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
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