To Begin Again

Here I am, back where I started a year ago, facing a new school year in a town that is not my own, teaching kids who, more often than not, don't know what school means. I made it through the summer, which turned out to be pretty awesome. Coming into summer, I was inches away from calling it quits and returning to the friends and rich lifestyle I left back at home in the Pacific Northwest. My fondness for that home hasn't diminished this summer. Rather, the vacations, the visits from friends and family, the warm interactions with a new group of local friends, and the discovery that I have a fairly large amount of control over my situation here have all contributed to a much more positive outlook on the coming school year.

A lot has changed for me, this summer. The things that keep me here are no longer those which brought me here. I've lost a lot of my original passion for teaching and my organization, but I've also gained a language, a new world-view, and a handful of invaluable people in my life. I have thrown a lot of my ideas about the future into the wind, and drawn new plans that may take me in directions nobody would have guessed before. My concept of "home" has become scattered. The possibility of living carefree and single into perpetuity gradually loses its appeal.

So, I begin again. A new school year. One more year of service with Peace Corps. Twelve more months to figure out what to do after this time next year. Suggestions?

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Germany

Judging by my two most recent trips, it would seem that the single most difficult travel post to write and publish is the final one. As high-resolution memories of my time in Germany slowly fade into the more standard, pixelated haze, I find myself subject to frequent pangs of guilt that I have only now come around to collecting the highlights from among my recollections and putting them down here.

Arriving in Germany by way of train was not entirely what I had expected. Deutchland has such a famous reputation for clockwork mechanics and rail systems which are the epitome of punctuality. And yet, our train was late to depart and even later to arrive. My illusions were dashed on the cold steel rails like some unfortunate character in a Tolstoy novel. Surviving this let-down, my parents and I eventually arrived in Munich (Munchen), found our way to an inaptly-named airport hotel, and passed out. Early the next morning, we found our way to the airport and happily waited, and waited, and waited, and greeted my two older sisters and a niece. Thus concluded our time in Munich.

From Munich on, we would be traveling by rental car. Perhaps this was a necessity, as several of our destinations would be difficult or even impossible to reach by public transportation. However, my affinity for traveling by train meant that climbing into the small, unimpressive Fords was not entirely top choice. In any case, we had a bit of fun on the open autobahn.

Next on the list: Fussen, which is situated at the foot of the Alps, just near the Austrian border. This town, while quaint and pleasant in itself, served as the staging ground for a rainy visit to Neischwanstein Palace -- more commonly known as the "sleeping beauty" castle, as it was the inspiration of the popular Disney model of a romantic palace. The story behind this particular palace is interesting and (at time) almost comical. As one tour guide pointed out, while the 19th-century constructor, Ludwig III, had wanted to build an "authentic Medieval castle", he chose a site which would require the destruction of one of the most significant examples of Medieval fortresses. While in the area, we also toured the nearby (and much more authentic) Hohenschangau Castle.

From Fussen, we traveled on to Rothenberg. This small, walled town features a well-preserved structures and cobblestone streets, thanks largely to a mutual dislike for needless destruction between two opposing figures near the end of World War II. As the story goes, the town had been selected as a final stronghold by one of Hitler's dwindling generals. Like all other Nazi generals near the end of the war, he had been ordered not to surrender, and planned to take the whole city of Rothenberg down with him before allowing the approaching Allied troops to pass. Speculation would suggest that his subordinates were not entirely in accord with this suicidal plan. On the other side of the line, American generals had given orders to begin bombing the town in anticipation of an attack. Back in Washington, an official in the State Department with some sway came across the orders, and immediately recognized the name of a town his mother had always said was the most beautiful town she had ever seen. Picking up the phone, he made some calls and had the American commander delay the bombers, and offer the besieged Nazi troops a chance to surrender, even though it would likely be turned down by the so-ordered general. To their surprise, they received a positive response. Apparently, the general had left town for a couple days, and officer left in charge possessed enough sentimentality, common sense, or both to see a good opportunity in front of him. Tada! Rothenberg thus survived relatively unscathed. The old city walls, gate houses, and ramparts are largely intact and completely open to the public.

The next day, we made our way down to Wiernsheim, a tiny village near Stuttgart, or no particular interest to most tourists. To my family, it holds certain significance, as it is the town from which our Zundel ancestor emigrated to the United States. Despite the fact that it was a weekday, most of the town was quiet and inactive. A few people could be seen around the grocery store and a small ice creamery, but the rest of the streets and sidewalks were left largely alone. We wandered around the few streets, took pictures of a few Zundel signs, and eventually tracked down a few houses that belonged to or were built by Zundels before my ancestors left for a new world. Speaking with people was fairly difficult, as none of us spoke German and there was little demand for them to know English. Luckily, we communicated our random purpose to an oldish man in his garden, and he immediately got on the phone to call Rainer Zundel, a local English teacher. Within no time, we were all chatting with this man of common ancestry about the village and Zundel history.

