Sistine Chapel of the East

I had grown accustomed to the quiet smallness of Moldovan life, before this trip to neighboring Romania. Upon entering Romania, the first observation among my colleagues and I was the non-bumpiness of the road. Shortly thereafter, we also made note of the relative scarcity of the Romanian population. Moldova is one of the most densely populated countries in Europe, with some 4.1 million people in under 34,000 km², while the 22.2 million Romanians enjoy over 238,000 km². (Moldova density, 122/km²; Romania density, 93/km²; USA density, 31/km²) But adjusting to the rarefied geography took little time. I moved on to more lasting impressions, such as the grandeur of the religious edifices and the brilliant plasticity of colorful Romanian lei.

Mai departe...

Today, my fellow travelers and I inched slightly closer to the Carpathians, finally emerging from our taxi (read: clown car) in the small town of Voronet. The journey there included smile-inducing passages through forests, near craggy rock outcroppings, and over snow-covered, rolling hills. The Voronet monastery is its small church, a 'Sistine Chapel of the East.' I'll leave the back-story of this church to the good people at Wikipedia and Lonely Planet. I'd also like to leave further Sistine Chapel comparisons for those who have actually seen both. I will say, however, that the frescos on this church were impressive beyond well beyond my expectations. The church is small compared to the enormous towers and cupolas of more modern Orthodox buildings, but Voronet's humble form and splayed, Romanian-style roof still manage to capivate its visitors, who stroll in slow arcs as though sneaking through the classical wing of a musem.

Pictures to come. I'd love to continue this post, but my fellow travelers seem to enjoy loud conversations -- loud, probably so they can hear each other over the TV nobody's watching. There is much to share, but I'll wait until I can hear my own thoughts, instead of hacking out this poor-quality nonsense.

Quarterly Report

I wonder how long the average traveler must live in a place before the subtle maladies of that place begin to consider him a resident, and thus begin to leave him alone? Some of my colleagues in Moldova have reported slightly discouraging stories to me of past volunteers: "You arrive in country, get your first cold or stomach bug about a week later, and from then on you just kind of stay in a state of sickness. Years later, you return to the States, and after a couple weeks at home you start to feel this unexplainable happiness accompanied by high levels of energy. Suddenly, it dawns on you that this new feeling of well-being is, quite simply, the feeling of being healthy." My newly-arrived peers and I chuckled at the silly story, and reassure ourselves that this will not be our case. We are far to healthy to be degraded to such a state.

A few months later, we recall the stories, laugh nervously, and wonder if it's true that this stomach bug or respiratory infection really isn't going away.

Several months after that, we find ourselves chuckling again, though this time in self-pitying humor at our initial disbelief of the stories.

I've been in-country for somewhere around seven months, now. I could do the math, but some ill-defined feeling inside me tells me that tracking exact spans of time here is either impossible, inadvisable, or both. Somewhere around seven months, though, to be sure. That's one quarter of the total time for which I am scheduled here in Moldova, and thus I felt a short Quarterly Report was in order. I feel that I have broken through to some important milestones. My Romanian language skill has improved, at least on some practical level. I may not score very high on technical grammar tests, but I can certainly understand the uncouth remarks from my students (which they are sure I can't understand), and I can order dinner like nobody's business. I've mastered my Rutiera Stare after countless practice sessions between my site and Chisinau. There was one foolish moment when I thought I might be able to gain a tolerance for the water, here, but the horrifying sickness that followed cured me of such naivety. And those dark moments, when a plane ticket home sound like the only good choice left, I've trudged through and managed to come out on the other side. Now, even though it may be overcast and bitter cold, I can look at the treacherous ice underfoot and focus instead on the sparkling ice crystals and wafting snowfall.

Of course, this quarter has seen it's fair share of set-backs. In my second quarter, I look forward to addressing deficiencies in community integration, local literary exposure, photographic documentation of significant events and locations, and attention to sunshine. I'll also be managing problems with high levels of caffeine and internet intake, and excessive sedentarianism.

To celebrate the completion of one quarter of my service in Moldova, and to properly observe the transition from 2008 to 2009, I will be traveling to the neighboring country of Romania, where I hope to collect an extra portion of fond memories and interesting photographs. Wish me luck, and have a safe and happy New Year celebrations.

On Coffee, and other addictions

Often, I have reflected on the nature of addictions, especially those to myriad substances and activities which are apparently devoid of inherent addictivity. Television, internet, sugar, bad 80s music. Chocolate might fit on this list, but for its loose (real or imagined) association with a certain, incriminating white powder. We all know the truth about cacao-milk (choco + lait = chocolate). But we also know the DEA would sooner ban tobacco or risk another alcohol prohibition than face the approximate wrath of cacao-addicted women everywhere. ('Approximate,' of course, because it would be subtle and almost undetectable, and because the men responsible would have few allies indeed who might venture the risk of recording the brutality to history.) It would simply never happen -- even if it did.

And coffee? What of the strange tea we brew from the tarry remains of this roasted tropical bean? It doesn't seem to have quite the same inescapable (let us say) 'attraction' as chocolate or Blondie songs. (Perhaps 'gravity' would be the better word, thereby emphasizing that you can't get bad 80s music out of your head any more than you can jump away from Earth's pull, despite the lack of strength of either.) Neither does it yield the same hours of fruitless distraction as TV or the internet. Like most narcotics, though, coffee can be found in almost any part of the world, and with striking consistency. As such, coffee fiends can transplant to almost any continent and still find the means to legally subject themselves to shaking limbs, disfocused sight, decreased perception of time, increased heart-rates, scalded throats, unbridlable trains of thought, and a general up-beat good time.

