Baba only speaks Gagauzian and her eyesight is fading out, so we had a hard time communicating who I was. For a short while she thought I was her granddaughter but we figured it out. She asked me to lie next to her, held my hands and sang ancient prayers – later with my host mom translating between us I realized she was praying for rain. We lay there while it rained on my hanging underwear and occasionally talked to one another, just for the sake of wanting to communicate. Sometimes I speak in English to her because it seems just about as effective as attempting Russian. She is greatly helping me learn Gagauzian.

Baba lives with us now so I have instant company whenever I get home. She is usually in a lot of pain but is a sweetheart. She is expressively appreciative for any little thing people do for her, and she is very religious. I am on a kick of smothering her bread with honey in the morning just because she is so darn precious and I have no idea what else to do for her.

She uses the stool in the picture to be mobile. For as much as this woman aches, she is always determined to move around by herself, even if it takes 10 minutes to get across the house. Yesterday I caught her cleaning the kitchen when I walked in the door. I hope I have the outlook of this woman when I am hurting, too.

I love witnessing how women take care of each other here. My host mother soaks her mom’s feet in hot water every night, gives her a massage, braids her hair, and softly talks to her to help her sleep. (They sleep next to one another.) My host mom visits her deceased husband’s mother a few doors down every night to also make that Mama comfortable. As we walked home from Mama’s last night around 11 PM, my host mom insisted on giving me a massage, too. I was stunned and laughed and said “Absolutely not! You did everything today. Another time.” I’m not sure if I offended her or not. I’ve realized how unfamiliar I am with a culture that is so giving in this different way. All the neighbor and family help is expected, but it definitely does not go unappreciated. I’m sure I will have more chances to figure it out.

I had developed a cold the past few days and before leaving work, Aliona and Feoder gave me advice on clearing up the gunk. Aliona wrote down a salt-gurgling recipe; Feoder told me to drink one shot of vodka.

I stopped in a produce ‘store’ on my way home to pick up two kilograms of hot peppers for my neighbor. The store was closed, so I started off for the other produce market a few doors down. Before I could get moving, a few intoxicated men sitting outside invited me to join them. One man works at the mayor’s office with me–land guy–one other claimed to be the director of one of the schools but I didn’t believe him. I fended them off for a minute or two, but per usual, they were very persistent. Thankfully a woman stepped outside and immediately grabbed my arm. I thanked her and hardly said goodbye to the men. It took me a moment to realize, though, that the woman was also leading me inside. I told her I had to get home, but she launched me through the door and into a room full of singing and dancing women.

This year’s first bell also marked 50 years for Cazaclia’s primary school. The teachers (and legitimate school director I met outside) celebrated by feasting, drinking and dancing. I was just in time for the dancing portion, and there was no turning back at this point. The women grabbed my hands every song and taught me traditional Gagauzian and Moldovan dances. I soon joined them in a drenched sweat. Land guy came inside and offered me wine and vodka periodically, all of which I refused, except one occasion (per Feoder’s prescription).

I am taken off-guard every day when strangers say “hello Maria,” or ask me questions in passing, but this instance captured another aspect of Moldova’s friendly culture. I was touched that the teachers instantly welcomed and included me in their celebration. Moldovan hospitality is a strange, powerful force!

My host mother’s daughter, Tanya was there with her 6-month-old daughter, Liera. I told my host mother and Tanya I needed to run to the bank. They told me to hurry back because we were going to drink in honor of Tanya’s husband’s birthday, although he had to work (in Russia).

During the 15-minute walk I passed an old man sitting on a bench. I said hello to him, he stared back; I continued on. I passed him again on my way back and pushed out another awkward hello. He was staring at me so contently I had to address him. He motioned me over and, after maybe 11 painstaking seconds, said hello.

He asked me what was wrong with me and I said “Oh nothing, the bank is closed.” He asked me again what was wrong with me, so this time I said I was American and spoke poor Russian. That seemed to satisfy his question.

