Amazing Grace

January 24, 2013 at 7:46 pm (food, language, Moldova, Peace Corps, travel)
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“It’s really a wonder that I haven’t dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.”
                  Anne Frank The Diary of a Young Girl

Ok, adding yet again to the backlog of blog posts I have yet to write (Brasov, boboceli, and cumnatria) I had an interesting experience today that I have to relay.

After work I needed to go to the piata (the market) to get a 20 kilo bag of potatoes for my host mom. This is exactly the kind of task I enjoy because a) it lets me show off my relatively good buying potatoes skills, and b) carrying heavy things, at which I excel. I arrived at 1 o’clock, just as the stands were closing down, but I found a new lady selling vegetables, in a stall where a guy usually sells used power cords. I executed my transaction flawlessly, and threw in a request for a half kilo of mushrooms, as they are not available often and I know how to say “mushroom, please” in Romanian. Here is where the confusion sets in. I was wearing gloves, had one hand full of my super-awesome work related briefcase, lets see, I also had brought my own bag for the mushrooms, and needed to fish in my front pocket for my wallet.

So the end result is, hours later, at home, and after a pretty heavy snow, my wallet was not where it lives. For those of you who know me, I am what is politely called “regimented” in certain aspects of my life. For example, If I am going to be 5 minutes late for work, my whole day is shot. That sounds crazy and I know it is, but if things aren’t a certain way, I’m in a dither. Suffice it to say my wallet is in my front pocket, always.

After turning my house upside down, searching my pants pockets over and over again, and contemplating going through the trash cans in the park at night, in the snow. I realized the best approach would be to start where I had last seen it, namely potato lady.

In my wallet was about a hundred dollars in Moldovan Lei, my residency card, and a twenty dollar bill for old times sake. Needless to say, that is more money than anyone in my town sees in a month. The loss of the money would have put me in a bind, and the card could be replaced, what was killing me was that (if) someone had picked up my wallet and taken the money, they would definitely know it was mine (as the only man in town with glasses and apparently I dress like a weirdo to them) and had knowingly kept it. So that is where my thinking was at 3 o’clock this morning.

After practicing how to say “wallet” in Russian, I went to the potato store. Before I even got in the store, the lady ran out, smiling and holding my wallet! She said I had left it and she didn’t know my telephone number, and that she was afraid I lived in Chisinau. (Which is a polite way of saying I speak very poorly.) She opened my wallet and carefully counted all the money, my ID card, and even a 1 leu bill wedged in the bottom I didn’t know was there. She was so proud to help me, I was humbled mightily that I had spend a sleepless night doubting the honesty of everyone in town, and to be shown that I was spectacularly wrong.

My faith in humanity restored, I insisted she take 400 lei as a reward. I hope I have learned several lessons from this, the greatest of which is that people are often amazing.  Just when I am prepared for the worst, I encounter a ray of sunshine and I know everything will be just fine.

(Pretend this is a picture of me and a smiling lady at a piata booth.   I’m embarrassed I only know her as “potato lady”)

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Another day in Paradise…

December 18, 2012 at 10:17 pm (food, language, Moldova, Peace Corps, travel, wine)
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My host mom Maria told me yesterday she needed some help carrying a bag of grain, generally a sign of an impending hernia risk for me. I was splitting some wood today when she asked me to come with her. I was pleasantly surprised when we walked just a few doors up to one of my favorite neighbors.

1. They have two giant eagle heads and roses painted on their garage doors. (I will post a picture soon)

2. The lady (Paulina, not exactly her name but it is something like that) is 94 years old and still quite spry and not hesitant to speak her mind.

My host mom Maria in the snow

My host mom Maria in the snow

 

Forrest in Donduseni, before the snow got too deep

Forrest in Donduseni, before the snow got too deep

3. The guy, ( I thought his name was also  Paulina for a while, but now I am unsure) Paulina’s son, is about 70, many gold teeth, and loves Jana. Specifically, he loves telling me how beautiful Jana is, and tells me to buy her flowers a lot.

Maria and I go into their house, which is small but tidy, two rooms, no running water, but the soba is hot and they are cooking borscht. It smells very good and the house is toasty. I forget the details exactly, but I ended up drinking a jelly jar half full of moonshine, and eating a slice of bread with a piece of pig fat on it about the size of a deck of cards. I watched Maria sprinkle hers with salt, and bite a raw clove of garlic after the sandwich, and that did help. I couldn’t get through the strip of skin, so I secretly slipped it in my pocket to give the dog later. This was about noon, I tried to get out of all of it, I really did, but I am severely handicapped in the language department. (Although they both spoke a little Romanian, most of this was in Russian, but they were both really excited that I could speak at all)

I was a little queasy and hazy at this point, (is that quazy?) but I remember Paulina going outside with a bucket.  She returned in a few minutes with it filled full of flour. It weighed 7 kilos. I felt like a jerk for not helping her, but I had offered, and she does get around remarkably well. They invited me back anytime, which I will definitely take them up on, but I need to figure out a way to turn down the liquor.

