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.
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