We talked about our families and work. Toma lit up telling me about his past days of work as a chauffer and a soldier in the Soviet Army. He served in Ukraine. One day while he was off-duty, he walked through an open market looking for some milk. He described how he loved to drink milk from their family cow when he was little. Toma asked a market vendor if she had any milk and she led him to a freezer. (At the time I didn’t understand the Russian word for ‘freezer;’ he helped me write it down so I could check it later.) The freezer was full of milk, and rampant with frogs. Toma told me he had not drank milk since that day he saw frogs in the lady’s milk stash.

After having an absolute ball, we realized I have been squatting in his son’s office at the primaria (mayor’s office) and Toma’s wife is somehow related to my host mother. I swear every person in this village is somehow related. Toma brought me out a yellow melon and a watermelon before I left as a parting gift.

The next morning my work partner and I brisked by Toma on our way to the office and I only managed to stop for a minute to thank him for the fruit. After work he was waiting outside again, this time with a bag ready with more melons. He told me about a good TV show that was coming on in a few minutes (it sounded like a soap) and, since nearly all workplaces would be closed the following Monday-Wednesday, he asked me to come by Monday morning at 9 AM to chat again. I ended up stuck out-of-town and stood up Tomas, but he was quite understanding the next time I saw him and insisted on buying me ice cream from the market next door.

Lately I have cut down a dirt hill to avert conversation with Toma the mornings I am running late to work. This happened to be the case Friday. It rained the night before, and I wiped out in the mud halfway down the hill. I pancaked into goat poo, laptop bag in one arm, purse in the other. I had seen someone walking far ahead of me but hadn’t taken notice until he heard my fall and turned around. Of course it was Toma—he caught me mud-handed sneaking off to work without passing his sitting post.

Toma helped me up and walked me to an outside water spicket. He helped me wash my shoes and sent me on my way. This man has to be the most cheery, patient 79-year-old around.

We toured the garden to see what we could bring with us. We picked about 2 kilograms of purple and white grapes, one melon (like a sweeter, more yellow cantaloupe) and a bouquet of flowers. We bought three loaves of bread, chocolates and biscuits from the market and brought it all to the church. My host mother tied one of her scarves around my head for the occasion — that is a must for church and I did not pack any baba scarves.

Outside the church on either grassy side of the main entrance, dozens of babushkas created a semi-circle of food arranged on towels in front of them. Most everyone had bread, watermelon, grapes, plastic water bottles filled with homemade wine; some also had peppers or other produce from their gardens.

You may recognize the elder on our road, pictured above with the green necklace. These women egged me on to take pictures during the minister's procession.

I followed my host mother’s cue in venerating several fixtures outside. At each image we motioned the sign of the cross 2-4 times and kissed the dusty plastic that separated us from the holy figures behind it. We addressed each figure this way each time we passed. Inside the church we stood with everyone else to listen to the minister read biblical passages. People were constantly moving around and socializing quietly. At one point we stepped outside to break my host mother’s 100 lei bill (after some unsuccessful attempts inside) so we could buy more candles to place in our food offerings.

On our way out of the church grounds to break the change, an old woman poured us each a shot of wine. She had baked some kind of grain in a pie-shape and we each took three small bites of the grains before drinking the wine. Every visitor that day ate and drank from this plate, spoon, shot glass.

After the indoor portion of the service, everyone gathered outside as the minister and a few others processed around the church three times and sang while presenting holy objects. I don’t think I have ever been so happy to smell incense–one familiar smell alas!

During lap three Father administered what I would consider in my own religion sprinkling rites. He blessed/doused the food and the people.

After the blessing ended, everyone divided up their food offerings for each other. We cut up our melon, bread and grapes into smaller bags to give to others. My host mother and I ended up with a ridiculous amount of food. People were curious about the foreigner who stuck out like a sore thumb and reacted with nothing but kindness and large helpings of food. A few women introduced themselves and offered me their homemade wine.

