Easter (or Paste in Romanian) takes a very special form here in Eastern Europe, it is much more of a celebration than the Easter we celebrate back home. It is by far the largest holiday celebrated in Moldova and so the preparation and execution is very unique. I had the great pleasure of getting to experience all aspects of Easter in Moldova with my host family and the community.
In preparation for Easter the house gets a serious cleaning. Now, you should know that people in Moldova take great pride in their homes, these homes are almost always immaculate but, even so, they must be cleaned even more precisely for the Easter celebration. So last week I helped host mom dissemble rooms of their rugs and curtains to be washed and hung out to dry, washed the windows, the walls, the floors, the door frames, the cupboards and shelves. If it was in the house, it got cleaned. We spent entire afternoons meticulously going through each room cleaning. I have never spent so many hours ironing curtains in my life. Finally after a long week of preparation it was time to begin food preparation.
I came home from work on Friday and found host mom in the kitchen with a giant bowl full to the brim with dough waiting to be kneaded out and filled with salty sheep's cheese and baked to perfection. The next morning was no different, I found host mom out in the summer kitchen (that had also gotten the full cleaning) cooking up all kinds of delicious dishes. A sampling of the dishes includes: sarmale (grape leaves stuffed with rice, chicken, and veggies), zeama (a homemade chicken noodles soup), pergiole (ground meat patties), racetori (the infamous chicken jello), clatite (crepes filled with sweet cheese), red-dyed eggs, and of course the national dish; mamaliga (a basic dish made of cornmeal and water). Again, this is just a sampling of the many dishes we had over the long weekend. Basically, we ate well.
Besides the tradition of cleaning and making tons of food there is also the tradition of going to church for an overnight service. This part I was very interested in taking part in. Saturday night finally arrived, host mom bundled me up in layers before heading out to the monastery in the cold and rain. We drove to the Hancu monastery, a famous monastery in western Moldova.
We stood in the wind and rain with our little candles extinguishing as fast as we could get them lit. I stood silently listening to the chanting of the monks and the singing of the gathered visitors. We stayed at the Monastery all night, 11pm until 4am. It was my first time staying overnight at a church service. The large basilica on the grounds is under construction but, the under belly is complete and serves as a chamber for prayer and reflection. We found solace in this underground cathedral during the night, it was filled with pictures of saints, the space lit by the soft flickering of little candles held in sand basins beneath the portraits. It was a quiet escape from the wind and rain and cold of outside.
The time finally came to prepare for the blessing, we gathered our baskets of food and placed them to be blessed by the priest. At about 3:30am the priest came around with his bundle of branches and slapped water on our basket. What happened next I found rather funny, after standing around all night everyone was in an awful rush to get home, the moment after the priest had finished slapping water on us we grabbed our things and booked it to the car. It reminded me of the ending of a concert or sports game, that mad dash to the car to get out before everyone else has congested the exit. And so, we booked it to the car, hopped in and sped off.
When we arrived home we sat down to a big meal. Now, after not sleeping all night all I really wanted was my bed. Of course that didn't happen, instead I sat down with everyone else and ate and drank until my belly was full and my mind was fuzzy. After, I slept.
The next two days were dedicated to eating and sleeping. ...but Easter doesn't stop there.
The following weekend we celebrated memorial Easter (or Paste blajinilor in Romanian). This holiday is celebrated by going to the cemetery where family members and loved ones are buried and honoring their life by sharing a big meal and having their plot blessed by the local priest. My host mom grew up in a village just outside of Nisporeni, Leuseni. So, this is the village we went to for the holiday.
The cemetery we visited was very old, more than 500 years old, it is probably the most interesting cemetery I have ever been to. It is now considered a 'closed' cemetery and so, it clearly sees less maintenance than most cemeteries in Moldova. This has allowed the forest to grow up over it and trees to have grown-in around the plots. The timing of the holiday is perfect for when the cherry trees are in blossom so the entire slope the cemetery is located on is decorated in delicate white blooms. This holiday comes from old traditions, and with each plot of graves is an old wooden table, eating with the dead has always gone head in head with the cemetery.
It was truly a beautiful sight to behold. Families clustered at old rickety tables covered in linens and food, plots covered in tulips and lit candles, big iron crosses towering over plots in some instances serving as arch-ways one must duck-under to get around, cherry trees in full blossom and birds whistling and swirling about after a long cold winter.
