because I am strong and it will get better'. Those are some hollow words when you are actually here. The feeling of being isolated and alone, while also feeling on-display is a hard sort of mixture to understand. After these conversations the person on the other end gets to turn off their computer and give my Peace Corps experience a romanticized hardship. These emotions are also followed closely by guilt. Life here isn't physically demanding, and I have access to a hot shower and high speed internet. Often I am confused by why I am complaining, spoiled American.
What has gotten me through so far? Besides the support and friendship of other volunteers, I have taken a stance to actively notice the little things. A bad day can be completely turned around if I am able to see and realize the perfect imperfection in my surroundings. The other day I was in a bad mood, I couldn't pin point the exact reason but nothing was going 'my way'. I had stopped at five different shops in town looking for cheese to make my lunch, none of them had cheese, this seemed to be the final straw. I begrudgingly made my way home thinking about the cereal I would be eating for the second time that day. As I walked, I listened to a mix I had titled 'happy music', I was going to try my best to not let my bad mood take me down. The awesome U2 song 'Beautiful Day' came on, I found myself singing along, throwing up a little prayer that maybe my day would turn around. As I crossed my narrow concrete bridge and marched up the trail I saw a piece of white paper on the ground. I thought to myself 'big surprise, someone throwing their garbage wherever is convenient', but as I passed the piece of paper I realized a heart had been cut out of the paper. This was my sign. A few steps further and there the white paper heart lay. I stopped, on the path, staring down at this dirty white heart. This was my sign, this was what I had been waiting for. I picked up the paper heart, it had dirty foot prints on it but I didn't care. I tucked it into my bag and continued my walk home. My day had turned around. This silly piece of paper had been exactly what I needed. Somehow, I felt like everything was going to be okay. I walked into the first shop near my house with a new sort of hope, maybe they would have my product. No, all out. I had one more chance, one more store to check. I walked the couple of blocks down to the store. I saw from a block away the sign that said closed. I couldn't believe my luck, I wanted to pretend I was reading it wrong, maybe it's open, maybe I'm just really that bad at Romanian. I walked up and tried the door, locked. I took a deep breath and thought about my paper heart. I turned back to my house and tried to remind myself of how unexpected and perfect the paper heart had been. I won't lie, I was still a little annoyed, I couldn't eat the paper heart, I wanted the damn cheese. I had walked about a hundred feet when I heard a lady behind me yelling 'lady'. I turned around, it was the shop keeper, she was coming back from her lunch to open the shop. I walked into the shop and asked if she had cheese. She did. I happily carried my bag home and made a delicious lunch. This day had turned around. This little white heart brought light to my week.
These are the sorts of moments that I love about the Peace Corps. I thank Athena for helping me to recognize when something so small can be so wonderful. Hope can wash over you when you least expect it. It is our job to recognize it and cherish it as special.
My little white paper heart. A true piece of peace.
My friend Athena is a wonderfully optimistic and grounded person. She is currently a graduate student in Hawaii, studying to get her masters in Psychology, so she can someday realize her dreams of becoming a world-class sex therapist. This is a friend I am proud to say I have. As time goes by and my 'business minded' brain begins to consider thoughts outside the realm of interest rates and yield curves, I'm beginning to think she was put into my life for a reason. I'm beginning to think that my friendship with her has given me the tools I need to get through the toughest of days (and weeks...and months) I have here in Moldova.
I have had more "ah-ha" moments with her than anyone I know. Everyone knows those moments I'm talking about, where the light bulb goes off in your mind and suddenly it just 'makes sense'. I don't know if maybe I'm just slower at maturing into these realizations, but I credit her for jump starting my 'thought engine' and making me consider new ideas about how to experience life.
One of my more profound memories of our friendship was late one night. We had been talking for awhile about an assortment of different topics, nothing of grave importance, probably classes, or boys, or the lack of selection at the dining hall that night, but somehow we got on the topic of 'the future'. I remember telling her that I didn't think my life had followed the 'normal' path and that I just wanted my life to be 'normal' in the eyes of the on-looker. I remember her responding without hesitation; 'Why would you want your life to be normal? You aren't bound for normal, you are supposed to live a life that is different. It shouldn't be normal, it should be special.' I hadn't considered living outside the 'norm' before, I was an economics major, I like capitalism, I liked conformity, it was where my comfort lay. This was an early conversation in our friendship, I think it was probably a spark that started the concentrated fire within me.
Over the next four years we stayed close friends. We both had our own lives, she excelled as an RA (obviously) and later as an assistant hall director. But through it all we made sure to keep our friendship strong. Each year she taught me something new, each year she (perhaps unknowingly) helped me grow into a stronger person. Senior year she put the finishing touches on me, makes me sound like a class project, her sprinkling a bit of her 'Athena glitter' on me. I know how she feels about some of the relationships in her life, I definitely don't want to be put into the ebb and flow category, I have told her I can't be washed to sea, she is stuck with me. Her glitter is the ability to see beauty in everything. She can find it in the most unexpected of places, watching a caterpillar crawling along a table, the taste of an excellent hot chocolate, the wind whistling through a tree...I could go on. Stopping to notice the little things, this was her final lesson for me. This has been one of the most important lessons I have carried with me to my Peace Corps service.
These past couple of weeks have been tough for me. Finding my footing and mixing myself into the grain of society has been more of a challenge than I originally thought. The feeling of homesickness has loomed in my mind every moment. People back home remind me of 'how proud they are of me' and how 'I shouldn't worry because I am strong and it will get better'. Those are some hollow words when you are actually here. The feeling of being isolated and alone, while also feeling on-display is a hard sort of mixture to understand. After these conversations the person on the other end gets to turn off their computer and give my Peace Corps experience a romanticized hardship. These emotions are also followed closely by guilt. Life here isn't physically demanding, and I have access to a hot shower and high speed internet. Often I am confused by why I am complaining, spoiled American.
What has gotten me through so far? Besides the support and friendship of other volunteers, I have taken a stance to actively notice the little things. A bad day can be completely turned around if I am able to see and realize the perfect imperfection in my surroundings. The other day I was in a bad mood, I couldn't pin point the exact reason but nothing was going 'my way'. I had stopped at five different shops in town looking for cheese to make my lunch, none of them had cheese, this seemed to be the final straw. I begrudgingly made my way home thinking about the cereal I would be eating for the second time that day. As I walked, I listened to a mix I had titled 'happy music', I was going to try my best to not let my bad mood take me down. The awesome U2 song 'Beautiful Day' came on, I found myself singing along, throwing up a little prayer that maybe my day would turn around. As I crossed my narrow concrete bridge and marched up the trail I saw a piece of white paper on the ground. I thought to myself 'big surprise, someone throwing their garbage wherever is convenient', but as I passed the piece of paper I realized a heart had been cut out of the paper. This was my sign. A few steps further and there the white paper heart lay. I stopped, on the path, staring down at this dirty white heart. This was my sign, this was what I had been waiting for. I picked up the paper heart, it had dirty foot prints on it but I didn't care. I tucked it into my bag and continued my walk home. My day had turned around. This silly piece of paper had been exactly what I needed. Somehow, I felt like everything was going to be okay. I walked into the first shop near my house with a new sort of hope, maybe they would have my product. No, all out. I had one more chance, one more store to check. I walked the couple of blocks down to the store. I saw from a block away the sign that said closed. I couldn't believe my luck, I wanted to pretend I was reading it wrong, maybe it's open, maybe I'm just really that bad at Romanian. I walked up and tried the door, locked. I took a deep breath and thought about my paper heart. I turned back to my house and tried to remind myself of how unexpected and perfect the paper heart had been. I won't lie, I was still a little annoyed, I couldn't eat the paper heart, I wanted the damn cheese. I had walked about a hundred feet when I heard a lady behind me yelling 'lady'. I turned around, it was the shop keeper, she was coming back from her lunch to open the shop. I walked into the shop and asked if she had cheese. She did. I happily carried my bag home and made a delicious lunch. This day had turned around. This little white heart brought light to my week.
These are the sorts of moments that I love about the Peace Corps. I thank Athena for helping me to recognize when something so small can be so wonderful. Hope can wash over you when you least expect it. It is our job to recognize it and cherish it as special.