We admirably pitiable coffee drunks, we all start out the same. We ponder the scent while walking down grocery aisle 13 with mom, or as we pass the forbidden teacher's lounge in third grade. The sweet scent deceives us into dreaming of an innocuous drink that is inexplicably off-limits, thanks to the contorted, authoritarian rules of our parents. Those of us who know the taste today usually owe that first sip to a period of rebellion -- a variable span of time often also responsible for increased social aptitude and decreased lung-capacity. (It is worth noting that many people, not only coffee drinkers, will never leave this persistent 'period.') Due to the general poor quality of barristas and bean roasters worldwide, that first sip of drip or espresso is usually as bitter as a laid-off postal worker. Perhaps more so. However, the foul taste is often overlooked in favor of the tingling burst of energy that ensues. It is often because of the memory of these first few sips that most of us seem to continue the habit, as that burst of energy becomes almost extinct with regular consumption, replaced instead by a sort of partial-shivering and erratic imagination.

After the initial breaking-in period, coffee drinking habits become quite varied from person to person. Some people merely dabble, while others dive head-first into the deep end of their oversized, bottomless coffee mugs. I try to maintain anti-addiction patterns in my intake by drinking my coffee in small, controlled bursts: five or six cups in a single evening, and then nothing for a week or more. Actually, I just don't have very good access to coffee in my town, so I generally only drink coffee when I travel to larger cities. I'm far too lazy/distractable to make my own coffee, at home.

For those of you who are considering starting a coffee habit (a nice word for addiction), keep in mind that too much coffee can lead to death, as caffeine has a short-term hardening affect of artery walls. If your intake levels are approaching 80 to 100 cups of drip in a single sitting, you may be at risk for extreme overdose. ^{[Read more here]}

Laziness of the Sun

Just over a week until solstice, and the blinding, nearly-horizontal rays of the noon Sun impress upon me one simple and immutable fact: Seasonal Affective Disorder (cleverly and suggestively acronymized as "SAD") has an effect exponentially proportional to the degree of latitude. Having lived in the Pacific Northwest of the United States for most of my life means that I am no stranger to low-hanging winter Suns, but never before have I found myself appreciating the early stages of sunset at 12:15 in the afternoon.

I try not to rest on my laurels by blaming SAD for my occasional downturns of mood, a reasonable excuse though it may be. Whatever the causes, I find that the best remedy is usually a temporary change in scenery and a bout of wild smiling, if not outright laughter. In the past, I have transferred the darkened skies and cold air of winter into poetic meanderings of various tones, and thus converted my damp moods into semi-productive literary exercise. Recently, however, either I have found the Sun too low in the sky for safe literary transference, or I have simply lost touch with my muse. I have been forced to seek other forms of enlightening, such as wistful sketches of various architectural daydreams, or internal quasiemperical studies of the nature of various small pieces of the universe (exampli gratia: what in the world would cause all of the continents on Earth to ever be clustered, pangea-style?), or fleeting visits to places that are not my home-away-from-home.

I plan on taking a picture of the noon Sun at this, the highest latitude in which I have lived, on solstice. Part of this will be to record a Sun too lazy to climb to an appropriate height in the sky. Part of it, however, will be to mark the moment when I can start to justifiably look forward to new leaves on the trees, new blades of grass, warm and long days, and a general return of happiness to the Northern Hemisphere.

To that, I say, "Noroc!"

On Connectivity

What does it mean to be connected? Is it requisite, or luxury? How does it affect our experience, our quality of life?

One of the reasons I took this mostly-temporary leave of the States is to disconnect, to remove myself from the web of support that I felt was making me lazy and apathetic. Part of this was the need to see whether I could achieve something without the comfortable familiarities of home. But more than that was the desire to break free from the incessant connection to media of communication and information. No matter where I went in the States, there was a cell phone, internet, billboards and advertisements, and a million different ways to feel connected to uncounted people and bits of information.

In these intentions, I seem to have failed. Or perhaps I haven't failed, but rather have discovered that it was not my location but my choices which demanded the connectivity. Here, a third of the way around this rocky globe, my pocket still holds a cell phone, my fingers are still leashed to the threshold of the internet, and I can't break from the desire to seek contact among my friends, my family, and in hundreds of websites, the sources of empty entertainment and counter-productive distractions.

But if the distressing attachment and exposure to such distraction is the price of saying the occasional 'hello' to those close to me, I'll gladly pay it ten-fold.

PS-- apologies for the delayed post, again. Internet was down, and has finally come back up.

Thanksgiving in Non-USA

[Note: Apologies for the delayed post. My internet was down, and I had to go to Chisinau to post, this week.]

The deconstructionist in me takes every opportunity to cast doubt on the significance of anything by examining the value of everything in every way. The romantic in me wants to feel, and in doing so works in perfect counter to my deconstructionist side. My approach to holidays is therefore torn, and end up valuing my holidays substantially, but not usually for the common reasons.