After a few hours of paying respects and chatting with family members we all sat down to a big meal. We all ate and drank, making toasts to the family members who have passed. Neighboring tables brought over wine, and more toasts were made in their families name. It was a really neat celebration to have been a part of, and quite easily my favorite holiday in Moldova.
Why have one Easter, when you can have two!
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Dad
Today, I wish my dad a very happy birthday!
It is tough being away from home but, having a strong support system back home makes life far away much easier. My dad has always been my support system, we developed a strong bond early in my life, besides the fact that he is my father, he is also a widowed single parent. A newly single parent with a four year old and a new born. It shocks me how well he handled the situation he was given. I remember asking him some years ago how he didn't just fall apart, he simply responded 'that wasn't an option'. This is the kind of person my father is. He is a strong, fiercely loving human who deserves a throne up in heaven. He never let his situation become a crutch to get away with bad behavior, and he never let his children use it as a crutch either. He taught us how to be resilient, empathetic, and strong. A common saying in our house was, and to this day remains, 'life isn't fair'.
My brother and I are so very lucky to have been raised by our amazing dad. As I grow up I realize more and more how challenging it must have been for him to try and juggle his successful career while raising children with a strong set of morals, integrity and respect for others. Of course, my brother and I are not perfect, we often run from perfection, but I know that everything we do, we work to make our dad proud. We know he is proud, he reminds us of this all the time. But, again, he is biased and would be proud no matter what we did (perhaps with a few exceptions). One of his proudest accomplishments is the bond that he was able to forge between my brother and I. For awhile there I don't know if anyone would have seen the day when Brittany and Sam would get along but, with years of wisdom and maturity has come a really remarkable friendship. For that alone, my brother and I are forever indebted to our father.
So today, on my Dad's birthday I dedicate this post to him (no, it's not a birthday cake but, what do you expect from thousands of miles away). With a butterfly kiss and a glove compartment full of pearls of wisdom, I thank you and love you more than you will ever truly know!
Love and Peace on this Spring day
It is tough being away from home but, having a strong support system back home makes life far away much easier. My dad has always been my support system, we developed a strong bond early in my life, besides the fact that he is my father, he is also a widowed single parent. A newly single parent with a four year old and a new born. It shocks me how well he handled the situation he was given. I remember asking him some years ago how he didn't just fall apart, he simply responded 'that wasn't an option'. This is the kind of person my father is. He is a strong, fiercely loving human who deserves a throne up in heaven. He never let his situation become a crutch to get away with bad behavior, and he never let his children use it as a crutch either. He taught us how to be resilient, empathetic, and strong. A common saying in our house was, and to this day remains, 'life isn't fair'.
My brother and I are so very lucky to have been raised by our amazing dad. As I grow up I realize more and more how challenging it must have been for him to try and juggle his successful career while raising children with a strong set of morals, integrity and respect for others. Of course, my brother and I are not perfect, we often run from perfection, but I know that everything we do, we work to make our dad proud. We know he is proud, he reminds us of this all the time. But, again, he is biased and would be proud no matter what we did (perhaps with a few exceptions). One of his proudest accomplishments is the bond that he was able to forge between my brother and I. For awhile there I don't know if anyone would have seen the day when Brittany and Sam would get along but, with years of wisdom and maturity has come a really remarkable friendship. For that alone, my brother and I are forever indebted to our father.
So today, on my Dad's birthday I dedicate this post to him (no, it's not a birthday cake but, what do you expect from thousands of miles away). With a butterfly kiss and a glove compartment full of pearls of wisdom, I thank you and love you more than you will ever truly know!
Love and Peace on this Spring day
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Doing My Peace Corps Happy Dance!
After nearly 10 months of Peace Corps service I am happy to report that I finally feel like I have 'contributed something'. Now, when you join the Peace Corps you are told to go in with an open mind, to begin to except you will have lots of 'free time', and above all... to be patient.
Well, like most red-blooded Americans I had lofty dreams of changing the world. Those dreams were quickly shot from the sky as I realized that 'getting things done' in the American sense of the meaning wasn't how things worked in other parts of the world. My hopes of changing the world, became hopes of changing Moldova, became hopes of changing my site, became hopes of changing my community, became an understanding that actually, the biggest changes I would be making would be to myself.
