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.