A Walk Down A Muddy Memory Lane

I am a fan of spring, the days are longer, the snow melts away unearthing the ground below, the temperature gradually increases, layers of thick winter clothes are peeled away, people emerge from their holes of hibernation. Spring means fresh buds on the empty trees, young grass pops out from the brown ground, floral and pastels are worn in preparation for summer. It's that 're-birth' time of year that everyone can't help but love.

Yes, spring is on it's way... but, it hasn't arrived just yet.

There is a short season that I believe hits just before the Spring we all carry in our imaginations, of birdies chirping and flowers blooming. A six to eight week period of a pre-spring purgatory. The mud season.

 Dirt roads aren't all bad, there is a kind of nostalgia that comes with a dirt road, its bumps and imperfections adding to its charm. And, most of the year I stand by this statement, the small exception being mud season. The mud in Moldova is different from the mud I remember from back home. The dirt in Moldova is rich, so rich I think even I could plant a seed and grow something in this ground. It's like walking in mud made from top soil. It's a sticky, squishy, black mud that stays on the bottom of ones shoes. A mud that would inspire any good action movie with a sinking-sand pit.

When I was little I was a big fan of Indiana Jones. The right mix of action and drama for my young mind, and lets face it, every little girl who grew up in the 90s had a crush on the studly Harrison Ford. So, one day while I was walking to work this reference to Indiana Jones came to me, after maneuvering through several patches of truly awful mud. When I was younger I used to play Indiana Jones with my brother and a close family friend. The three of us would go out to the unfinished storage space next to our friends house and play for hours. The front room of the space had an unfinished floor with two 2x4's planking across the room into the main finished room. We would pretend the unfinished floor was a sinking-sand pit. I remember that once, my brothers foot fell in and both our friend and myself quickly pulled him out of the sticky sand, it was quite the adrenaline rush for three kids who genuinely thought the floor would swallow us up. This is the sinking-sand type mud I encounter on my walk to work. My rubber boots creating a suction cup beneath my feet. I couldn't help but smile and hope that the children of Nisporeni have similar imaginations, and could make these puddles of mud into a thrilling scene from an action movie.

As much as I hate the mud a part of me was proud to turn the muddy situation, that everyone has such a burning disdain for from negative to positive, and recount a fond memory from my childhood, the nostalgia of the dirt road wins again.

Not Homesick, Just Sick

When you spend two years in a foreign country it is only a matter of time before you come down with some kind of sickness. I was lucky enough to skirt through winter with just the occasional sore throat and a runny nose. Unfortunately for me, my luck ran out last week and I was bed bound with a disgusting infection that had me shivering in my bed with a fever of 102F. For some reason I, like most people, become entirely useless when I am sick. I lie in my bed daydreaming about being well and thinking how much I hope to never feel so uncomfortable again. Well, thanks to the Peace Corps medical kit and my wonderful host mom I was quickly sedated by the power of non-aspirin and chamomile tea. 

The other bad part about being sick while away from home is somehow gently letting your family back in the US know that you are feeling slightly under the weather. Of course, like most overly protective parents, my dad responded in the most paternal way he knew how, having a minor freak out wherever he was reading my Facebook message and demanding more information about my symptoms, and why on earth I was not booked on the next flight back to the US. After trying my best to calm him, I resolved that next time I get sick I will only inform him of this after I am in fact well again (It’s for your own good, Dad). I tried to gently remind him that hot soup and tea are pretty much the same wherever one is in the world. And, with a  host mom like mine I can assure him that the homemade soup is certainly better than the watered-down Campbell’s I had been serving myself the past four years when I had gotten sick at school.  

After a few days of temperature fluctuations I had myself on a pretty good routine of every six hour pill in take. I was finally deemed well enough to travel into the big city, Chisinau, to fetch more supplies and to have a few tests run to make sure it was nothing serious. I must say, riding a rutiera (mini-bus) on non-aspirin, Sudafed and, Dramamine is a loopy sort of endeavor. But, I found myself there just fine and plopped myself down in the medical apartment and spent the next two days in a daze caught between sleep and waking. One of my good friends was also at the medical apartments so she played a good little surrogate parent, making me eat my meals and hydrate myself. All in all it was actually quite a pleasant stay in Chisinau. It was my first time at the medical apartment, that place is nice. A real bed, a hot never-ending shower, a full kitchen and a big living room, the only thing it was missing was a flat screen TV and Chinese take-out.