My little white paper heart. A true piece of peace.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Open the barn doors: I'm taking friend applications
Moldova is a country of many unique and interesting attributes. One of these interesting attributes is the high rate of population migration to big cities in surrounding countries. The reasoning for this is simple, substantially greater money can be made in other countries. This leads to a high rate of GDP coming from remittances (the sending of money from one country to the recipient in another country). This sort of foreign dependence is seen all around the world; we in the US have our own issues with foreign dependence, most countries show a form of dependence, but all forms differ. This trend of working in foreign countries leads to a high rate of young people leaving the country for University and not returning until they are raising a family.
How does all of this affect me? Well, I consider myself to be a relatively social person and given the lack of people my own age at my site, I have resorted to befriending many people I wouldn't have considered in the US. These people include, the older people in my community, the ladies at the shop near my house, and the few kids I pass on my way to work. I don't mind this random assortment of acquaintances. They are all wonderfully hospitable and usually show some sort of interest in me and my background. All of these 'new friends' still don't fill the void I feel being away from everyone I know and love, and so I resort to some pretty entertaining measures to keep myself amused.
Now, if you know me well this will be an eye-roll-nod-of-head moment. If for some reason this blog has attracted readers who don't know me--please don't judge, I promise I'm not crazy (and hey, thanks for reading!).
Like I mentioned in earlier posts, I pass many animals on my way to work. In the majority, these animals include geese, goats and chickens. I have made my morning walk into a sort of game. It entertains the pants off me. I have provided the three different animals with different roles. The geese speak English, the goats speak Romanian, and the chickens speak Russian. I know, I know, I sound crazy. Don't judge, it's pretty fun for a bored peace corps volunteer.
So, every morning on my way to work I wish the geese a 'good morning'. I usually follow this with something witty like -'all your feathers look good today ladies, bravo'- usually their response is that goose quack that sounds a lot like laughing (they totally get my humor). The goats I wish a 'bună dimineaţa'. Sometimes followed by a 'ce faci', I usually get no response, sometimes they will look up acknowledge I'm there and quickly go back to grazing. I have begun to expect being ignored when I speak in Romanian. The chickens are an entirely different story. The chickens and I are rarely on speaking terms. I don't know Russian and these chickens don't know English. Sometimes, if I have woken up on the wrong side of the bed and am feeling especially snappy I will say something along the lines of - 'I'm going to eat your cousin tonight for dinner'- not particularly original, but they ignore me anyways. So, these are my make-believe friends, because well, I like to talk, and if I can't talk to people I turn to the animals.
If you had asked me a year ago what I thought my social life would be, I don't think I would have guessed my current situation. A 22 year old; talking to barn yard animals, staying at home after nightfall and having the highlight of her weekend be skyping with her Dad (Not that you aren't awesome, old man). Oh well, welcome to life as a PCV in Moldova.
Peace
How does all of this affect me? Well, I consider myself to be a relatively social person and given the lack of people my own age at my site, I have resorted to befriending many people I wouldn't have considered in the US. These people include, the older people in my community, the ladies at the shop near my house, and the few kids I pass on my way to work. I don't mind this random assortment of acquaintances. They are all wonderfully hospitable and usually show some sort of interest in me and my background. All of these 'new friends' still don't fill the void I feel being away from everyone I know and love, and so I resort to some pretty entertaining measures to keep myself amused.
Now, if you know me well this will be an eye-roll-nod-of-head moment. If for some reason this blog has attracted readers who don't know me--please don't judge, I promise I'm not crazy (and hey, thanks for reading!).
Like I mentioned in earlier posts, I pass many animals on my way to work. In the majority, these animals include geese, goats and chickens. I have made my morning walk into a sort of game. It entertains the pants off me. I have provided the three different animals with different roles. The geese speak English, the goats speak Romanian, and the chickens speak Russian. I know, I know, I sound crazy. Don't judge, it's pretty fun for a bored peace corps volunteer.
So, every morning on my way to work I wish the geese a 'good morning'. I usually follow this with something witty like -'all your feathers look good today ladies, bravo'- usually their response is that goose quack that sounds a lot like laughing (they totally get my humor). The goats I wish a 'bună dimineaţa'. Sometimes followed by a 'ce faci', I usually get no response, sometimes they will look up acknowledge I'm there and quickly go back to grazing. I have begun to expect being ignored when I speak in Romanian. The chickens are an entirely different story. The chickens and I are rarely on speaking terms. I don't know Russian and these chickens don't know English. Sometimes, if I have woken up on the wrong side of the bed and am feeling especially snappy I will say something along the lines of - 'I'm going to eat your cousin tonight for dinner'- not particularly original, but they ignore me anyways. So, these are my make-believe friends, because well, I like to talk, and if I can't talk to people I turn to the animals.
If you had asked me a year ago what I thought my social life would be, I don't think I would have guessed my current situation. A 22 year old; talking to barn yard animals, staying at home after nightfall and having the highlight of her weekend be skyping with her Dad (Not that you aren't awesome, old man). Oh well, welcome to life as a PCV in Moldova.
Peace
Friday, September 9, 2011
The sun has set on the sunflowers
Moldova is well known for it's sunflowers. The country is filled with these flowers. The range and scope of this, one of their primary exports, is wide. It is not uncommon to find them nestled in gardens bearing just a few of the majestic stems, while conversely vast fields full of the yellow flowers are found all over this small country. In summer one doesn't have to walk far to find these flowers.
Luckily for me, the sunflower is probably my favorite flower. They are big, and bright, and have 'sun' in the name. That's a happy flower, if you ask me. In the heat of summer the saving grace of many of my 'rutiera' rides (as mentioned earlier, these are the vans the shuttle people throughout all of Moldova) was the view of these fields, rushing by my window, creating a storybook-like yellow blur.
Now that the weather has begun to cool, and the most temperature sensitive crops have come and gone, we enter the season of fall. I love fall, nothing better than a long walk on a cool afternoon, munching an apple and enjoying the colors of the leaves about to fall from the trees. With fall comes the end of sunflower season.
In the US we import nearly everything we consume. This is a pretty well accepted statement. And so, I hate to admit it, but I have only ever seen sunflower seeds in the cute little pouches one buys at the grocery store. At Shaws, one can buy them in fun flavors or 'classic salted', great for a day at a baseball game or a BBQ.
My ignorance of the lineage of the sunflower seed all changed this week. On Wednesday I was sitting outside munching on my lunch of crushed sauteed vegetables and bread, when I heard what sounded like a hammer hitting a paperback book. I asked host mom 'what's going on over at the neighbors house'. She didn't need to look before responding 'sunflowers'. I gave her my oh-I-have-never-seen-that-before look, mixed with my I-would-really-like-to-go-help/watch-what-is-happening-because-I'm-an-ignorant-American look. She gave me her I'm-busy-right-now-I'm-going-to-ignore-your-look-because-I-don't-have-time-for-this look. And so, the subject was dropped and I returned to my lunch.
I had forgotten about it by Thursday when she came to my room and said 'let's go'. I often don't know where we are going, but I trust her, so I get up and put on a sweatshirt. We walk to the neighbors house and sure enough I find my answer to the question I had posed a day earlier. A pile, my knee high, of sunflower seeds had been whacked out of sunflowers. Both the women sitting at the pile had a glove on one had and a block of wood in the other. I was quickly escorted to a stool and handed a fancy mallet with a hand grip that had been carved in. I was wearing sports shorts which were deemed inappropriate for the work (now I understood why host mom had told me to put on pants, and I didn't listen...typical of me). A bolt of fabric, once a skirt, was tucked around my waste and into the back of my shorts. I watched as the baba (grandma) sat with her feet fully submerged in the seeds, like sitting in a sand pile at the beach, hammering away at these sunflowers.
I decided this was fun. I grabbed the biggest sunflower I could find and started whacking away. I got a few funny looks from the baba, but no one complained because the seeds were falling out-- and that is the point. After smacking away at a few flowers my arm began to feel fatigued, and the glamor of the simplicity of this new experience began to wear off. Host mom kept looking over and asking if I was tired. Of course I responded 'no', I wasn't going to let some old baba beat me at sunflower seed shucking. Yes, that was childish of me, but I really will do anything for a competition, whether my competitors know who they are, or not. So, there we sat for the next couple of hours smacking sunflowers until the all the sacks had been emptied, all the flowers had been de-seeded and all the light had drained from the sky.