When we got home, my host mother arranged all the food and asked me to take pictures of it all to share with you. She was beaming at the display and probably rearranged everything 11 times in-between thanking God.

I had to smile at the healthful effects that reverberated off everyone from these rituals that brought a sense of togetherness. Dozens of healthy, young, sick, old people shared in kissing dirty fixtures and dining from one spoon and mucky glass. What could be more healthy than that? Today, nothing.

Please note the cyrillic alphabet in the background - my host mother is a kingergarten teacher.

Each party I attended started between 5-7 PM and continued past 2 AM. Two of the birthday parties busted out karaoke machines, and each of them ended in the guests dancing to traditional music blaring outside. I am curious to see if people here still dance the hora indoors in the wintertime. Here’s a slightly embarrassing video clip of me attempting the hora with some other trainees and volunteers on the news. (Peace Corps Moldova held a 50th Anniversary celebration in the Central Park equivalent of Moldova’s capitol last month.)

The first picture below was taken with about half the food set on the table. The middle babushka in the last picture was quite a dear and tried to take me home with her so we could go to church in the morning. I knew I couldn’t spend the day at church, so she settled for this Sunday instead. Should be interesting.

здравствуйте! Hello!

I am now officially a Peace Corps Volunteer, and officially have Internet access. My Internet connection is poor during the day but usually works in the middle of the night, which will be convenient for you Central- and Eastern-Standard-Timers.

The Swearing-in ceremony was pretty spanking cool. Twenty-six of us trainees took the official oath of the U.S. Federal Government, the same oath the president takes when he swears-in to office. I felt accustomed to repeating heavy, archaic lines of text thanks to the good ole’ days of Adeepi! I miss those creepy ceremonies.

After the ceremony I drove home with my work partner, Aliona; my host mother, Vasilicia; three random ladies and one guy. I assume they were neighbors who offered to drive their bright yellow utility van to the capitol for the day so I would be able to lug all my belongings down south.

Five days later, I have settled into my permanent site - the village of Cazaclia. Cazaclia is part of a semi-autonomous region of Moldova called Gagauzia. Russian is more readily spoken in Gagauzia than many other parts of Moldova, but the official language here is Gagauz, a Turkish dialect. Many people I have met here also speak Bulgarian. My work partner Aliona, for example, speaks Gagauz, Russian, Bulgarian, and understands most Romanian (or ‘Moldavski’ as it is often called here.) This is typical of the people I have encountered thus far — they speak (or at least understand) Romanian and Russian, and are likely to understand one or two other languages. Romanian speakers often understand Italian, and Gagauzian speakers generally understand Turkish. I feel a little more at-home seeing multiple languages every day.

No matter how you define a slow pace of life, I am living it right now. I arrived in Cazaclia Friday night and have spent most of my time at home getting my bearings on the new hood. My host mother lives by herself but has three daughters who are each married and have one child. Two of the daughters, Svetlana and Tanya, live in town. The third daughter, Masha (Russian knickname for Maria) is currently working in Moscow, but her son, Dennis, is growing up with us in Cazaclia. This is the norm for literally every family I have met in Moldova. At least a few relatives are living in Russia, Italy, Germany or elsewhere to work–usually for months at a time. These people typically still have homes (and often young children) back in Moldova. My work partner Aliona’s husband works most of the year in a few European countries. These last few months he has been in Frankfurt.

I’m hoping to catch up with a few posts on this first week in Cazaclia, and hopefully more on the fun training months that we just completed.

The Moldovan dialect is somewhat of a mix of Romanian and Russian. I hear and see both languages every day. A surprising amount of Moldovans know both languages but prefer to speak one over the other, largely for political reasons. Other Moldovans simply mash the two together, beginning a sentence in one language and ending it in another.

I am learning Russian along with six other volunteers. Forty-eight volunteers are learning Romanian. One language taboo that exists for both language groups is the preservative.