I'm sure we can all identify holidays that are important to us. Among international (not to say 'global') holidays, I'm sure the Christian flagship celebration of a certain individual's birth jumps out to a lot of people. Somehow, the 'secular' though historically-Christian-based American culture has managed to give their Christmas to non-believers by turning it into a celebration of both miraculous birth and incomprehensible consumption. Hence, Christmas isn't really my favorite time of year. I enjoy the opportunity to connect with family and friends, though. Giving gifts is a great concept, too, but I appreciate that my family doesn't go over the top on the commercial side of this holiday.

I identify Independence Day (4 July) and Thanksgiving as the two most significant American holidays. All the others are either relatively minor religious holidays or little more than weak excuses to have a day off of work or get drunk or both. The Fourth of July is a blast, and I have a fondness for the fire-risk. But ultimately, I'd have to say that Thanksgiving is my favorite, among holidays.

Whether I'm studying at university or living in downtown Portland, I see little of my family. Thanksgiving is one of the only times of the year that I get to catch up with those most important to me. We gather at the house with the largest table, labor over amazingly simple traditional family dishes (made complex only by their vast quantity), and rediscover all the qualities we love and hate about each other.

This year, I'm volunteering half-way around the world in a country which either doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving, or celebrates it so frequently that it no longer considers the feast a holiday. Because it is not a holiday in Moldova, we volunteers do not get the time off. Nonetheless, several of us have banded together to create a belated feast this Saturday. There was turkey, stuffing, huge mounds of mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce (if you're into that sort of thing), warm rolls, pies, and all the trappings of a standard Thanksgiving dinner. We connected with each other like some sort of family: dysfunctional and slightly estranged, but generally happy to be in good company.

In all, it was great success -- I now feel tired and weighed down by the excess of food I consumed. Look for pictures, to come.

P.S. -- my contribution was a Zundel family drink recipe: Orange Slush. It was a great hit, and I have been asked to pass the compliments along to those who shared it with me. Thanks dad!

On height and width

Tall, thin, blue eyes, blond hair, primarily English heritage (meaning "white, for the most part"), casual. These are the basics of my physical appearances, and thus the most common bases of how others identify me. In Moldova, the colors of my eyes, hair, and skin don't give people much to think about as they shamelessly stare at me while I walk by. And, to my reasoning and observation (yah, I'm covering a priori and a posteriori here), neither should my height and width -- or, rather, the plenitude (not overabundance) of the one, and the deficiencies of the other. There are plenty of men and women all over this country who are both taller and thinner than myself. Whether those tall, thin Moldovans receive the same 'care' and 'attention' as I, a foreigner, I cannot say.

Let me preface by noting: one of the most common questions any young person in Moldova (whether a citizen or a foreigner) is asked is, "are you married?" If your answer to this questions should, unfortunately, be "no," then the next question is usually something like "why not?" or "let me introduce you to my [son/daughter/niece/nephew/sister/brother]." In some parts of the world, the frequency of such interrogation would be border-line harassment, but I have been assured by many that the incessant inquiry into my marital status is intended entirely for my own benefit, and I do not doubt it. I'm glad to know that so many people (who I've usually only just met) have such an interest in my well-being.

Moving on...

I am the humble inhabitant of a body that has an unchecked and out-of-control metabolism, which burns through anything I ingest as fast as it can, and then waits hungrily for the next meal. You may think this is a blessing or a curse, but for me it is just a fact of life. I've gone seven years without gaining (and keeping) a single pound. After about the fifth, I stopped caring. But the rest of the world didn't. If the most common question I am asked by Moldovans I have just met is, "are you married?," the most common question asked by Moldovans who know me is, without a doubt, "why have you lost weight? Have you been eating?"

Yes. In fact, I eat about as much as I can, but after seven years of trying to gain weight and failing, believe me: I've forfeited the struggle, and now wait for my metabolism to find a more profound preoccupation in life than burning through everything I throw at it. For now, I'm pretty content with my weight. Now I just need to learn how to say that in conversational Romanian.

My height not only compounds the 'problem' of my weight. Measuring in at a few fingers over six feet, I am taller than most of the people in the world, but by no means am I in the top fifth percentile. Those three fingers (meaning about an inch and change, for those of you who don't have normal-sized fingers) give me a real edge in life, and especially in Moldova. I catch the edges of door frames, low-hanging ceilings, and tree branches hanging over pathways. Usually I catch these with the sensitive spot right on the top of the head, but sometimes I also catch them with the forehead or even the brow. It stings for about an hour, and sometimes it leaves traces of blood or even scars.

...Oh, did you think I meant 'edge' like 'advantage'? No, no. I don't even like basketball. And I wouldn't mind having to climb on a chair to access tall cupboards, if it meant fewer headaches.

Solutions? I've taken to slouching and puffing out my cheeks when I leave the house. If I don't gain some weight by Spring, when my many layers of warm cloths will start to melt away, I may have to find additional solutions. If not, I may face enough (albeit well-intentioned) interrogation about my weight to finally break me down and give me body image problems. Potatoes soaked in butter and then fried with all manner of tasty meat? Bring it on!

To experience...

Adapting to a new community is difficult, no matter where in the world you find yourself. Something makes you different, and that difference is often more of a hindrance than a help, when it comes to integrating into a new neighborhood or city. For me, that something is that I am American, and that I'm just not from around here.