Later, as I got ready for bed a few seeds dropped out of my pony tail. They weren't 'a fun flavor' or 'classic salted' but they tasted fresh, and natural. It was a simple way to finish my day.
I will miss the yellow.
Luckily for me, the sunflower is probably my favorite flower. They are big, and bright, and have 'sun' in the name. That's a happy flower, if you ask me. In the heat of summer the saving grace of many of my 'rutiera' rides (as mentioned earlier, these are the vans the shuttle people throughout all of Moldova) was the view of these fields, rushing by my window, creating a storybook-like yellow blur.
Now that the weather has begun to cool, and the most temperature sensitive crops have come and gone, we enter the season of fall. I love fall, nothing better than a long walk on a cool afternoon, munching an apple and enjoying the colors of the leaves about to fall from the trees. With fall comes the end of sunflower season.
In the US we import nearly everything we consume. This is a pretty well accepted statement. And so, I hate to admit it, but I have only ever seen sunflower seeds in the cute little pouches one buys at the grocery store. At Shaws, one can buy them in fun flavors or 'classic salted', great for a day at a baseball game or a BBQ.
My ignorance of the lineage of the sunflower seed all changed this week. On Wednesday I was sitting outside munching on my lunch of crushed sauteed vegetables and bread, when I heard what sounded like a hammer hitting a paperback book. I asked host mom 'what's going on over at the neighbors house'. She didn't need to look before responding 'sunflowers'. I gave her my oh-I-have-never-seen-that-before look, mixed with my I-would-really-like-to-go-help/watch-what-is-happening-because-I'm-an-ignorant-American look. She gave me her I'm-busy-right-now-I'm-going-to-ignore-your-look-because-I-don't-have-time-for-this look. And so, the subject was dropped and I returned to my lunch.
I had forgotten about it by Thursday when she came to my room and said 'let's go'. I often don't know where we are going, but I trust her, so I get up and put on a sweatshirt. We walk to the neighbors house and sure enough I find my answer to the question I had posed a day earlier. A pile, my knee high, of sunflower seeds had been whacked out of sunflowers. Both the women sitting at the pile had a glove on one had and a block of wood in the other. I was quickly escorted to a stool and handed a fancy mallet with a hand grip that had been carved in. I was wearing sports shorts which were deemed inappropriate for the work (now I understood why host mom had told me to put on pants, and I didn't listen...typical of me). A bolt of fabric, once a skirt, was tucked around my waste and into the back of my shorts. I watched as the baba (grandma) sat with her feet fully submerged in the seeds, like sitting in a sand pile at the beach, hammering away at these sunflowers.
I decided this was fun. I grabbed the biggest sunflower I could find and started whacking away. I got a few funny looks from the baba, but no one complained because the seeds were falling out-- and that is the point. After smacking away at a few flowers my arm began to feel fatigued, and the glamor of the simplicity of this new experience began to wear off. Host mom kept looking over and asking if I was tired. Of course I responded 'no', I wasn't going to let some old baba beat me at sunflower seed shucking. Yes, that was childish of me, but I really will do anything for a competition, whether my competitors know who they are, or not. So, there we sat for the next couple of hours smacking sunflowers until the all the sacks had been emptied, all the flowers had been de-seeded and all the light had drained from the sky.
Later, as I got ready for bed a few seeds dropped out of my pony tail. They weren't 'a fun flavor' or 'classic salted' but they tasted fresh, and natural. It was a simple way to finish my day.
I will miss the yellow.
Friday, September 2, 2011
--breakthrough!
Well, I have been in my new home for almost a month now. I have settled into my routine. Gotten used to my new living space, my new work space and my new community. I live solely with my host mom, and so, this is an extremely important relationship to foster. As time has gone by we have slowly begun to feel normal and at ease around each other. This is a HUGE feat for me. I wasn't sure what I was going to do if we were unable to understand each other. Luckily, our living together has recently lead to a --breakthrough!
Living with a host family is very unlike any sort of situation I have been put into before. Yes, I lived with my family, they had no choice but to love me. Yes, I lived with roommates but they were often friends and we stayed, for the most part, out of each others decisions. This situation is different. No, we aren't required to love each other or become best of friends (though I could always use another friend), but we are required to create a happy coexsistance where we can both live comfortably with one another. And so, we return to elementary school, and the golden rule to any relationship: communication.
Now, I'm no language pro, and I don't mean to sound boastful, but when it comes to speaking I consider myself above adequate. Articulation of what needs to be said comes naturally. I just say it. Since arrival in Moldova my world has been toppled on its head. My language is now the level of a slow 5 year old. This makes for a challenge when you are trying to seamlessly integrate into your 'new family' as a 22 year old who can't create simple sentences let alone complex ones. Yes, facial expressions help, and let me tell you I know how to make an expression BUT, at the end of the day a big smile or a look of confusion doesn't explain how I am truly feeling or what I would like to be saying. This has lead to much aggravation for me and the people surrounding me.
The breakthrough came yesterday. Host mom was getting sick of looking at my wrinkled clothes so she decided it was time to do a bit of ironing. After deeming my ironing less than adequate I found myself standing in the kitchen watching her ironing my pants. I won't lie, as a 22 year old woman I found it hard to watch someone else ironing my pants, when I am perfectly capable. Setting aside my pride, I decided to stick around and watch, who knows maybe I could learn a thing or two from Mama G.
After talking about the normal pleasantries, work, friends and the like, she began to tell me more about her family. There we were, swapping stories about our families. In the course of our conversation I was invited to both a wedding and a baptism. Who would have thought while ironing we would reach a --breakthrough!
I have even begun to throw in some of my own humor. Though my language isn't good enough to spurt off jokes quite yet, I can still get a giggle out of her from time to time. We were using a steam iron, one that you press a button for water. When she finally decided to give me another chance at the iron I used the opportunity to use the iron as a squirt gun and hit her with some of the water. Win, she laughed-- breakthrough!
Later we walked to the store to buy food for dinner...and sweets for desert. While we walked she told me she hoped I would have guests come to visit. I told her that my family might come during Christmas time. She looked at me entirely straight faced and said; "Yes, but how will we communicate?". I told her by Christmas time I would speak well enough to communicate. She laughed and said "Maybe, if the dictionary becomes your brother." She is funny too, this will work--breakthrough!
It was a good day. We covered a lot of ground. I felt more connected to her, and by default my community. I'm certainly not changing the world but this country is definitely changing mine. And you know what I call that, a --breakthrough!
Living with a host family is very unlike any sort of situation I have been put into before. Yes, I lived with my family, they had no choice but to love me. Yes, I lived with roommates but they were often friends and we stayed, for the most part, out of each others decisions. This situation is different. No, we aren't required to love each other or become best of friends (though I could always use another friend), but we are required to create a happy coexsistance where we can both live comfortably with one another. And so, we return to elementary school, and the golden rule to any relationship: communication.
Now, I'm no language pro, and I don't mean to sound boastful, but when it comes to speaking I consider myself above adequate. Articulation of what needs to be said comes naturally. I just say it. Since arrival in Moldova my world has been toppled on its head. My language is now the level of a slow 5 year old. This makes for a challenge when you are trying to seamlessly integrate into your 'new family' as a 22 year old who can't create simple sentences let alone complex ones. Yes, facial expressions help, and let me tell you I know how to make an expression BUT, at the end of the day a big smile or a look of confusion doesn't explain how I am truly feeling or what I would like to be saying. This has lead to much aggravation for me and the people surrounding me.
The breakthrough came yesterday. Host mom was getting sick of looking at my wrinkled clothes so she decided it was time to do a bit of ironing. After deeming my ironing less than adequate I found myself standing in the kitchen watching her ironing my pants. I won't lie, as a 22 year old woman I found it hard to watch someone else ironing my pants, when I am perfectly capable. Setting aside my pride, I decided to stick around and watch, who knows maybe I could learn a thing or two from Mama G.
After talking about the normal pleasantries, work, friends and the like, she began to tell me more about her family. There we were, swapping stories about our families. In the course of our conversation I was invited to both a wedding and a baptism. Who would have thought while ironing we would reach a --breakthrough!
I have even begun to throw in some of my own humor. Though my language isn't good enough to spurt off jokes quite yet, I can still get a giggle out of her from time to time. We were using a steam iron, one that you press a button for water. When she finally decided to give me another chance at the iron I used the opportunity to use the iron as a squirt gun and hit her with some of the water. Win, she laughed-- breakthrough!