When I was finally deemed well again I was allowed to go back to Nisporeni. It had been a long week and I was looking forward to getting back. I realized on my ride back that I was happy to be getting back to Nisporeni, it is my home here. I have been living in Nisporeni since November but, it always takes some time to adjust before you feel comfortable. I realized I have felt comfortable for quite some time now, and it’s always a feeling of relief when I get to return after a long time away. That’s the way a home is supposed to feel, a place of comfort and a feeling of belonging. I was happy to sit down that night for a cup of tea with my host mom and chat about the weeks we had, mine in the capital and, hers at work. Yes, I had spent the week sick but, I was no longer homesick. I have a home, here in Moldova.

Women's Day

Last week Moldova celebrated international women's day. Women's day is slightly different from Mother's day in the US, in that all women are celebrated on women's day. Women's day is also a considerably larger holiday than Mother's day, no one has work and women get inundated with flowers... I mean, I think the US should take some cues from Moldova on this one.

So, last week when I went to work on Wednesday I was ushered up to the presentation room for what my partner said was  'to give me a flower or something'. I asked him if my getting a flower meant that I had to give a speech. Let's just say when it comes to speaking Romanian I like to save that for my host mom, my tutor and the woman at the store selling me cookies. But, Vlad (my partner) promised me that all I would have to do is say thank you and sit there happily. Well, I could do that. So, unprepared for this little flower presentation I headed to the conference room with my very business casual jeans and sweater only to find that all the other women in the office had frumos-ified (beautified). I sat uncomfortably in the big conference room waiting for my flower so that I could get the h#(( out of that room. I knew the longer I stayed in the room the more likely I would be called out as the American, and be asked to say something in my broken Romanian so a room full of women could all give me the reaction of "oh, isn't that cute she is trying to speak our language". After everyone recieved there long-stemmed rose it was time for the 'masa' (meal) I saw this as the perfect opportunity to make my escape. I grabbed my flower and Vlad and headed for the exit. I sly slipped through the door making my way to the stair well. I had almost made my escape when the president of the county stopped me in my tracks. "Vino-ncoe!" ("Come here")..... I was caught. No escape now.

I re-entered the conference room. A series of long tables had been set up filled with food, champagne, house wine and vodka. A live band was set up on the platform stage at the front of the room and traditional Moldovan music began to come at us from all angles of the speaker system. It was looking like I was going to be able to eat a few pieces of brinza placinta (cheese filled pastry) drink a few toasts of champagne and take off. The council president made his first toast to me and my health. I said thank you, and drank. A long line of other men who work at the office came up and made toasts to me, my future husband, my future children, my future home, my future plans. To all of them, I said thank you, and drank. So, my planned five minute stay was quickly turning into a couple of hours.

Now, like any good Moldovan celebration it's only a matter of time and empty bottles until everyone begins to dance the hora. The national dance, a circle dance where dancers hold each others hands and dance around in a circle... I'm not a dancer, that is as good as you are getting as far as explanation.  At first I was able to resist the offers, "I don't know how but enjoy"...that wasn't acceptable after a few songs and so, I was swept into the circle, clicking my heels and trying my best to look like I wasn't completely lost. At the end of every song I found my way back to my seat hoping I would vanish into the wall. But, with every new song I was coerced back out into the circle that had know grown to big for the conference room and had oozed out into the corridor.

After a few more toasts of liquid courage I finally accepted my fate. I danced, and couldn't help but smile and laugh, as I could only imagine an onlooker seeing me awkwardly fumbling my feet, with my nervous sweaty palms grasping on to my unfortunate partners for dear life. One, more hopeful dance partner, clearly had not seen my messy foot work in the big circle and tried to pull me into the center of the circle, where couples had taken up posts dancing to the upbeat tempo without a care in the world, whistling and shouting out in joy. No, I am not a 'center of the circle' dancer. Everyone had already been made quite aware that I was the foreigner, I did not need the reputation of two left feet and a beet red face as well. So, I yelped out "NO!" and dragged my poor dance partner back to the circle with the other more modest dancers. When the party finally settled down, I left work with a big smile on my face. I think I'm a fan of Women's day.

I think next year I might try and dress up a bit more, and maybe work on my dance moves...

Peace, until next time!