It was also in Wiernsheim that my good friend Sebastian (whom I met while he was engaged in research studies in Portland a while back) came to catch up on lost time. He returned to Germany at about the same time that I left the States for Moldova, and we were mutually appreciative of a familiar and knowing face from our beloved Portland days. Heh heh...

While there is a hotel in Wiernsheim, it was unbeknownst to us when we made these travel arrangements. In dumping rain and rapidly dimming light, we booked it north to Hiedelberg. Forgive me if the spelling is incorrect on this. We arrived late a night and left early the next morning, so my only real memories of this town are blurred views of bridges crossing a beautiful, night-lit river, u-turns, and glimpses of what I later learned is one of the great attractions of Germany. I'll have to check that rumor out during another trip, I guess.

Our final stops were in Cochem and Bacharach, which lie on the Mosel and Rhine rivers, respectively. Both of these small towns were relaxed and hospitable in their character, and we made use of this comfortable air to enjoy the final few days together. This last leg of the trip included most of my immediate family, absent only my younger sister and my older sister's husband and son. Still, it was a wonderful opportunity for me to connect once again with the people I love, as we gently and curiously explored the nooks and crannies of these old German towns and the rivers to which they bring life.

In conclusion, I very much enjoyed my journey from Moldova to Germany. It was fascinating to have such an unusual opportunity to witness, first-hand, so many amazing places in Central Europe. Describing this trip to friends and colleagues, I would later describe it as highly stressful, not very relaxing, but altogether interesting and much appreciated. If we had traveled to only one or two of those stops along the way, or a thousand more, it would still have been pleasant for me primarily because I had the opportunity to see and be with my family again.

Thus, the Whistlestop Wanderjahr comes to an end. What will come next?

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Český Krumlov

I've discovered that I have a strong preference for traveling in places where I know the local language. Hence, Romania has been top on my list of favorites for this trip. Still, Český Krumlov defies this trend, instead rivalling the best Romania has to offer.

Český Krumlov [pronounced Chesky Crumlow] is a small Czech (as the name suggests) town near the Austrian border. Its character is based on a swiftly snaking river, a charming town of red roofed houses, and an old castle resting upon the tops of sharply cut cliffs. The town lies on a narrow strip of land bounded on three sides by the Vltava river. This river very nearly takes a shortcut through town, at one point, but is instead carefully controlled and preserved on its winding course by a series of spillways and small dams.

Incidentally, the Vltava river is sometimes referred to by another name, the Moldau. In and around the area, a rare-ish gem takes its name from the river (or perhaps the river from the gem): Moldavite. The gem is not particularly valuable to mainstream jewelers, but it has a rich green color and is quite appealing regardless of whether it has been intricately faceted or left uncut. In most of the town's stores, especially in the town center, the amount of silver or gold used in the setting will determine 90% of the price. Information on this stone can be found, like most other information, in the Hitch-Hiker's Guide.

As far as sights go, there are few extraordinary guide book stops in town. Most guide books will point visitors to such riveting destinations as the wax museum or the castle grounds, the latter of which actually is rather beautiful. If visitors to Český Krumlov are expecting Prague- or Paris-style attractions, I recommend Prague. Or Paris. Český Krumlov is, instead, for those seeking a more relaxed and quiet place to rest their heads or to sip the local brews. The area surrounding this small town is remarkable in a very Wordsworthian sense, and could easily occupy days or weeks on an itinerary.

There is little more to say about this small town. It was difficult to leave, especially knowing that the remainder of the trip would be in a country altogether more familiar than prior whistle stops. To be fair, Germany would surprise us in many ways, but it always felt rather like home.

Coming soon: Germany (one BIG post for the whole week).

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Prague

Though I've tried to neglect mention of it so far, most stops on our Whistlestop Wanderjahr have greeted us with some form of precipitation -- at some times a mere drizzle, at others a sheer downpour. Prague didn't disappoint this trend, but it did ease up a bit. The Czech Republic's proud capital was cloudy but dry for most of our stay. The resultant broken blue sky provided the ideal climate and lighting for wandering the old nooks and crannies of a city untouched by the most recent and more destructive of our world wars.

We arrived early in the morning, following a comfortable night train from Krakow, Poland. Guidebooks will recommend avoiding such trains in Poland, for reasons of theft, but we slept soundly and safely in our room, waking only as the train pulled slowly up to Prague's platform.