Later we walked to the store to buy food for dinner...and sweets for desert. While we walked she told me she hoped I would have guests come to visit. I told her that my family might come during Christmas time. She looked at me entirely straight faced and said; "Yes, but how will we communicate?". I told her by Christmas time I would speak well enough to communicate. She laughed and said "Maybe, if the dictionary becomes your brother." She is funny too, this will work--breakthrough!
It was a good day. We covered a lot of ground. I felt more connected to her, and by default my community. I'm certainly not changing the world but this country is definitely changing mine. And you know what I call that, a --breakthrough!
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Over the river and through the woods: A morning commute in Falesti
As a new Peace Corps volunteer I am very aware of the differences between my new home and the one I recently left. Some of the magic of Peace Corps is the opportunity to begin anew, even the most mundane routines we all performed on autopilot at home, are now entirely new. It's exciting, it's scary, it's wonderful. It has become as 'real' as it can get.
This includes, but is not limited to, the morning commute. Now, in the US it was simple. Hop in car, drive for 35 minutes, perhaps stop at Dunkin' Doughnuts to grab a coffee, arrive at cubicle, work, drive home. What we know as a lather, rinse, repeat sort of schedule. My commute here in Moldova is slightly different from what I new as 'typical' back home.
In Moldova I leave my house and venture out into my community, I live on the opposite side of town, and the walk takes about 20-30 minutes (depending on weather). I exit my community, cross a main road and enter a small forest. --through the woods-- Here I will see, on a daily basis, flocks of geese and chickens, goats out to pasture, and one big cow. This is a far cry from the radio-show I listened to only a few months ago. On occasion I will pass another person, but this is rare for the first half of my walk. In order to exit the woods I cross a stream. --Over the river-- I come from a state filled with covered bridges, quaint New England, you know the type. This is a long narrow cement slab. I am already nervous to cross it with another person, I can't imagine what winter has in store for me. After making it this far the rest of the journey is a breeze. I wind my way through a few dirt roads leading up to the center of town, walk down main street, and bam-- I'm at the office for another day of work.
This is just one small example of the many new adjustments the newest volunteers of Peace Corps Moldova experience during our first weeks, our first months and our first 365 days of peace and friendship.
This includes, but is not limited to, the morning commute. Now, in the US it was simple. Hop in car, drive for 35 minutes, perhaps stop at Dunkin' Doughnuts to grab a coffee, arrive at cubicle, work, drive home. What we know as a lather, rinse, repeat sort of schedule. My commute here in Moldova is slightly different from what I new as 'typical' back home.
In Moldova I leave my house and venture out into my community, I live on the opposite side of town, and the walk takes about 20-30 minutes (depending on weather). I exit my community, cross a main road and enter a small forest. --through the woods-- Here I will see, on a daily basis, flocks of geese and chickens, goats out to pasture, and one big cow. This is a far cry from the radio-show I listened to only a few months ago. On occasion I will pass another person, but this is rare for the first half of my walk. In order to exit the woods I cross a stream. --Over the river-- I come from a state filled with covered bridges, quaint New England, you know the type. This is a long narrow cement slab. I am already nervous to cross it with another person, I can't imagine what winter has in store for me. After making it this far the rest of the journey is a breeze. I wind my way through a few dirt roads leading up to the center of town, walk down main street, and bam-- I'm at the office for another day of work.
This is just one small example of the many new adjustments the newest volunteers of Peace Corps Moldova experience during our first weeks, our first months and our first 365 days of peace and friendship.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Mooooo-ve, we have someplace to be
Yesterday, I attended my first "house christening". My host aunt and uncle hosted the house christening, the priest came over, it was quite the ordeal. My host mom and I walked over in the morning, it was a more eventful walk than we had anticipated. Just before we reached the house a huge cow was standing on our path. Host mom had to scream at it for awhile, shouting "we have someplace to be"--"move, we will miss the meal"-- "cow, we have to get past", after she nudged it with a stick and it finally budged enough for us to scoot past. When we arrived at the house everyone was buzzing about making finishing touches to the food, cleaning up and preparing for the arrival of the rest of the guests.
There was a spread on a small table in the garden where most of the ceremony took place. I was most interested in the coulac, a large round braided loaf of bread, it was very pretty and acted as a center piece for the table. Bowls of rice, sugar, and salt were also presented on the table along with a pail of water, a book, flowers and a box of chocolates. I assume each of these represent some part of life. Blessing each one, the priest did his duties, muttering in Romanian while I listened intently. I asked before the ceremony started if I could take pictures, the priest said 'of course', I saw this is a green light, mid-way through the ceremony I could feel him getting annoyed, I stopped taking pictures at that point.
Immediately following the ceremony we ate. No we didn't eat, we feasted. There was a large table set up in the 'entertaining room' of the house where we sat. The table wasn't big enough for everyone who was there so I planned to hide in an extra room while the important people attending the celebration could eat. I didn't get the chance to hide, host aunt grabbed me and seated me up towards the end of the table with the priest and the grandparents. I felt uncomfortable, but lets face it, this isn't the first or last time I will be put in a similar position. I began to graze on the HUGE spread. Meats, breads, salads, an assortment of unknown foods, it was quite the meal. Just when I was getting full on chicken topped with..something. They brought in an entirely new course. Wait, but I was full. That didn't matter, my favorite part was when I looked over at the priest, he was staring at me and said one word "mânca" (eat). I smiled and proceeded to shovel yet another spoon full of food onto my plate. After about two hours of eating and drinking the priest rose from his chair at the head of the table, this was the cue to the rest of table that the meal was over, we stood, he prayed, meal finished. So, now that the priest had left the rest of the family who hadn't fit at the table earlier could take their place at the table. They ushered me to a seat, I explained that I had just eaten, they didn't care I was to at least continue drinking. There I sat for another hour sipping wine and feeling utterly confused as I tried to follow the bunches of different conversations happening all around me.
At some point I recognized a window of opportunity and excused myself from the table. I knew that nature was calling, and being out of commission in my own house sounded a thousand times more comfortable than at a home currently hosting a celebration. I thanked the extraordinarily gracious hosts and trotted home, waving to the cow who was still grazing in the path. It was a good day, I felt apart of my host family. These small victories are all I am after at the moment, I found one yesterday, it felt good.
Peace
There was a spread on a small table in the garden where most of the ceremony took place. I was most interested in the coulac, a large round braided loaf of bread, it was very pretty and acted as a center piece for the table. Bowls of rice, sugar, and salt were also presented on the table along with a pail of water, a book, flowers and a box of chocolates. I assume each of these represent some part of life. Blessing each one, the priest did his duties, muttering in Romanian while I listened intently. I asked before the ceremony started if I could take pictures, the priest said 'of course', I saw this is a green light, mid-way through the ceremony I could feel him getting annoyed, I stopped taking pictures at that point.
Immediately following the ceremony we ate. No we didn't eat, we feasted. There was a large table set up in the 'entertaining room' of the house where we sat. The table wasn't big enough for everyone who was there so I planned to hide in an extra room while the important people attending the celebration could eat. I didn't get the chance to hide, host aunt grabbed me and seated me up towards the end of the table with the priest and the grandparents. I felt uncomfortable, but lets face it, this isn't the first or last time I will be put in a similar position. I began to graze on the HUGE spread. Meats, breads, salads, an assortment of unknown foods, it was quite the meal. Just when I was getting full on chicken topped with..something. They brought in an entirely new course. Wait, but I was full. That didn't matter, my favorite part was when I looked over at the priest, he was staring at me and said one word "mânca" (eat). I smiled and proceeded to shovel yet another spoon full of food onto my plate. After about two hours of eating and drinking the priest rose from his chair at the head of the table, this was the cue to the rest of table that the meal was over, we stood, he prayed, meal finished. So, now that the priest had left the rest of the family who hadn't fit at the table earlier could take their place at the table. They ushered me to a seat, I explained that I had just eaten, they didn't care I was to at least continue drinking. There I sat for another hour sipping wine and feeling utterly confused as I tried to follow the bunches of different conversations happening all around me.