What does that mean? It means that I don't fluently speak Romanian or Russian, and that no significant proportion of the families in town share my surname. It means that the closest thing I have to friends in town are the 10-year-younger students who attend my English classes. It means that I can't drink the well water, because I didn't develop a resistance to Giardia when I was a young child. It means that I drink my wine occasionally, and generally only in sips. And sometimes, it means that I spend a lot of time in my room, reading or typing emails or blog posts, because "becoming a part of the community" is going to have to wait until either the temperature goes back up, or my metabolism slows down enough to allow a protective layer of sub-dermal fat to develop so I don't chill to the bone when I decide to go say "buna ziua" to random people on the streets.

But I find that the town I'm in has a way of infiltrating me, making me feel warm and fuzzy, despite the frozen water-vapor that appears before me at each exhale. Sounds wash over me as I walk to school or the community center: the sounds of bells and chants spilling out of the church, like fog, slowly filling the valley; the muffled accordion playing cheerful melodies for the children inside the gradiniţa; the clicking of scoundrel dogs scampering across the pavement behind me. Autumn, come almost to a close, still strikes me with colorful, impromptu art installations -- sometimes at the tops of trees, sometimes at their feet.

Am I still happy here? I have to ask myself this question a lot, especially after a bad day in the classroom or unprompted social drama from my fellow volunteers. I came here for change, and to do something meaningful (again... for a change). While my happiness fluctuates pretty wildly, and the challenges are often frustratingly insurmountable (can I use an adverbial modifier on this absolute adjective? Why not.), I have to admit that I am still happy. The preconceptions I had before coming over were all completely overturned, but I'm still experiencing change. And with that, hopefully growth, as well.

Weekly Posts

I had a request to start posting more regularly, and more frequently. Fair enough. Fridays, being my least busy day of the working week, will be my goal. (Even nominally attempting to post regularly to weekend days is a joke, as they are, consistently, up in the air.)

I'm going to shoot for a post every Friday. I'll set a loose deadline for about 2:00pm, my time, but I am not going to be as strict about the time. I have a lot of ideas for posts just sitting in my head, collecting dust with all the other unexpressed musings. Keep your eyes open for Friday posts.

On Fog

A few days ago, fog engulfed the valley in which I live. I woke to a haze of subtle grey, which left me rather uninspired to leave the warm fog of my sleep. Nonetheless, a shower, some breakfast, and a hurried look at my watch, and I was out the door to school. Outside, walking with or against me, the people of my town seemed to carry not only the burdens of their daily chores, but also the weight of the oppressing fog.

Walking in fog that morning gave me a sense of blindness. The process of losing the sense of sight intrigues me more than almost any natural process I can comprehend. On the other hand, the ultimate fruit of the process terrifies me to at least the same degree -- and this despite my archetypification of the unsighted Borges. As the world dims, only the fool may resist savoring absolutely every hue and tone, knowing that such vivid forms and shades will one day exist only in his memory and his imagination.

To walk in fog is, necessarily, to wander. As I followed my normal path to the school, my landmarks appeared slowly before me, first as ominous shadows, then as undiscerned solids, and finally as dream-like self-impostors, their colors and details failing to reach full resolution. People, too. As if walking among my imperfect memories of my town, vague forms passed of people at whom I may once have casually glanced, but whose features were never committed to memory. And just as in a dream, only the shadows of those people and those landmarks which serve some active mental capacity manage to resolve into anything functionally recognizable.

On another note: Living as the only American in town often feels like living in a fishbowl. I can't say for sure, but I imagine that fish feel a bit more anonymous when their owners fail to clean the tank for a few weeks.

What are your thoughts on fog?

On Flies

I can hardly wait for the cold of Winter to arrive. No, I'm not being facetious. Let the temperature drop far below the zero mark, and bring a smile to my tired eyes. Why, you ask? Certainly not because of shorter days or heavier clothes, nor for the pleasure of seeing my breath freeze on every exhale or the extra attention required while walking over ice and snow. No, I simply cannot wait for the opportunity to revel in the extinguished lives of flies, albeit temporary.

At this particular time of year, the Sun rises at precisely too early an hour every Saturday and Sunday. These, being my days of rest, often find me in bed well after the Sun has peaked the horizon. I say "in bed" and not "asleep" because of no other reason than the unfortunate existence of flies. These light-sensitive embodiments of foulness rest on the walls and ceilings until the first rays of light appear, at which moment they burst into their uninspired airborne dance. Attracted to light as well as warmth, they find the only warm thing in the room, and direct their gyrations toward my slackened face. I, unconcious and usually enjoying some pleasant dream (not involving flies), am jolted from my sleep and unkindly reminded of the existence of evil in the world. At best, I can stubbornly refuse to remove myself from bed, instead pulling the covers entirely over my head.

Many graceful and majestic creatures possess or are possessed of the sky. The lark swoops rapidly in delicate patterns, like a dancer in the Russian ballet. Dragonflies flutters chaotically, turning heads where ever the breeze may carry them. Even large birds of prey, despite their inherent violence, cast shadows over their terrified potential victims, below. The lowly fly is, perhaps, the only creature which fails utterly to properly inhabit its airy medium, instead possessing those erratic qualities and crass behaviors which seem fit only to counter and destroy the elegant and eloquent reputation of flight.