Preservative – prezervativ – презерватив

I have yet to experience a Moldovan winter, but it sounds quite different than any seasonal change I have experienced. Current volunteers and host family members describe a winter diet that consists of little-to-no fresh fruits and vegetables. Most families subsist year-round on food and drink they themselves grow, or a trusted family member or neighbor made. My host family, for example, gets cheese and sour cream from my host mother’s sister and some ingredient needed for homemade vodka from a neighbor. My host family grows nearly all of the fruits and vegetables they consume in their backyard. Most families also make their own wine. So far I have tried my host father’s white wine and a red wine from his mother’s village – both were delicious.

Back to the preservatives…

Preparation for winter is a year-long feat. Part of every crop is consumed while in season, and another portion of the crop is preserved for the winter months. Most Moldovans keep their massive stash of preserved foods in a cellar. I have toured a few family’s cellars so far and each had dozens upon dozens of jarred mixtures lining the walls. Almost every day I come home to someone making a fruit jam or drink to add to the stock. I hope to see the pickled vegetable process sometime (or maybe I don’t)?

So if I haven’t already made it apparent, these preservatives are a BIG deal. A great amount of work goes into the never-ending process. Most Moldovans who have fed me have made a point to say the food is “all natural,” to which my response has been “Da! No preservatives.” Unfortunately, ‘preservative’ translates in Romanian and Russian as ‘condom.’ After comparing notes with other trainees, the consensus is that most of us have randomly stated “I don’t use condoms!” when discussing the fruits of our host’s labor. One trainee’s concerned father brought out some Romanian ‘preservatives’ and told her she needed to use them. Another volunteer has been here for a year and just realized this error last week. He was horrified. He lives with two babushkas (grandmas) who have been hearing all about how he loves strawberry preservatives, raspberry preservatives…you get the idea.

Thankfully in my case, I made this mistake with my host sister, who speaks decent English. We laughed it off. So far that is the best advice I can give about making the most of our time here – take the commitment seriously, but know when to laugh at yourself and move on. I’ve been laughing lots.

A woman from Stăuceni invited more than a dozen of us to her home for tea and bread after we asked her for directions in the road. With the help of some volunteers to translate, the woman told us about her different preserved foods and stories about her life. Photo is Courtney Lindahl's.

привет!

Today marked my second palindromic day in Moldova. I left Columbus, Ohio and my wonderful family on 6/06 and have been soaking up the Russian language and Moldovan culture ever since. I have very limited Internet access until August, so I apologize for the puny updates until then. Here are a few quick notes in the meantime:

The first thing you can’t help but notice about Moldova is its gorgeous lanscape of grapevines and summer crops. Most homes have their own gardens, currently full of cherries, strawberries and raspberries. My host family also grows corn, garlic, dill, potatoes, and many other mystery plants I have not yet figured out.

I am two weeks through my eight-week training period, living in a ‘suburb’ of the capitol (Chisinau) called Cricova.The town is best known for its winery, which spans 75 miles — there is an even bigger cellar in Moldova though, which happens to be the largest wine cellar in the world.

My host family for the training period consists of Emilia (mother), Luri (father), Veronica (18-year-old sister), and Vlad (20-year-old brother). These people continue to amaze me with their hospitality. Veronica wakes up with me every morning and prepares most of my meals, makes my lunch, and translates endless dialogue between her parents and me. She is learning English in school and speaks wonderfully. Although this is somewhat of a detriment to my learning Russian, it makes time at home easy and fun – she is my caretaker, friend and teacher all in one. I hope she can one day visit me in the US so I can show some gratitude for everything she does for me!

Showing appreciation for Moldovans right now is difficult. Strangers have invited us volunteers into their homes, fed us, taught us their customs and language, and patiently corrected us, but we cannot yet provide much in return. Body language and miming are some of my favorite new hobbies. I can’t wait to share more stories about language bloopers and foreign sights, but for now, до свидания! The learning never ends.

Cricova is my home for the first eight weeks in Moldova. This quarry runs along the Cricova winery, a 75-mile wine cellar.