At some point I recognized a window of opportunity and excused myself from the table. I knew that nature was calling, and being out of commission in my own house sounded a thousand times more comfortable than at a home currently hosting a celebration. I thanked the extraordinarily gracious hosts and trotted home, waving to the cow who was still grazing in the path. It was a good day, I felt apart of my host family. These small victories are all I am after at the moment, I found one yesterday, it felt good.
Peace
Friday, August 12, 2011
Happy Shopping
Let me tell you about the open market (here they are known as the 'piața'). The piața here in Falesti is where you get ALL your fruits and vegetables, if you don't have a garden. There are no supermarkets, zero. We have many little shops, known as 'magazin's' but they solely carry bread, milk, cheese, beer, chips, chocolate and on occasion ketchup. Therefore, we all must make the trip into the centru (center of town) to cumpăra (buy) our fruits and veggies. I consider myself to be a relatively courageous young woman, but for some reason the piața is a place where my blood pressure spikes and I become uneasy. I don't know where this timidness comes from, I find it mildly ridiculous really. A grown woman getting nervous to go buy some tomatoes from a local farmer. I realize it has a lot to do with my lack of language skills BUT this is something I really shouldn't have any issue with. The piața is an organized chaos of produce, farmers, shoppers, cars, horse-drawn carts...and me. I would love to think of myself as that natural traveler, the person who can easily and happily blend into their newest setting with ease, a chameleon. My odd fear of the piața is one of my more obvious down-falls to reaching my "chameleon status".
So, after avoiding entering the piața up until this point I took a page from my dad's play book and decided my only option was to "buck up". I prepared, I brought my plaid-plastic shopping bag, I had my change purse at the ready, I was going to do this once and for all. I also wore my big sunglasses, the ones that cover nearly half my face. I was under the impression that perhaps by wearing the sunglasses they could act like my invisibility cloak, the childish "I can't see you, you can't see me" game.
I worked up the courage and walked over to a vendor. I asked for three tomatoes. She thought I had requested 3 kilograms, I quickly corrected my language blunder. I was doing good, this wasn't so bad. I was gaining confidence, I could continue ordering, I could totally do this! I ordered a kilogram of bananas. At this point I didn't want to push my luck any further and decided to cash out. The woman asked for 15lei and I clumsily handed her the bills. She then asked for 30lei...what? I looked at her confused and handed her one more lei to see if that appeased her. Than she snarled "treizeci de ban". OH, she wanted thirty cents. I smiled and fumbled with my coin purse looking for 30 cents in change. I was too late, she had found me very annoying and decided she was going to share my story of confusion with all the locals within ear shot. The story was quickly making its way down the row of merchants, while I was standing there, with hot cheeks and an accelerated heart rate, looking for the damn change. I finally found it and tried to hand it to her, she waved me away, I was clearly wasting her precious time. I smiled, slid the coins back into my purse, grabbed my bag, and high tailed it out of there before I could make more of a fool of myself.
My sunglasses failed me. I couldn't have been more visible had I worn a shirt that said "Eu sînt americanca" (I am American). I think my scarlet red cheeks spoke for themselves. As my walk to work came to an end and my cheeks had regained their normal color I thought to myself: Well, I have two years, it had to happen at some point, I will try again next week...and go to a different vendor. Maybe someday I will leave my sunglasses at home. I realize they don't act as a shield and they are actually quite see through, but for now if nothing else they will act as my security blanket, my figurative-invisibility cloak.
~ Happy Shopping
So, after avoiding entering the piața up until this point I took a page from my dad's play book and decided my only option was to "buck up". I prepared, I brought my plaid-plastic shopping bag, I had my change purse at the ready, I was going to do this once and for all. I also wore my big sunglasses, the ones that cover nearly half my face. I was under the impression that perhaps by wearing the sunglasses they could act like my invisibility cloak, the childish "I can't see you, you can't see me" game.
I worked up the courage and walked over to a vendor. I asked for three tomatoes. She thought I had requested 3 kilograms, I quickly corrected my language blunder. I was doing good, this wasn't so bad. I was gaining confidence, I could continue ordering, I could totally do this! I ordered a kilogram of bananas. At this point I didn't want to push my luck any further and decided to cash out. The woman asked for 15lei and I clumsily handed her the bills. She then asked for 30lei...what? I looked at her confused and handed her one more lei to see if that appeased her. Than she snarled "treizeci de ban". OH, she wanted thirty cents. I smiled and fumbled with my coin purse looking for 30 cents in change. I was too late, she had found me very annoying and decided she was going to share my story of confusion with all the locals within ear shot. The story was quickly making its way down the row of merchants, while I was standing there, with hot cheeks and an accelerated heart rate, looking for the damn change. I finally found it and tried to hand it to her, she waved me away, I was clearly wasting her precious time. I smiled, slid the coins back into my purse, grabbed my bag, and high tailed it out of there before I could make more of a fool of myself.
My sunglasses failed me. I couldn't have been more visible had I worn a shirt that said "Eu sînt americanca" (I am American). I think my scarlet red cheeks spoke for themselves. As my walk to work came to an end and my cheeks had regained their normal color I thought to myself: Well, I have two years, it had to happen at some point, I will try again next week...and go to a different vendor. Maybe someday I will leave my sunglasses at home. I realize they don't act as a shield and they are actually quite see through, but for now if nothing else they will act as my security blanket, my figurative-invisibility cloak.
~ Happy Shopping
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Stick in the mud
Dear Mud,
We have never been formally introduced. I am Brittany, Peace Corps volunteer in Moldova. I have heard of your work, you are quite well known here in Moldova. I won't lie, back home you are a manageable annoyance. My friend, Pavement, has you beat in most places I choose to venture state-side. However, here in Moldova you seem to have a more prominent place in society. Your twin sister, Soil, is quite fertile, give her all my best as she recovers from such an abundant crop this summer. I understand that the two of you are close. I get that, family is important. However, the proceedings from last nights thunderstorm were less than amusing. My leisurely 25 minute walk to work was more of an expedition of sorts. You had your fun tripping me up as I clumsily slid through the forest and treacherously hiked up through washed-out roads into town. You even made enemies of the geese and ducks, who I had assumed enjoyed your damp essence, but instead took refuge on a nearby patch of cement. It's not that I don't appreciate your little brother, Rain, he and I have never really had a problem, he is a necessary evil, and gives me occasion to read a book and sip tea inside. But you, my friend, you will be an issue for me, I can tell already. I would like for this letter to be a warning, I know you are in your rebellious teen years and won't listen to my pleas, but please just keep in mind all the shoes you are ruining and moods you are crushing the next time you decide to show yourself in town. I will be watching you, you tricky, slippery little character.
-B
We have never been formally introduced. I am Brittany, Peace Corps volunteer in Moldova. I have heard of your work, you are quite well known here in Moldova. I won't lie, back home you are a manageable annoyance. My friend, Pavement, has you beat in most places I choose to venture state-side. However, here in Moldova you seem to have a more prominent place in society. Your twin sister, Soil, is quite fertile, give her all my best as she recovers from such an abundant crop this summer. I understand that the two of you are close. I get that, family is important. However, the proceedings from last nights thunderstorm were less than amusing. My leisurely 25 minute walk to work was more of an expedition of sorts. You had your fun tripping me up as I clumsily slid through the forest and treacherously hiked up through washed-out roads into town. You even made enemies of the geese and ducks, who I had assumed enjoyed your damp essence, but instead took refuge on a nearby patch of cement. It's not that I don't appreciate your little brother, Rain, he and I have never really had a problem, he is a necessary evil, and gives me occasion to read a book and sip tea inside. But you, my friend, you will be an issue for me, I can tell already. I would like for this letter to be a warning, I know you are in your rebellious teen years and won't listen to my pleas, but please just keep in mind all the shoes you are ruining and moods you are crushing the next time you decide to show yourself in town. I will be watching you, you tricky, slippery little character.
-B
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Sworn-in , now let's WORK!
Swearing in took place this past Friday, August 5. We all happily took our oath and from there left Chisinau on our way to our new, permanent sites. I affectionately hugged the other volunteers before hopping into what was referred to by my program manager as 'the commie-limo' that was provided by my partner to usher me up to Falesti. Luckily the ride up to my new house in the north of Moldova was uneventful. I was informed later that numerous volunteers, on route to their new posts got flat tires. I am told that in at least one case the volunteer was blamed with the fault for the flat tire given the amount of luggage we all have. I found
this rather amusing, given our luggage weighs less than an adult. we did get it meticulously weighed at the airport after all.