An examination of its name, "fly," we find clues of history's loathing toward this insect. As a verb, this word indicates the action of flight. As a noun, it may refer to something that stands or exists apart from the other constituent parts of its larger whole. As a reference to the insect, however, this word seems to signify the only positively impressive quality of the entire genus -- that is, its capacity for flight. It is as though those who first applied the name were saying, "Let's not expend more breath or thought necessary in order to signify the existence or presence of this wholly nuisant and obnoxious insect. Such is its vile lowliness."

But perhaps there is more to this insect.

I have developed an alternative* theory on the nature of flies, derived from a slight interest in the fundamental tenets of early spiritual systems such as Animism and Shintoism. I have observed that flies often seem to appear out of thin air, usually when there is a foul scent or decaying matter nearby. It is my theory that flies are actually the physical manifestation of the spirits or the god of stench. They are not simply attracted to bad smells or decomposing matter; indeed, they are these frowned-upon aspects of our world.

In any case, my fly-catching (that is, killing) skills have become rather expert. I fully intend to commence study of this new fly theory, as soon as my Moldovan Cloud research is sufficiently concluded.

*Perhaps partially jocular.

On Potatoes

Potatoes, for those of you who don't already know, are generally accepted to be the tastiest food known to our proud species. Many people, especially those coming from cultures in which the potatoes is a relatively recent addition to the agricultural and culinary repertoire, may erroneously insist that other foods (usually meats or candy) are tastier. Deep in their hearts, they know the truth.

In the States, we have several varieties of potato, ranging from the crisp Red to the gentle and delicate Yukon Gold. As with all great things, there are impostor quasi-potatoes, such as the "Sweet Potato" and the "Yam." True to our factory culture, we even have instant potatoes, designed for quick and easy consumption of a delicacy defiled. In the very near future (if not already), I am sure we will see some sort of synthetic potato which, due to it's artificial nature, will invariably be a smash hit. But all of these, base or refined, are ruled in the States by the great Idahoan Spud: the Russet.

The Russet is the most common potato grown and consumed in the States, despite it's excessive starchiness, it's deficient aroma, it's unwieldy size, and it's unappealingly bland color. The Russet is a proud and indefatigable tyrant of the American potato realm. Inexpensive as it is, the Russet's dominance in the States seems to be supported by those who prefer to consume life, rather than to savor it. As evidence, I direct your attention to the American term "couch potato," which likens the potato (potato, in this case, synonymous with "Russet") to something bland and tasteless, which usually fails stirs the imagination and depends only the stimulation of the most basic and primitive senses.

Thankfully, there are places in the world where the potato has escaped the cold and tiresome grasp of the Idahoan Russet. In the Andes of South American fame, from whence these tubers came, one can find valleys filled with hundreds of varieties of potato, each with it's own distinctions. Other places in the world had to import this excellent plant, usually introducing one a handful of varieties. (We are all familiar with the horrific results of the Irish depending on only a single variety -- further evidence of the potato's importance.) The French, known for their highly-developed culinary arts, called the potato a fruit (pomme de terre), suggesting the rather elevated nature of the tuber.

In Moldova, I have discovered a culture that has introduced only the highest forms of the potato into their agricultural and culinary cultures. Small, yellow-tinted, and slightly soft to the touch, these thin-skinned and richly-flavored potatoes most closely resemble miniature Yukon Gold. Moldovans usually prepare their potatoes by frying (cartofi prajiţi) or by mashing (cartofi piure). It should be noted, however, that the mashed potatoes are unusually tasty. Lacking garlic, they cannot be compared to the splendor of my mother's mashed potatoes, nor to the debauchery of my 7-potato puree. The excellence of Moldovan mashed (or fried) potatoes rests entirely in their simplicity -- that is, in the potato, itself.

These potatoes are the great artists of the potato world, rivalled perhaps only by certain isolated varieties in the Andes. Boil Moldovan potatoes, and the skins practically peel themselves (unless you are me, in which case you can't peel one to save your life). Fry them, and they produce the most delectable aroma. To bake such a potato would be spit on its glory. Used in pastries and salads, they are the prime attraction. I can only imagine what heavenly delicacy a bread from these starchy spuds might produce.

Indeed, while families and defiant individuals across the USA slowly divine the value of potatoes of such appetizing quality, I bask in the under-appreciated glory of the Moldovan tuber.

I'm a Real Boy... I Mean Teacher!

After an unexpected hiatus for over a month, I now have both the time and the internet connectivity to resume activity on this site. PST became extremely busy during the last four weeks, due in no small part to practice school. This is a time when we TEFL and Health Ed. volunteers are given a classroom full of Moldovan students and three weeks to try to figure out how to teach. Peace Corps does a great job of training us during PST, loading us up with all sorts of teaching theory, creative ideas for in-class activities, books, and an excellent support network. Practice school is kind of like the test at the end, where we find out how much we still have to learn about teaching in Moldovan schools. Personally, I love being in the classroom, and I've found Moldovan students so attentive and so intelligent that I am often at a loss as to how much I really need to teach them.

After Practice School, PST rapidly came to a close with one more week of language training and a Language Proficiency Interview (LPI), in which we all found out how much language we still need to learn. I scored dead center with an "Intermediate Mid" and I'm pretty OK with that, for now.