After checking into the aptly-named Hotel Central, we set off for breakfast at one of Prague's many delightfully tasty culinary establishments. Details of what we ate in Prague are not important; suffice it to say that it was all excellent. After breakfast, excursions into the city would begin.

Tour guides to the city can be found aplenty both in Prague's central square and in any half-decent information bureau. However, the free walking tours are, hands down, the way to go. Led by enthusiastic, young-ish kids trying to fill time in the summers, these tours provide ample information on the antique areas of Prague, served with light-hearted and friendly humor from the guides. Salaries are tip-based, and can be paid at the end according to how well the guide performed. Or so I'm told. I didn't actually go on the free tour. My spirit for city tours taxed beyond the limit, I cringed at the thought of wasting two more hours behind another boring guide. My loss, in this case. I went for a spiffy haircut, instead, so not a complete loss, I guess. Later that evening, I would follow the same group of tour guides on a slightly more intoxicating tour of the city, via their not-so-free Bar Crawl. Unfortunately, the meat market on this latter tour would be the cause of me calling it a night before midnight, and WALKING (not staggering or crawling) back to the hotel for a too-short night's sleep.

The next day, after wandering the city with the parents a bit and ingesting more great food, we met up for a not-at-all-free guided tour -- this time of Prague's impressive castle. I'll refrain from any long, poetic descriptions of this castle, and instead just recommend that you get on a plane or train and visit the place yourself. While I haven't seen the palace at Versailles, yet my parents remarked that Prague's castle (at least the exterior structure) reminded them of the French wonder... minus the marble, excess, and insane power-grubbing. Our tour guide, a cute gal by the name of Sarah, led us through the fortifications and courtyards with expertly delivered story-telling. Her friend and moral support, Sofie, happened to be the lively, informative (and also cute, ) tour guide for my parents' free walking tour, the previous day.

After the castle tour, we made our way for the hotel, where we grabbed our bags and made a dash for the distant and confusing bus station, from which we would depart for our next destination: Český Krumlov.

Before we move on from this place, though, let me add: Prague is a great city, and a recommended stop for any- and everybody. However, keep in mind that people in Prague are starting to catch on to the attraction of their city, and prices clearly reflect this. By this I mean that the people of Prague have long ago lost any naivety regarding how much tourists are actually willing to pay for pretty much anything. According to more worldly people, the city feels a lot like a small, quaint Paris -- absent the French (love 'em or hate 'em) and the Eiffel Tour, of course. I don't usually enjoy large cities, but Prague doesn't feel like large, at all, and the people are usually quite friendly, when even a little modesty and humility are shown on the part of the traveler.

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Krakow

Moving from Hungary's humid, busy Budapest to Poland's cool, relaxed Krakow was an easy one. Perhaps a traveler more enticed by shopping, guided tours, scams, and prostitution would have found the parting with Budapest more painful. I was ready for something else.

As I understand, Krakow was once the small capital of Poland, and holds certain historical significance. Part of this history must have been filled with wealth and enlightenment, as the Old Town is richly populated with beautiful houses, quite respectable municipal buildings, and (of course) several not entirely humble churches. With a short walk from the train station through a delightfully welcoming greenbelt, we easily found the old Royal Hotel, situated just outside the fortifications of the old city. As hotels go, the Royal Hotel is about as good (amenities, location, price) as I would ever expect, short of traveling on an absurdly large budget.

After dropping our bags, we again stepped out into the Polish morning, and began our exploration of the town. I'm sure food was first on the list, but it must not have left a lasting impression. Krakovians certainly can cook up a decent dish, but I was much more entranced by the city itself than by its culinary accomplishments. At Krakow's heart, the old town square offers an old town hall tower, the Cloth Hall, and the imposing St. Mary's Basilica, which impressed even me. The square is lined with well-preserved buildings, most of which house cafes, restaurants, hostels/hotels, or boutiques.

First: the tower. Although it is all that remains of an old town hall, it offers the imagination a spectacular, proud social center. While the doors of the tower are closed until about 10:00am, it's worth the wait. Once inside, tower attendants seem to expect some sort of fee to climb the steep stairs to admire their city. Luckily, I only found out about this expectation later, by word of mouth. Somehow, I slipped by their rules and met blue skies and red rooftops at the tower's top. If you visit Krakow, stop by this quick visual fix. The challenging step height and low arches left my thighs thicker and my back crooked, but I'll do it again on my next visit.