So far I have done very little, besides hang with my new host mom and her two grand-nieces. Yesterday host mom's brother came over and before I knew it we were all in his car off to some village outside of Falesti. It was funny to me, sitting in that car, listening to 'Noroc' radio, dancing the hora while seated in the back of the van, off to some place unknown, quickly being woven into the life of my new host family. We reached our destination, a home that belonged to my host mom's brother but wasn't lived in, perhaps an investment property? It was a cute little place, in need of some TLC, but all around pleasant. Though no one lived at the home the garden was shockingly plentiful. After we cleaned the old and rotting apples off the drive way we pulled out a ladder and made ourselves busy gathering apples, pears and ears of corn to take back to the
house.
The brother's mother-in-law also joined us, she was the perfect picture of a Moldovan grandma. She wore a patterned dress and a floral handkerchief around her head, she walked hunched with a cane, her face was well lined from years of laughter, she was awesome. She and I sat for a while on the porch, watching the movement of everyone around us. We talked, well she talked and I nodded. The conversation started much like other conversations I have had hear. Do you like Moldova? Of course. Do you like Moldova more than the US? They are very different, I love Moldova, but the US is my home. How old are you? 21. We will find
you a Moldovan husband so you can live here. I don't think my family would be very happy with that. Yes, these conversations often follow a similar pattern. After discussing a few other topics the grandmother, bless her soul, began telling me about her grandson. You see, he is a 23 year old doctor, he is a very strong and smart man, he wants kids, he works in the city but he also has a home in the country...at first I thought she was just telling me about her family, but as we talked I began to understand that no, she was in fact
giving her grandson a personal ad during our chat. Luckily I can still play the dumb foreigner card; smiled, nodded, and said that her family sounded nice, offered her an apple, and changed the subject.
The rest of the day was relatively uneventful, hung around the house, read and surfed the internet. Tomorrow, I will begin my first day of work...I'm wishing myself luck.
2 years...ready...set...GO!
Peace-out
this rather amusing, given our luggage weighs less than an adult. we did get it meticulously weighed at the airport after all.
So far I have done very little, besides hang with my new host mom and her two grand-nieces. Yesterday host mom's brother came over and before I knew it we were all in his car off to some village outside of Falesti. It was funny to me, sitting in that car, listening to 'Noroc' radio, dancing the hora while seated in the back of the van, off to some place unknown, quickly being woven into the life of my new host family. We reached our destination, a home that belonged to my host mom's brother but wasn't lived in, perhaps an investment property? It was a cute little place, in need of some TLC, but all around pleasant. Though no one lived at the home the garden was shockingly plentiful. After we cleaned the old and rotting apples off the drive way we pulled out a ladder and made ourselves busy gathering apples, pears and ears of corn to take back to the
house.
The brother's mother-in-law also joined us, she was the perfect picture of a Moldovan grandma. She wore a patterned dress and a floral handkerchief around her head, she walked hunched with a cane, her face was well lined from years of laughter, she was awesome. She and I sat for a while on the porch, watching the movement of everyone around us. We talked, well she talked and I nodded. The conversation started much like other conversations I have had hear. Do you like Moldova? Of course. Do you like Moldova more than the US? They are very different, I love Moldova, but the US is my home. How old are you? 21. We will find
you a Moldovan husband so you can live here. I don't think my family would be very happy with that. Yes, these conversations often follow a similar pattern. After discussing a few other topics the grandmother, bless her soul, began telling me about her grandson. You see, he is a 23 year old doctor, he is a very strong and smart man, he wants kids, he works in the city but he also has a home in the country...at first I thought she was just telling me about her family, but as we talked I began to understand that no, she was in fact
giving her grandson a personal ad during our chat. Luckily I can still play the dumb foreigner card; smiled, nodded, and said that her family sounded nice, offered her an apple, and changed the subject.
The rest of the day was relatively uneventful, hung around the house, read and surfed the internet. Tomorrow, I will begin my first day of work...I'm wishing myself luck.
2 years...ready...set...GO!
Peace-out
Thursday, July 28, 2011
A new language and a new dictionary?
Nearing the end of PST now. A certain comfort has been developed and maintained with our current host families, that I will be reluctant to leave. A sort of broken language has somehow been pieced together from the daily barrage of language classes. My host family is patient and speaks slowly, for the benefit of my understanding (nearing upwards of 75%, I might add). We all, as a PST group blissfully flew through the early weeks of training, discounting of course the first week of confusion, delusion and a sort of waking state of sleep. As PST has pushed forward we have all begun to feel the pressure to pick up the language, become sparkling examples of Americas finest at every waking moment, while still integrating seamlessly into the fabric of Moldovan society. In other words, we are exhausted. A weird sort of exhuastion I believe is independent of all other I have known.
While confusion of communication has a strong hold over many of us, acting as the keystone of our exhaustion. The still relatively new landscape that we will be living in for the next 2+ years is not absent in our sleepy minds. Unfortunately for us this exhaustion is taken out not only on our loved ones back home, host families here, and fellow volunteers, but is most commonly taken out on our loyal and unbelieveably patient LTIs (language trainer instructors). These women are the cream of the crop, the most wonderful Moldovans and people you could be blessed to have teaching you. But, given our close quarters for 6 mornings a week...for the past 7 weeks...it is not surprise, that we, once bright eyed and bushy tailed volunteers, have morphed into rather cranky, impatient and utterly lost beings. Often, I enjoy being corrected when speaking, it allows me to recognize my mistake. However, on some unpleasant mornings, when I have woken on the wrong side of the bed, and seem to say everything wrong, the correction of my nouns from masculin singular definit to feminine plural indefinit is about all I can take.God bless them for putting up with us, without them there is no way any of us would accomplish anything during our time here. Their patients allows us all, when needed, to feel successful, and to act as a support when we are clearly failling behind.
In my almost two months in Moldova I have begun to make observations about the Peace Corps ideals and values. Coming fresh from the University life, I, as anyone who knows me can atest, base my life in large part around success and failure. I try to maximize the success and minimize the failure, well don't we all. Luckily in my short time here I have quickly begun to newly define these two words; success and failure. Success, atleast in my narrow definition has been learned anew here in the Peace Corps, and is measured entirely differently from how I view the word back home. Success back home was acing the exam, scoring the job, and solidifying the resume. Success here is talking with a local, being invited to help with cooking a meal, joking with your host family and growing fond of the many new traditions. Success has taken on a new fulfilling, wholesome and rewarding meaning. I was never able to understand this definition back home. This being said, failure too, gets a newly defined meaning. In the US failure is viewed as bombing the test, getting fired from the job, and spending time in a socially-viewed unproductive fashion. Conversely, failure here is the unwillingness to try, the isolation of ones self and the indifference to create sustainable change. I must say these shifting definitions make it easier for me to consider myself thus far, considerably more successful than a failure. Though I can't say I will not hold myself to the highest expectiations, this is my life after all, I intend to steer this ship to greatness! I will continue to discover and explore the newness of this country and my microscopic role in it as my position shifts from trainee to volunteer. And, perhaps, if you are bored on a saturday afternoon, you too will join me as I clumsily record these simple pieces of peace.
Until next time,
Peace
While confusion of communication has a strong hold over many of us, acting as the keystone of our exhaustion. The still relatively new landscape that we will be living in for the next 2+ years is not absent in our sleepy minds. Unfortunately for us this exhaustion is taken out not only on our loved ones back home, host families here, and fellow volunteers, but is most commonly taken out on our loyal and unbelieveably patient LTIs (language trainer instructors). These women are the cream of the crop, the most wonderful Moldovans and people you could be blessed to have teaching you. But, given our close quarters for 6 mornings a week...for the past 7 weeks...it is not surprise, that we, once bright eyed and bushy tailed volunteers, have morphed into rather cranky, impatient and utterly lost beings. Often, I enjoy being corrected when speaking, it allows me to recognize my mistake. However, on some unpleasant mornings, when I have woken on the wrong side of the bed, and seem to say everything wrong, the correction of my nouns from masculin singular definit to feminine plural indefinit is about all I can take.God bless them for putting up with us, without them there is no way any of us would accomplish anything during our time here. Their patients allows us all, when needed, to feel successful, and to act as a support when we are clearly failling behind.