Now I'm at my permanent site, which is a wonderful town in the center of Moldova filled with friendly people and several highly-remarkable schools. Friendly people can be found everywhere in Moldova, but I consider myself uniquely lucky to have been given the opportunity to teach at the lyceum (roughly equivalent to high school) in this town. The teachers are all top-quality, and the director (read: principal) seems to be universally loved, not only in the school but also in the town, the raion (kind of like a county or district), and by just about everybody who has ever heard of him. The students are, of course, of no lesser quality; it is of these students, primarily, that I formed the aforementioned opinion about being in Moldovan classrooms.

In Moldova, school starts on September 1 (or the following Monday, if it is a weekend) -- a day in which students assemble in what need only be described as clothes that look better than anything any volunteer has ever brought with them, ever. I decided not to wear my suit, mostly because I know that I cannot compete with the impressive accouterments of Moldovan students. Had I thought ahead, I would have taken my camera to capture the sea of well-clad students standing in the courtyard before the school, waiting for the school year to be introduced.

At this point, I really didn't know any students at the school, and I tried my best to hide off to one side. The students, as they milled about, cast curious glances at me which seemed to say: "Who are you? You're not a student, unless maybe you've transferred in from Romania or somewhere. Maybe you're just visiting somebody? Hrm..." Just before the ceremony began, the director, the mayor, and the regional minister of education appeared at the top of the steps, drawing the attention of most of the students. The director, seeing me, motioned for me to join him, stimulating a new set of curious glances from students, this time implying: "OK, so you're not a student. You're standing next to the director, so you must be somebody of some importance. Hrm..." I tried my best not to make eye contact with anybody for more than a second or two at a time.

Speeches were made, most of which remained shrouded in the veil of my own personal language deficiencies. Gifts were given to certain teachers, and to certain students. After pretty much everybody at the top of the steps had spoken, the master of ceremonies said something in Romanian, the only words of which I could really understand were "Corpul Paci" and "Jeffrey Zundel" and the microphone was passed to me. The students, their questioning glances answered, promptly delivered to me a surprisingly enthusiastic cheer. I sputtered some broken Romanian about being happy to have the opportunity to teach English and, trembling ever so slightly, retreated to the side of our director.

Every moment I have spent inside the school since then has been great. The daily schedules are still a bit unstable, and I am still figuring out how to be most effective in my role, but I have a great set of students, talented partner teachers, and a generally positive attitude. With luck, I'll still have all three by the end of the year, too.

Staying Positive

I love this country.

I have been sick and injured for the past two weeks, solid. Pre-Service Training (PST) is stressing me out, as usual. I'm hungry, thirsty, and extremely tired. And yet, as I walked home from where the routiera dropped me off, I noticed me shadow stretched out in front of me.

I have tended to be a poet, in the past. Perhaps this is a continuing trend. In any case, I could not help but think, as I observed my casually elongated profile pacing the ground before me, that Moldova (or perhaps someOne) was trying to tell me something. For me, a poet, shadows usually symbolize memories and the past; but here, in the rural landscape of a Moldovan sunset, my shadow crosses the ground ahead of me -- the future, quite literally.

The decision to join the ranks of Peace Corps volunteers and wander off into the developing world was not an easy one, though perhaps too many of us realize this simple fact only after weeks have passed without State-side-quality sanitation, infrastructure, communication, and so forth. I joined because "it felt like the right time," and I still hold to this. But I admit, now, that I had no idea what that really meant, and means still. It means that I am in a completely different place, no matter how similar the climate, the wine, or the people. It means that I am apart from my friends and family, without whom I would have been abysmally without hope, long ago. It means that I can't go see Sigur Ros in concert, when they pass through Portland in October. It means that more responsibility and more expectations rest on my shoulders than ever before. And it means that every day is a challenge.

But seeing that shadow walking in front of me caused me to pause, and to think, and to look around. Moldova is an amazing country, and I consider myself entirely lucky to be here.

For a long time, I have wanted to live on a vineyard. Today, as I looked out over rolling hills covered with grape vines, it occurred to me that I have realized this dream, simply by living within the borders of the remarkable vineyard known as Moldova. Of course, Moldova is so much more than its wine, but this thought brightened my day. It made the particular challenges of the past two weeks seem worth the sweat.

Site Visit

I am a fairly relaxed person, as a general rule. I enjoy challenges, and I may even be known to seek them out from time to time. However, when the challenge has been exhausted or sufficient effort has been consumed to the challenge's end, I appreciate opportunities for me to kick back and decompress. Pre-Service Training (PST) in Peace Corps does not, to my inexpressible dismay, afford such opportunities.

Aside from the usual schedule of language training and cultural orientation, this weekend I was required to visit the site where I will teach English for the two years immediately following August 20. To say that the weekend was overwhelming, exhausting, bewildering, confusing, and mildly understructured would be only the most broad and polite description of my experience. Of course, I should also say that my future site is wonderful and full of innumerable avenues of potential interest. Ultimately, what made my site-visit difficult was the simple fact that I was expected to make a decision, with only a few days' investigation, about which family I prefer to be my host for the next two years -- hardly rock bottom, I know.

To make matters even more difficult, almost every family I visited was absolutely wonderful. Different, yes, but wonderful in their own ways. The differences between potential host families' houses were too often only a matter of the color of the walls and the shape of the toilet. (Perhaps that is an oversimplification. Nonetheless, the differences were menial, by my standards, indeed.)