We were told early on in our service that in order to complete a successful project we would need to have a community member partnered with us to see the project through, and to make the project sustainable. At first this seemed like a nuisance to me, 'that will just slow me down' I thought. But, like most volunteers, with time I realized that this was in fact the only way to ensure longevity of a project. I had many grand ideas, many ways to 'change Moldova', and many questioning looks when I explained my plans to people in the community. After my long parade of ideas were shot down I felt hugely defeated. What was I doing here if all I had to offer was a bunch of fruitless ideas that could never be accurately woven into the community?
Feeling rather useless, I began to wonder if all I would ever be in this community was 'the American'. I began to look through my letters from home. All the letters had the same theme; people telling me how proud they were of me, how brave I was to be living so far from home... blah blah blah... I felt like a fraud, like I wasn't living up to anyone's expectations, especially my own. But then I found an old fortune, from a fortune cookie I had eaten back in my University dining hall. It was exactly what I needed at the time it read: Sometimes the best thing to do is to just simply be. That was it, I needed to calm down, stop worrying about filling the big shoes I had stored in my minds 'peace corps closet' and start to just live.
So, that's what I did, I lived life, I met new people, I built new relationships, I went to work and stayed open to new ideas and new ways of living. Now, if you know me you know I am about as straight-edged a box as they come so, for me this was a true task. And so, after a few months of putting my pride aside and 'going with the flow' I came across what turned out to be a truly wonderful project.
I had been going to the Craftsman house to take needlepoint lessons, it was something to do during the long winter months. I met the director of the Craftsman house, and quickly learned that there was a project underway to finish construction and renovation of a space that was to be turned into a modern dance studio. I asked if there was anything I could to help them with this project, and they expressed that they were under funded and that the project would not be finished for many years. They asked if I knew of a way to get the extra funds to finish the space. Luckily enough, Peace Corps Moldova has a special grant fund through USAID to help volunteers finance local projects, this was the perfect solution for helping the Craftsman house. So, I put myself to work developing a proposal for the project, and after two months of hard work and revision we won funding for the Craftsman house's new modern dance studio.
No, this isn't 'my project'; it's better, it's my communities project. This is something that the people of Nisporeni want, this is something the young girls of Nisporeni will take joy in. I will not take ownership of this project, nor do I want to, this wasn't my idea, but, I couldn't be more elated to see the joy on the faces of the director and the girls when they learned they had won the needed funding. The real work has yet to begin, construction will commence next month, and when the doors to the studio open in September for the first ever modern dance classes in Nisporeni I will feel a sense of pride knowing that together we were able to make this happen.
This, as most aspects of Peace Corps are, was a lesson for me. I guess that is how grass roots development is done, not a just-graduated American with head-in-the-clouds dreams, but rather, a few dedicated people working hard toward a common attainable goal. To some this may seem like common sense, I guess for me I needed to see it to believe it.
Now, I need to go put my hard helmet on and see this thing through!
Well, like most red-blooded Americans I had lofty dreams of changing the world. Those dreams were quickly shot from the sky as I realized that 'getting things done' in the American sense of the meaning wasn't how things worked in other parts of the world. My hopes of changing the world, became hopes of changing Moldova, became hopes of changing my site, became hopes of changing my community, became an understanding that actually, the biggest changes I would be making would be to myself.
We were told early on in our service that in order to complete a successful project we would need to have a community member partnered with us to see the project through, and to make the project sustainable. At first this seemed like a nuisance to me, 'that will just slow me down' I thought. But, like most volunteers, with time I realized that this was in fact the only way to ensure longevity of a project. I had many grand ideas, many ways to 'change Moldova', and many questioning looks when I explained my plans to people in the community. After my long parade of ideas were shot down I felt hugely defeated. What was I doing here if all I had to offer was a bunch of fruitless ideas that could never be accurately woven into the community?
Feeling rather useless, I began to wonder if all I would ever be in this community was 'the American'. I began to look through my letters from home. All the letters had the same theme; people telling me how proud they were of me, how brave I was to be living so far from home... blah blah blah... I felt like a fraud, like I wasn't living up to anyone's expectations, especially my own. But then I found an old fortune, from a fortune cookie I had eaten back in my University dining hall. It was exactly what I needed at the time it read: Sometimes the best thing to do is to just simply be. That was it, I needed to calm down, stop worrying about filling the big shoes I had stored in my minds 'peace corps closet' and start to just live.