In my almost two months in Moldova I have begun to make observations about the Peace Corps ideals and values. Coming fresh from the University life, I, as anyone who knows me can atest, base my life in large part around success and failure. I try to maximize the success and minimize the failure, well don't we all. Luckily in my short time here I have quickly begun to newly define these two words; success and failure. Success, atleast in my narrow definition has been learned anew here in the Peace Corps, and is measured entirely differently from how I view the word back home. Success back home was acing the exam, scoring the job, and solidifying the resume. Success here is talking with a local, being invited to help with cooking a meal, joking with your host family and growing fond of the many new traditions. Success has taken on a new fulfilling, wholesome and rewarding meaning. I was never able to understand this definition back home. This being said, failure too, gets a newly defined meaning. In the US failure is viewed as bombing the test, getting fired from the job, and spending time in a socially-viewed unproductive fashion. Conversely, failure here is the unwillingness to try, the isolation of ones self and the indifference to create sustainable change. I must say these shifting definitions make it easier for me to consider myself thus far, considerably more successful than a failure. Though I can't say I will not hold myself to the highest expectiations, this is my life after all, I intend to steer this ship to greatness! I will continue to discover and explore the newness of this country and my microscopic role in it as my position shifts from trainee to volunteer. And, perhaps, if you are bored on a saturday afternoon, you too will join me as I clumsily record these simple pieces of peace.
Until next time,
Peace
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Heat, Prey, Lug
As a huge fan of the book 'Eat, Pray, Love', I thought this play on words was too cute to pass up when thinking about what to write in this blog post. Though my moments here in Moldova have been (in the majority) amazing, many adjustments have been made. I have identified three of the major slight adjustments between life here as compared to life back home. These three things in particular have become more noticeable as time has gone on.
My first summer in Moldova. My summer of Heat, Prey, Lug.
Heat:
Being that it's summer, it's hot. Living in NH my whole life I understand...hot summers, cold winters; just a part of life. This being said, the humidity here is dreadful. The saying 'you could cut the air with a knife' doesn't begin to cut it, this stuff needs a machete. The sort of heat where sitting still, in shade, not moving, still leads to the trickle of sweat. Now, I was not raised with air conditioning in my house, but living in this heat without a fan is rough. My ice cream intake has seen a steady upward linear progression since my arrival. One of my first language misunderstadnings in Moldova happened in reference to the heat. My host sister and I were walking down the street when she truned to me in the sweltering heat and said one word: "Cold!". My being the unadjusted American, thinking she was trying to practice her English, and simply mismatched her antonyms, replied "No, hot!" The next day in language class I learned she was actually saing "cald", the Romanian word for "hot". Yes, summers here are filled with cald, cald, heat.
Prey:
It's commical really, the one animal all volunteers have been affected by isn't an animal at all, but rather an insect. Yes, that's right, the big bad mosquito. These are not just any ordinary mosquitoes out for blood. These mosquitoes are looking for limbs. Biggest difference is what these suckers leave on your body, post-bite. I have identified three different forms that the bite can manifest into. The first, the blister bite, creating a legitimate blister on the skin. The second, the cone-shaped red bump, itchy little things. The third, I more fondly refer to as the punch-shaped welt. These bites are huge, usually swollen with a hard center. Yes, the mosquitoes seem to prey on us Peace Corps volunteers. Perhpas it's fresh blood, perhaps they can smell our vulnerability, or perhaps it's just summer and these bugs are hungry.
Lug:
In the USA we are, usually, lucky enough to live in a community where clean water is in high supply. Though many of the homes we live in here have running water, well water is also a common resource for consumption. Given the standards for water quailyt in the US, we as Peace Corps volunteers, are advised to boild and filter all of our drinking water. In the summer, with the heat, this process is long, hot and is only as prosperous as the amount of water that fills the kettle. It's no lug and chug process, it's more of a lug, boil, cool, filter, sip process. As a result this leads to dehydration, given the effort to make the water is less than appealing in the heat.
But, here it is about adjustments. As Peace Corps countries go, I feel blessed to be in wonderful Moldova. For now I will continue to adjust and live in Moldova, and get used to my summer of heat, prey, lug.
~Peace
My first summer in Moldova. My summer of Heat, Prey, Lug.
Heat:
Being that it's summer, it's hot. Living in NH my whole life I understand...hot summers, cold winters; just a part of life. This being said, the humidity here is dreadful. The saying 'you could cut the air with a knife' doesn't begin to cut it, this stuff needs a machete. The sort of heat where sitting still, in shade, not moving, still leads to the trickle of sweat. Now, I was not raised with air conditioning in my house, but living in this heat without a fan is rough. My ice cream intake has seen a steady upward linear progression since my arrival. One of my first language misunderstadnings in Moldova happened in reference to the heat. My host sister and I were walking down the street when she truned to me in the sweltering heat and said one word: "Cold!". My being the unadjusted American, thinking she was trying to practice her English, and simply mismatched her antonyms, replied "No, hot!" The next day in language class I learned she was actually saing "cald", the Romanian word for "hot". Yes, summers here are filled with cald, cald, heat.
Prey:
It's commical really, the one animal all volunteers have been affected by isn't an animal at all, but rather an insect. Yes, that's right, the big bad mosquito. These are not just any ordinary mosquitoes out for blood. These mosquitoes are looking for limbs. Biggest difference is what these suckers leave on your body, post-bite. I have identified three different forms that the bite can manifest into. The first, the blister bite, creating a legitimate blister on the skin. The second, the cone-shaped red bump, itchy little things. The third, I more fondly refer to as the punch-shaped welt. These bites are huge, usually swollen with a hard center. Yes, the mosquitoes seem to prey on us Peace Corps volunteers. Perhpas it's fresh blood, perhaps they can smell our vulnerability, or perhaps it's just summer and these bugs are hungry.
Lug:
In the USA we are, usually, lucky enough to live in a community where clean water is in high supply. Though many of the homes we live in here have running water, well water is also a common resource for consumption. Given the standards for water quailyt in the US, we as Peace Corps volunteers, are advised to boild and filter all of our drinking water. In the summer, with the heat, this process is long, hot and is only as prosperous as the amount of water that fills the kettle. It's no lug and chug process, it's more of a lug, boil, cool, filter, sip process. As a result this leads to dehydration, given the effort to make the water is less than appealing in the heat.
But, here it is about adjustments. As Peace Corps countries go, I feel blessed to be in wonderful Moldova. For now I will continue to adjust and live in Moldova, and get used to my summer of heat, prey, lug.
~Peace
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Sights at the Site visit
Upon arriving in Falesti, my post for the next two years, the current volunteer Katherine, my partner Alexandre and I made our way to the office, quickly followed by a visit to the local summer hangout. This is a nice outdoor pavillion area with an attached magazin (small shop) for our convenience. We scooped up some ice cream, given it was nearly a bahzillion degrees. We sat at a table and were minding our own business when a man walked up, dis-robed, and decided he was going to take a dip in the lake. At first I was rather envious given the heat, a swim in a lake sounded refreshing. This stranger decided to climb out on the railing and looked to be diving into the water, when I thought to myself "hmmmm I don't think that the water is deep enough in this area to be diving in". Sure enough, at his expense, my excellent depth perception was right, he dove head first onto concreate. Now immediately after he jumped I was shocked. The culture I grew up in goes above and beyond to protect it's water-sport go-ers, however, given my lack of understanding of Moldovan culture, I didn't feel comfortable to help in a situation like this. He beagn spewing blood. The water around him turned red, he was flopping around, people were staring, no one dove in. Somehow he got himself out of the water, but he was losing a lot of blood it was pouring down his face onto his chest, I was mortified. Myself and the others around me quickly realized he must have been drinking given he jumped back into the water to wash off the blood that was now covering his body. This was in my first hour at my new home...after this rough start, Katherine the volunteer currently in Falesti (and will be leaving just two days before I arrive ...by the way that sucks! And is living with the host family that I too will be living with when I move to Falesti in early August) took me back to her house, and my new home. We had a nice evening on our own. My host mom was in Cisinau for the weekend with her daughters planning for the wedding that will be held later this month. We had a good time, it was nice to spend 48 hours connected at the hip with someone whose native language is English...and who knows Romanian fluently.