Now, the site visit is rapidly becoming only a blurred memory of PST, and I still have very little basis for my decision. I know I chose a host family, but only by default; it was an unfortunately hasty requirement, but one that will invariably result in an interesting (and likely pleasant) experience.

Like so many other PST activities, however, the site visit has left me feeling entirely drained of energy. If I did not have such excellent support from my PST host family, from home (in USA), and from my fellow volunteers, I cannot imagine how I could continue. This continues to be an interesting, if trying, experience, and I can't wait to look back on PST with a sigh of relief.

More energetic and enlivened posts to follow, once I regain sufficient energy to see straight.

Post Script: My full report on the nature of Moldovan condensed-water-vapour economics was rejected by all reputable journals on the grounds that no such industrial sector has yet been identified by any leading economics monitoring or research organization. The editor of the Decianual Journal of Applied Atmospheric Hydrodynamics singularly respond with praise for my lovely diagrams. I stand, nonetheless, starkly offended by the lack of scholarly interest by global economics experts. I turn now to the artistic community. See below for diagrams.

Pain in my... back

The first ten weeks of my time in Moldova is being consumed by the much-appreciated and highly productive process of language acquisition and cultural integration. This is a difficult process that involves much more than simple language classes. I am often overwhelmed by the sheer mass of information being thrown at me, and by the (albeit justifiably) long hours. It is entirely common for me to return home with only enough energy to swallow some dinner before collapsing in an unmoving heap on my bed.

My host family seems to be very understanding with respect to my exhaustion. I often say to my friends (and once or twice to neighbors and my host family members, themselves) that I would stay with this host family for my entire two-year assignment, were it possible. Despite some cultural misunderstandings in the beginning, I absolutely love their approach to life. They are happy and relatively calm, which is a perfect match for me. Of course, I feel confident that my next host family will be wonderful, as well, but all change brings with it risks. It is easy to stay positive, though, when the Moldovans I interact with on a regular basis seem so pleasant and amicable.

These positivities have been essential on offsetting certain inconveniences of the past week. Not least of these has been the reinflamation of an old back injury that I had thought (read: hoped) had healed and disappeared. A couple years ago, I was involved in a (body) surfing accident in Hawaii, which injured my lower back in some apparently undiagnosable way. Despite many visits to doctors, the injury remained unidentified. Luckily, it doesn't really incapacitate me -- only slowing me down for about a week. It is almost back to normal, and I am trying to decide whether it is, in fact, the same old injury, or if it is some new ailment.

My communication with friends and family in the State* has been mixed. Some friends and family have been in regular, prompt contact, and the efforts of these individuals has not gone unappreciated (which is to say that I love them SO MUCH for saying "hello" now and then). Their messages, however long or short, are my primary emotional and psychological supports during these difficult initial months in Moldova.

It's always nice to know you are loved, even when that means you are missed. I make serious efforts to let my friends and family know that they are loved and missed, as often as possible.

And so the experience continues...

Manufactured Clouds

Moldova produces some of the greatest clouds I have ever seen.


I speculate that Moldova unofficially imports water vapor and exports magnificent, billowing clouds. Unfortunately, border controls on this particular export are extremely lax, and much tariff revenue is lost. Slovakia, Hungary, and the Ukraine receive black-market Moldovan cloud products at rock-bottom prices, and the Moldovan cloud factories bear the cost. Perhaps suggestive of mass corruption in international politics, the UN, EU, NATO, and other regulatory bodies have failed to take action against these thefts. But not all is lost; a handful of connoisseurs visit the country annually to reconfirm Moldova's place among the top cloud-producing nations in the Modern Era.

These clouds are exported in magnificent shape, but living in the factory means that I see my fair share of what can only be called "throw-aways" and "works in progress." I have returned home completely drenched (and probably cleaner than when I had departed in the morning) as a direct result of industrial accidents in the factory, as well. When the rain falls on Moldova, it doesn't mess around. However, I love the rain here, and for the same reason I love the rain in the Pacific Northwest: it cleans everything out and makes the world around me vibrant with life. As I walk (read: run) to school each morning, I notice the grapes weighing heavier on their vines, and the raspberries flashing bold new shades of red. These are the byproducts of Moldova's great cloud production, and I am the grateful recipient of the excellent meals and impromptu snack therefrom.

The rain here is something of a mystery to me, though. It rains as though mountains were pinning the clouds against the sky, which is the situation with which I am most intimately familiar. And yet, the closest mountains are the Carpathians in Romania, which can hardly be held responsible for the air pressure in Moldova. Perhaps the rain is simply a result of Moldova's close proximity to its source of water vapor, the Black Sea. Perhaps the amount of moisture coming off of the sea is simply too great for continental atmosphere to handle, and the massive black leviathans have little choice but to shed lakes and rivers of rain onto Moldova, in the form of stunning lightning shows and bombastic symphonies of thunder and howling dogs.

I continue my study of Moldova cloud production, and will report my conclusions in next month's issue of Science.

Life is good

Moldova is a wonderful country. I had little involvement in the decision to come here for Peace Corps, as opposed to some other part of the world, but I sincerely appreciate the opportunity I have been given. I am prohibited from publishing my exact location, explicitly or implicitly, which is a shame, because I would love to share with you all the minute details of my current situation. Perhaps in ten weeks I can tell you, but for now, let me just say this...

