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.
Friday, September 9, 2011
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
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