After that I went to talk to Igor, my Romanian tutor, and made the mistake of telling him about my lunch, and that I enjoyed it. He laughed and laughed. I meant that I enjoyed the experience, but I’m afraid I am going to be seeing more room temperature fat sandwiches in my future. He did invite me fishing this summer, so that is something to look forward too.

I have had yet another great day. I swear I learn so much that writing these posts could be a full time job. Thanks a bunch for reading this, I appreciate your time and attention.

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Thanksgiving of the North!

November 28, 2012 at 10:40 pm (food, Moldova, Peace Corps, travel)
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This is a description of my first Thanksgiving in Moldova.

I love Thanksgiving, more than Halloween, way more than Christmas, possibly even more than April Fools Day (even when I’m on the boot end of the ass-kickery). Thanksgiving actually means something. No amount of Hallmark sponsored “sales-a-bration” crepe paper nonsense can ruin the fact that it is nice to sit down to a thoughtfully prepared meal with people you love and give thanks. *In theory. I have heard that Thanksgiving dinner can be a contentious prelude to a drunken fistfight in the driveway. Fortunately, my family gets along really well and I am, well, thankful for that.

This year, just to mix it up a little, I decided to spend Thanksgiving in a developing nation. Not so much in the shadow of the former soviet empire as in its hip pocket. Luck is yet again with me, however, as I share this wonderful country with the hardworking Moldovans, and my fellow Peace Corps volunteers, who, (in my oh-so-humble opinion) represent America at her finest.

I was able to secure two turkeys from a neighbor, and David Smith, one half of the “Proprietors of the Lodge,” our social and philosophical hub in the north, agreed to come up to assist with the preparations. My host mom let us use her stove to boil water on, and it was really quite painless for all. Although the turkeys were suspiciously quiet towards the end. We caught the new train for the 2-hour trip south to Balti, which was very plush. (I have heard that the new train was a gift from Romania, if that’s true, it is an amazing gift.)

That night was pie night, and we stayed up until 4 am getting the desserts all cooked. Technically I lent moral and beer support.  Saturday we were up shockingly early, cooking pretty much anything you can imagine from the best Thanksgivings ever. At one point, I swear I saw Martha Stewart walk in, look at all our food, and say “not too shabby.”  In addition to the aforementioned pies, (2 pumpkin, a pumpkin chiffon, a pecan pie (walnuts) 2 types of cheesecake, and a ginger pear crisp) we had green bean casserole, stewed tomatoes, corn casserole, stuffing and much, much more. That sentence was getting to be too much of a run-on even for me. We had an ocean of mashed potatoes and lingonberries in place of cranberries, candied carrots and sausage balls. (Aside from an unfortunate name, they were delicious.) And much more as well.

The best part of all, of course, were the people. Matt Stahlman, the other Proprietor of the Lodge, is a great host and friend. John and Shelbi Rucker brought tons of food and “Settlers of Katann” (German game of the year 1992), and always have time to squeeze in one more game. Walter Diller cooked the turkeys to perfection, and Stephanie Hoffman helped a bunch too. Julie Frieswick  made my favorite desert,  Joseph Wittig and Jonathan Richman attended, two of the best guys in the world. The Texan, Phillip Snorbauck (yes, that is his real name, although it is probably spelled differently.) And many more, including several Moldovans and my new German buddy Ausmond. (also not spelled anything like that, probably. And also no relation between him and the “Settlers” game)

Two more highlights: after dinner we sang Christmas carols, led by Warren Kimmick, who has an amazing voice and , it turns out, a hell of a repertoire of carols, including several in German (still no relation with the game, although I’m beginning to think we may have been infiltrated by Germans at this point). -Little known fact about me, I love to sing. Primarily in crowds, where my terrible voice is drowned out by actual singers.  So that is my new tradition.

The other guest of eminent distinction

One side of our “L” shaped table arrangement. The room filled up considerably. I think final count was in the 26-27 range. Sadly, the people on the far side of the table became trapped and are still trying to get out. I wish them success.

Jana and her beloved pickles. Their was a brief scuffle when it was suggested she might “pass” the pickles, but we were able to put a butterfly bandage on the bite mark, and Phillip has since regained full use of his hand, so no real damage done.