There is life everywhere. I have only been in this country for a short while, but I feel energized and enriched by the amount of vibrant vivicy that seems to leap out of every nook and cranny of this place. My daily wanderings take me through docile neighborhoods, across fields of wine-grapes, through placid cemetaries that might easily be parks, past impressive basiricas (churches), and among chirping and cooing animals of every variety. Indeed, this is to say that I pass through the life of Moldova in the Spring.

I have experienced the brilliant sunshine of this place, as well as the torrential downpour. And all of this is paralleled by the welcome I have received from my host family and the people of my town. Of course, most are weary of me, as a stranger and as an American. Moldova was once a part of the Soviet Union, and I have been told that many Moldovans may initially suspect Peace Corps volunteers as spies. Usually a jovial smile and a "buna ziua!" to match bring a smile to fellow pedestrians' faces, and I appreciate the amusement in their eyes. I think I know what I just said... I know I don't know what they just said...

Language classes progress rapidly, and I am daily becoming more comfortable with my Romanian. I must acquire this language rapidly if I am to learn Russian, like the two of my colleagues already being so instructed. My goal is to be fluent in Romanian and proficient in Russian before my departure, and I know this will be difficult.

First things first: get over the jet-lag and culture shock. Check, and check. Well, culture shock is a work in progress, but I feel comfortable with most of my daily lifestyle, thus far. I am a bit disappointed at the lack of interconnectivity with the folks back home, but such is life. We are all busy living. It is a strange feeling, to be half a world away from both the people you love and the people you greet each day. I am sure that, once I am settled, I will have more time and energy to commit to my family and friends back home, but for now I shall rest in my homesickness. I hope you are all doing well.

Bine, until next time...

La revedere!

Adjustments

It is my firm belief that airplanes move much faster than humans were ever meant to travel. I once heard a story about an explorer in Africa who was delayed because his local guides and porters refused to go any farther, as they had traveled so far in so little time that their souls had fallen behind and needed time to catch up. In this story, these humans only walked; I have taken a plane at over 500 miles per hour. Jet-lag is the body waiting for the soul to catch up.

I have been in Moldova for about a week, now, and perhaps my soul will catch up, soon. My internet connectivity is excellent, and I am limited in its use only by my lack of a desire to use it. The family with which I stay is absolutely wonderful, and I feel lucky to have been matched with such great people. Moldova is a country of great beauty and jovial people. Each day I am here is another excellent day, even if my stomach and aching head have yet to completely adjust.

The Moldovan language has been a pleasure to learn, thus far. Although my lingual skills are yet only rudimentary, the process of exploring and grasping this new language is among my favorite experiences in Moldova. My tongue would complain of certain acrobatic challenges, but my mind is utterly enthralled. Perhaps when next I speak with my friends and family, I will be unable to revert from the accent I now gladly possess. One can only hope...

I will soon post pictures of my arrival and my initial forays, so keep an eye out for updates. Ask questions, or send me an email. I would love to hear from everybody.

The First Departure

Perhaps it is a tired cop-out to quote Monty Python. Nonetheless, it seems quite possible that Judith of Life of Brian fame said it best in her dramatic coup de grace: It's happening, Stan! Something is actually happening!! (I like to think that multiple exclamation marks were used uncompromisingly in all such absurd screenplays.)

It was all just a bunch of paper work and talk until this morning, when I picked up my bags and kindly boarded an airplane bound for Philadelphia, PA. I spend a few more days here before hopping the not-so-proverbial pond for Frankfurt and, ultimately, Chisinau, Moldova. I've said my good-byes, despite their myriad shortcomings (on my own end, I must say). I felt the strain of too much weight as my luggage cut unyieldingly into my shoulders and tortured my arms. Somehow, I inadvertently managed to procure an upgrade to First-Class on US Airways -- hopefully gratuit, though only time will tell. I even successfully lost and found an important document on the way to my hotel, where I now rest in uncharacteristic comfort, thinking little more than: Oh crap! What am I getting in to?

As the great, fictional Max Cohen frequently said: 8:45, restate my assumptions. Apparently, I have joined the Peace Corps, and I am now on my way to the Republic of Moldova. This is a small country, approximately the geographic size of the state of Maryland, with a total population around 4.4 million, the vast majority of which reside in a handful of cities. The capital, Chisinau (Key-sh-new), is by far the largest of these cities, at a whopping 600,000 residents. The country is land-locked (thanks to the Ukraine), has an elevation range of 2-400 meters (about 3000 meters short of the elevation range with which I am familiar), is former soviet-bloc, and is relatively rural (think "quiet" and "perfect star-gazing"). The economy is based primarily on agriculture and has never industrialized, due to the complete lack of mineral resources or a port. As far as I am concerned, the most important result of this non-industrialization is the sustenance of Moldova's primary export: wine.

I'll be teaching English to high-school kids, most likely in a village smaller than I can honestly comprehend, right now. I have never taught, to date, but I look forward to the opportunity. Honestly, I can't begin to comprehend the experience. Any of it. But let me tell you: I'm looking forward to all of it.

These next few days are the last I'll see of my androgynous homeland ("motherland" or "fatherland"? Neither seems to work, really) for over two years. Instead, I look forward to new languages, new passions, and new memories. I'll try to put a little of each of these into this blog, and I hope to hear from those of you who read it.