So, that's what I did, I lived life, I met new people, I built new relationships, I went to work and stayed open to new ideas and new ways of living. Now, if you know me you know I am about as straight-edged a box as they come so, for me this was a true task. And so, after a few months of putting my pride aside and 'going with the flow' I came across what turned out to be a truly wonderful project.
I had been going to the Craftsman house to take needlepoint lessons, it was something to do during the long winter months. I met the director of the Craftsman house, and quickly learned that there was a project underway to finish construction and renovation of a space that was to be turned into a modern dance studio. I asked if there was anything I could to help them with this project, and they expressed that they were under funded and that the project would not be finished for many years. They asked if I knew of a way to get the extra funds to finish the space. Luckily enough, Peace Corps Moldova has a special grant fund through USAID to help volunteers finance local projects, this was the perfect solution for helping the Craftsman house. So, I put myself to work developing a proposal for the project, and after two months of hard work and revision we won funding for the Craftsman house's new modern dance studio.
No, this isn't 'my project'; it's better, it's my communities project. This is something that the people of Nisporeni want, this is something the young girls of Nisporeni will take joy in. I will not take ownership of this project, nor do I want to, this wasn't my idea, but, I couldn't be more elated to see the joy on the faces of the director and the girls when they learned they had won the needed funding. The real work has yet to begin, construction will commence next month, and when the doors to the studio open in September for the first ever modern dance classes in Nisporeni I will feel a sense of pride knowing that together we were able to make this happen.
This, as most aspects of Peace Corps are, was a lesson for me. I guess that is how grass roots development is done, not a just-graduated American with head-in-the-clouds dreams, but rather, a few dedicated people working hard toward a common attainable goal. To some this may seem like common sense, I guess for me I needed to see it to believe it.
Now, I need to go put my hard helmet on and see this thing through!
Friday, March 30, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
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.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
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!
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!
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Observations of a winter in Moldova
Well, now that it looks like the snow has begun to melt and the sun is gracing us with its presence for a few moments more with every passing day, I suppose I can now reflect on a winter in Moldova.
*Insert hopeful spring-is-coming dance here*
For those of us volunteers who come from the northern part of the US winter is not a terribly big deal, an inconvenience, yes, a big deal, puh-lease. So, I was enjoying the 'mild' winter, waiting for the dreaded snow and cold that volunteers who have lived here longer promised would come. Well, it came. It waited until February but mother nature made sure we had our fair share. I just think of her sitting up wherever it is she sits laughing her rear side off at all of us suckers having to deal with it. Thinking about it now the accumulation wasn't that great. All in all we probably got about 5 feet taking into account melting. I'm not saying five feet is a lot of snow, I'm just saying its a different sort of experience getting snow in a developing country than it is getting snow in my beloved NH. In NH, we have snow plows that happily chug along all night long making sure our drive to work is as simple and safe as possible. In Moldova, the sun is the snow plow. Driving to work in winter means going to the car 10 minutes early, starting it and blasting the heat. Walking to work in winter means bundling up in about six layers of clothes, strapping barbed webs on the bottom of ones boots before making the 2.5 mile trek to work. No, winter at home is not equal to winter in Moldova.
Some people have come up with interesting ways to deal with the cold of winter. My personal solution includes a base layer of spandex/polyester that never is removed from my body. Other volunteers have their ways of getting through a bitterly cold day. One of my favorites is a volunteer who made the smart investment of buying a Turkish heating blanket that she lied down under the sheets of her bed. She fondly refers to the blanket as her Turkish boyfriend...talk about getting hot under covers. The bus system, too has an interesting approach to heating. I was shocked when I hoped on a bus to get a ride to the station in my town and realized after I got on the bus that it was being heated by an open-flame contained fire. No, I don't think that would meet the safety regulations in the US. But hey, what says adventure more than worrying about exploding going over a bump on the road?
The two main heating systems in Moldova are both gas and wood burning. The stove used to heat the home is called a soba, many homes still rely solely on this heating system. Gas is available but, is imported from Russia at a high premium and is often more expensive than most families can afford on their salary. This brings new light to my dad's strict 65°F policy. Pff, 65° that's tee-shirt and shorts weather.