Walter, some of the potatoes, and some of the pies. I think he was just about to declare his undying love here, so this is a pretty special moment for all of us.

at Thanksgiving was Emily. She is the oldest volunteer in the world and has served in more countries than I have eaten lunch in. At 83 years old, she has more gumption than any 10 regular folks, and talking with her for any length of time is a good lesson in humility and what can be accomplished with two hands and perseverance. She left Moldova the following week to spend a rare Christmas at home in Knoxville, and regroup for the next adventure.

So there you have it. The North rules and the South drools. I think that’s the super grownup way to express the utter dominance that is the North. And Christmas is coming up, so get ready. Maybe we can have a country wide snowball fight, or a sled dog race. Enough taunting, the south isn’t up for a challenge anyway.

In closing, I miss my family and friends back home, but I am proud and honored to be among such good people.

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head in the clouds and feet in the dirt…

October 26, 2012 at 4:50 pm (beets, food, Moldova, Peace Corps, travel)
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On Sunday I ate the worst food product ever conceived, a salad concocted of shredded beets, hardboiled eggs, and big chunks of canned fish. It actually looked quite good, kind of pink and gelatinous, with bright yellow yolk crumbled on top. If it had been made with red hots, cream cheese, and anything other than sardines and stinky beets, it would have been quite a hit. I guess it’s a Russian party thing, as that pretty well sums up the circumstances that led me to put it near my face.

I was not feeling well anyway, and Jana was actively throwing up with what I would describe as a fierce, methodical determination. She thinks it was the undercooked pizza of the night before, I’m not going to venture a guess. We eat some funky stuff, everyday. I have eaten uncooked pig fat from a festival a week previous that had never seen a refrigerator. And that wasn’t even the worst food at that particular party. Anyway, Jana is a serious wreck, and I’m not feeling super hot so I decide to start turning over the yard with a shovel. I knew it had to be done at some point, I figured I would get a jump on having my host mom ask me to do it. I had just started when her daughter Elena asked Jana and myself to come inside. They knew Jana wasn’t doing well so I figured it would be some sort of friendly folk remedy, like pinching a cat’s ear, or something, and we would be on our way. (I made the cat’s ear part up, it probably doesn’t work, FYI) Jana sends me over to find out what the deal is. At the table is a guy I knew from work and his wife, older and vivacious and fun. They were celebrating the birth of a granddaughter in London, and just returning from a vacation in Turkey. The inevitable bottle of (in this case real) cognac, and several food-stuffs I do not recognize. I do the obligatory one shot toast for the child, remember I’m not feeling to good in the tummy here, and eat some toast. Even though I objected, I still get a good fist sized amount of the purple salad. I hate beets. I really do, always have, always will. I hate beets like I hate polio. I just want nothing to do with the stuff. And then a bunch of thumb sized chunks of oily fish? Uhhg. I almost ruined the party, I will tell you that much.

I went to bed after that, I needed to get away from the rest of the day. When I went out the next day, I saw my host brother-in-law had tilled about half the yard while I slept. So Moldovans don’t have yards, they have gardens. I have only seen one yard with grass in it since I’ve been here, and he owned a winery in Crickova. I have a theory that Moldovans (and everyone else, for that matter,) are primarily motivated by external ideas of what they should do, have, or behave like. Of the two families I have lived with, they both maintain huge gardens, but don’t plant things specifically for food. My current host mom has an ulcer, and cannot eat tomatoes, yet has dozens of bushes. I haven’t seen anyone eat a squash, but everyone grows them. (I saw a man saving the seeds of squash he was literally throwing on the side of the road) My host mom keeps rabbits and chickens, but not for eggs or meat, I really think its just because that is what is believed people should do.

Anyway, the whole yard has to be turned over, spring and fall. It’s a big yard, and of course the chickens want in on all the worms, so I’m picking up a chicken with every shovel full. The phrase “pecking order” becomes quite clear during this process, and also apparent is why a little white chicken I call “Cletus” is missing a toe. No, I did not chop off any chicken’s toes, but it took some serious effort. Nicolai, the son-in-law, and I finished earlier today. I was beat after that and I started thinking about my nephew Tucker, about how he is all cozy and building up his pretty gym muscles, and about how his poor old uncle Dan is working away with a shovel in a field, far, far away. But I’m thinking about him, oh yes, and I should include Parker in there as well. I have taken some lumps from the two of them, and I don’t forget. I’m thinking about both of them. Two short years, my friends.

chillin’ with my peeps…

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