We toured around the city, and by toured I mean walked down the two larger streets. Falesti is one of the few cities that is host to a huge statue of Lenin. So, if you are ever in Falesti, you will know where all the zero tourists go! The following day we went to the office and had a ...quiet...day at work. That night we made macaroni and garlic bread followed by an english movie, it was lovely.
The ride back to Cisinau on Tuesday was interesting. As I posted early, the rutiera system in Moldova is both convenient and a nightmare, at the same time. This ride was no different. It included an overcrowded mess of people, hot and sticky weather...oh yea, and a box of ducklings. After two and a half long hours we arrived in the captial and were freed from the metal box.
And that concludes a few highlighted sites from my site visit, because well, I am tired and want to go to sleep.
Peace-out
We toured around the city, and by toured I mean walked down the two larger streets. Falesti is one of the few cities that is host to a huge statue of Lenin. So, if you are ever in Falesti, you will know where all the zero tourists go! The following day we went to the office and had a ...quiet...day at work. That night we made macaroni and garlic bread followed by an english movie, it was lovely.
The ride back to Cisinau on Tuesday was interesting. As I posted early, the rutiera system in Moldova is both convenient and a nightmare, at the same time. This ride was no different. It included an overcrowded mess of people, hot and sticky weather...oh yea, and a box of ducklings. After two and a half long hours we arrived in the captial and were freed from the metal box.
And that concludes a few highlighted sites from my site visit, because well, I am tired and want to go to sleep.
Peace-out
Saturday, July 9, 2011
The beauty that surrounds me
Today has been by far the best day in Moldova. The morning started with language class, per usual. For the afternoon we planned a picnic with the neighboring town, Cricova. We were going to a field between Cirescu and Cricova. I hadn't been before, but was told it was quite pretty. We walked along, being sung through the streets by angry dogs howling at us through their fences. When we reached the field it was amazing. Rogers and Hammerstine (yes, I spelt that wrong) would have happily filmed many a historical romance film in this very place. It overlooked all of Cirescu and the surrounding villages as well as the nearby limestone quarry. The field was idillic, with wild flowers growing everywhere, cows out to pasteur and butterflies fluttering among us. We picnicked on bread, meat and brinza (a local sheeps milk cheese), and enjoyed one anothers company. When we decided it was time to head home, we started back stopping at enticing fruit trees whose branches drooped merely from the weight of the fruit that they bore.
When we came across a plum tree, we couldn't resist, and began to pick the dark maroon fruit. Across the street the neighbors saw we were enjoying the fruit and quickly summoned us into their garden, where a plum tree was simply bursting. They, like all Moldovans, were extremely hospitable and quickly fetched us bags to carry home plums for later. After we had filled our bags, and eaten a few plums whilst picking, we anticipated a much thanked farwell. Instead, we were invited to stay and eat. And so, the four of us, bewildered by the generousity of these strangers sat down and ate freshly made pulchenta (a delicious stuffed bread with cabbage, potato and brinza). Seconds after we sat down the wine basin was presented and house wine was poured. Their we sat, laughing and talking in our broken Romanian, soaking in the amazing culturally normal experience unfolding before us. A while later we bid our farewell and thanked them whole heartedly for the time we had just had. With a kiss on both cheecks, a bag of plums in my hand, and a belly full of pulchenta, I happily made the walk home. One outside shower later, and I can easily say, I am quickly falling in love with my new home.
Peace
When we came across a plum tree, we couldn't resist, and began to pick the dark maroon fruit. Across the street the neighbors saw we were enjoying the fruit and quickly summoned us into their garden, where a plum tree was simply bursting. They, like all Moldovans, were extremely hospitable and quickly fetched us bags to carry home plums for later. After we had filled our bags, and eaten a few plums whilst picking, we anticipated a much thanked farwell. Instead, we were invited to stay and eat. And so, the four of us, bewildered by the generousity of these strangers sat down and ate freshly made pulchenta (a delicious stuffed bread with cabbage, potato and brinza). Seconds after we sat down the wine basin was presented and house wine was poured. Their we sat, laughing and talking in our broken Romanian, soaking in the amazing culturally normal experience unfolding before us. A while later we bid our farewell and thanked them whole heartedly for the time we had just had. With a kiss on both cheecks, a bag of plums in my hand, and a belly full of pulchenta, I happily made the walk home. One outside shower later, and I can easily say, I am quickly falling in love with my new home.
Peace
Friday, July 8, 2011
1/26 = 1 month complete.
Well, I have been here in Moldova for exactly a month. I have settled in well and created a comfortable routine with my host family. The dogs have warmed up to me, my communication skills are improving everyday, the 'bathroom situation' is no longer a 'situation' and is now just the bathroom, my host sisters are really fun, and the raspberry bush in the garden is exploding...life couldn't get much better.
Tomorrow, one of my host sisters goes to Turkey for a dance festival. She has been asked to make the groups introduction, in English, at the start of their performance. After consulting with google translate for her write-up she decided to pass it on to me for a final check. Second sentence in, I paused and looked up at her, asking for an explanation for one of the words. The sentence read "We are young and full of beans". I began to laugh, uncontrollably. She immediately knew there was a mistake, turned a pretty color scarlet and said "No, no, no, that isn't right?". She looked up the word and began to laugh too at the google blunder. Just another funny moment in Moldova. She is currently dancing around the house singing 'We are from Moldova. We are young and full of beans."...The best.
I have composed a list for your viewing pleasure entitled: "You know you have been in the Peace Corps for one month when..." Enjoy--
10.You are so tired all the time that your host family surely thinks you have an issue because you nap whenever possible.
9. You are able to carry-on a conversation mirroring that of a two year old. "It is raining. A dog. I ate dinner. It is raining...alot."
8. You think you have the language down and feel confident enough to pay someone a compliment and it comes out as follows: "Oh, your daughter is a very beautiful boy".
7. You see kids playing soccer on the local field and realize they are using a plastic bottle instead of a ball.
6. You consider getting thorough dinner without using your dictionary a victory, and an even greater victory when they invite you to prepare meals and help preserve for the winter.
5. You realize that when getting your permanent site, if given the option between toilet and internet, you would choose internet everytime.
4. You begin to crave food from home you didn't realize you liked to begin with.
3. When you have to pay more than 2 lei (about $.22) for ice cream you think you are being overcharged.
2. The woman in front of you on the bus pays for her ticket with apricots...and you think to yourself 'wow, that's a great idea'.
1. And finally, You know your in the Peace Corps when, at random moments during the day, you smile and think to yourself, this is exactly what it is like to be a volunteer in the Peace Corps.
Stay Well ~
Peace
Tomorrow, one of my host sisters goes to Turkey for a dance festival. She has been asked to make the groups introduction, in English, at the start of their performance. After consulting with google translate for her write-up she decided to pass it on to me for a final check. Second sentence in, I paused and looked up at her, asking for an explanation for one of the words. The sentence read "We are young and full of beans". I began to laugh, uncontrollably. She immediately knew there was a mistake, turned a pretty color scarlet and said "No, no, no, that isn't right?". She looked up the word and began to laugh too at the google blunder. Just another funny moment in Moldova. She is currently dancing around the house singing 'We are from Moldova. We are young and full of beans."...The best.
I have composed a list for your viewing pleasure entitled: "You know you have been in the Peace Corps for one month when..." Enjoy--
10.You are so tired all the time that your host family surely thinks you have an issue because you nap whenever possible.
9. You are able to carry-on a conversation mirroring that of a two year old. "It is raining. A dog. I ate dinner. It is raining...alot."
8. You think you have the language down and feel confident enough to pay someone a compliment and it comes out as follows: "Oh, your daughter is a very beautiful boy".
7. You see kids playing soccer on the local field and realize they are using a plastic bottle instead of a ball.
6. You consider getting thorough dinner without using your dictionary a victory, and an even greater victory when they invite you to prepare meals and help preserve for the winter.
5. You realize that when getting your permanent site, if given the option between toilet and internet, you would choose internet everytime.
4. You begin to crave food from home you didn't realize you liked to begin with.
3. When you have to pay more than 2 lei (about $.22) for ice cream you think you are being overcharged.
2. The woman in front of you on the bus pays for her ticket with apricots...and you think to yourself 'wow, that's a great idea'.
1. And finally, You know your in the Peace Corps when, at random moments during the day, you smile and think to yourself, this is exactly what it is like to be a volunteer in the Peace Corps.
Stay Well ~
Peace
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