Fair warning, the following refers to the bathroom situation. Great, well you have been warned. But, before I end my post I figure it wouldn't be complete without a mention of the outhouse in winter. Now, if you are fortunate volunteer like myself, you have indoor plumbing that has held up in these long winter months. Some of my friends are not so lucky. This leads to what we like to call the poop pyramid, a frozen mass of fecal matter that must be gone at with a long solid object so that the hole does not run over.(You are welcome for that visual ;) ) Also, the small room can become quite slippery if you don't have perfect aim when it comes to #1, which I don't. Let's just say any part of my body falling into that hole, that isn't meant to be going into that hole, is one of my worst nightmares. And there you have it, a short glimpse into some of the differences between the happy porcelain thrones we have at home, and the bathroom situation in Moldova.
Here is to hoping that Spring is near. Martsisor is a Moldovan holiday on the first of March signifying the start of spring. You give a ribbon pin with a red flower and a white flower to all the people in your life. It is symbolic for a bountiful and blessed coming season. I have stocked up on my ribbons, let the pinning begin!
All for now,
Happy Leap Year everyone :)
*Insert hopeful spring-is-coming dance here*
For those of us volunteers who come from the northern part of the US winter is not a terribly big deal, an inconvenience, yes, a big deal, puh-lease. So, I was enjoying the 'mild' winter, waiting for the dreaded snow and cold that volunteers who have lived here longer promised would come. Well, it came. It waited until February but mother nature made sure we had our fair share. I just think of her sitting up wherever it is she sits laughing her rear side off at all of us suckers having to deal with it. Thinking about it now the accumulation wasn't that great. All in all we probably got about 5 feet taking into account melting. I'm not saying five feet is a lot of snow, I'm just saying its a different sort of experience getting snow in a developing country than it is getting snow in my beloved NH. In NH, we have snow plows that happily chug along all night long making sure our drive to work is as simple and safe as possible. In Moldova, the sun is the snow plow. Driving to work in winter means going to the car 10 minutes early, starting it and blasting the heat. Walking to work in winter means bundling up in about six layers of clothes, strapping barbed webs on the bottom of ones boots before making the 2.5 mile trek to work. No, winter at home is not equal to winter in Moldova.
Some people have come up with interesting ways to deal with the cold of winter. My personal solution includes a base layer of spandex/polyester that never is removed from my body. Other volunteers have their ways of getting through a bitterly cold day. One of my favorites is a volunteer who made the smart investment of buying a Turkish heating blanket that she lied down under the sheets of her bed. She fondly refers to the blanket as her Turkish boyfriend...talk about getting hot under covers. The bus system, too has an interesting approach to heating. I was shocked when I hoped on a bus to get a ride to the station in my town and realized after I got on the bus that it was being heated by an open-flame contained fire. No, I don't think that would meet the safety regulations in the US. But hey, what says adventure more than worrying about exploding going over a bump on the road?
The two main heating systems in Moldova are both gas and wood burning. The stove used to heat the home is called a soba, many homes still rely solely on this heating system. Gas is available but, is imported from Russia at a high premium and is often more expensive than most families can afford on their salary. This brings new light to my dad's strict 65°F policy. Pff, 65° that's tee-shirt and shorts weather.
Fair warning, the following refers to the bathroom situation. Great, well you have been warned. But, before I end my post I figure it wouldn't be complete without a mention of the outhouse in winter. Now, if you are fortunate volunteer like myself, you have indoor plumbing that has held up in these long winter months. Some of my friends are not so lucky. This leads to what we like to call the poop pyramid, a frozen mass of fecal matter that must be gone at with a long solid object so that the hole does not run over.(You are welcome for that visual ;) ) Also, the small room can become quite slippery if you don't have perfect aim when it comes to #1, which I don't. Let's just say any part of my body falling into that hole, that isn't meant to be going into that hole, is one of my worst nightmares. And there you have it, a short glimpse into some of the differences between the happy porcelain thrones we have at home, and the bathroom situation in Moldova.
Here is to hoping that Spring is near. Martsisor is a Moldovan holiday on the first of March signifying the start of spring. You give a ribbon pin with a red flower and a white flower to all the people in your life. It is symbolic for a bountiful and blessed coming season. I have stocked up on my ribbons, let the pinning begin!
All for now,
Happy Leap Year everyone :)
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