The Cloth Hall occupies the very center of the square, and claimed to house a museum. I gave the museum an easy miss and wandered into the highly-arched corridors, instead. The Cloth Hall gets its name from its original purpose. Today, however, the large central vault which comprises the majority of the building lends its floors to vendors of souvenirs. Many of the stalls feature one of Krakow's specialties: amber. While amber is nothing new to me, apparently Krakow has access to extraordinary amber, and gladly offers it polished and set in silver and gold for excited tourists to buy. Beyond the amber, souvenirs, vaulted corridor, and the museum, the Cloth Hall is an excellent landmark, and would effectively serve as "center of the city" for our entire stay.

About St. Mary's Basilica, I have little to offer except observations about the exterior. By this point, my interest in church interiors was low enough to merit a cup of coffee while my more interested mother explored beyond its doors. Allegedly, this was a mistake, as the interior was relatively unique. This is not just any old church, but rather a church of the Cult of Mary. My mother's prying eyes detected only a single crucifix in the entire place. Where Jesus normally features in most Catholic churches, Mary stood instead. Thankfully, the churches wonders also spilled out into the square: each hour, a bugler appears in one of the towers and plays a spiffy little tune for adoring tourists below. Most churches settle for bells, and clock towers usually feature slightly dynamic figurines, but this church employed a person to play his horn on the hour, every hour. Go Krakow!

Unlike many people who pass through Krakow, we opted not to visit the former concentration camp at Auschwitz. Instead, we made for the nearby (and altogether less depressing and less impressively historical) salt mines. Back in the day, salt was difficult to come by, and usually had to be mined from the earth in much the same manner as coal. But while coal mines usually leave workers with black lungs and a wide variety of other diseases, salt mines tended to cure ailments and leave workers in much better states of health. In all, our tour through the mines took us about 130 meters below ground, through countless chambers and caves, and past many impressive statues -- all excavated and intricately carved by the Medieval miners. Among the chambers were several chapels and churches, one of which might rival many cathedrals in Western Europe and easily outdoes most in terms of originality. Being carved from veins of salt, all of the walls and statues are translucent, and seem to glow with even the slightest amount illumination.

Anybody planning a trip to this part of the world would be wise to make Krakow a major destination. It has a small town feel without lacking entertainment and amenities, and feels only modestly touristy. On our departure from Krakow, my parents and I swore to return for a much longer stay, when next we are able. Luckily, our next destination would be a pleasant one as well.

Coming soon: Prague.

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Budapest

Budapest pulls off a much better attempt at this whole tourism bit. It's still a bit much for my tastes, but I can interest myself in several days of this richly historical crossroads of culture. It feels calm and quiet compared to the early-June crush of Istanbul. I can even spot authentic (read: genuine) Magyars, here and there.

The language barrier is unusually large, as Hungarian falls into a language group entirely separate from our loving Indo-European family of languages. This language barrier caused me no little grief, especially as regards my seventh favorite pastime: striking up conversations with interesting-looking random people.

(As and aside, this pastime sometimes bites me in the ass, metaphorically speaking. See penultimate paragraph.)

Arriving in Budapest after our flight from Sighişoara, my parents and I had a short wait at the still smallish airport for the hotel shuttle. We had reservations at what guidebooks bluntly referred to as the centrally located but uncharming Hotel Charles. Compared to the warmth and readily helpful staff of our series of hotels in Romania, the lack of charm at Hotel Charles felt more like icy disregard for standards in the business of hospitality. Or it would have felt chilly, if the air conditioning had extended beyond the reception and the halls.

As it turns out, Hotel Charles also lacks centrality. While its distance from the center is not large, it certainly is on the margin of Budapest's touristy area. As such, the decision was easily made to spend as little time as possible at the hotel. Our first evening in town, my parents and I spent gaining as sense of the city center. In this effort, we explored the area of Pest near the heavily swollen waters of the Danube. Our arrival in Budapest happily coincided with some festival, which had turned the beautiful Chain Bridge into a pedestrian-only path of street performers and trinket vendors, bounded on each end with stages for live music. With a wide selection of beer, wine, and snacks, we enjoyed the music and energetic crowd.

In the following days, my parents cleverly taxed my endurance for guided tours and sightseeing excursions, to the limit. They did this via a "Hop On, Hop Off" package, which involved sitting in an uncovered bus under searing heat, watching fascinating sights pass by as a recorded voice casually outlined all of the places we would not be going inside as long as we stayed on the bus. At the end of the bus tour, we ate lunch and caught an altogether uninspired sightseeing boat which carried us up and down the river, with suspiciously similar prerecorded explanations of passing points of interest.

Among these points of interest, the Parliament building and the Matthias Church complex were the most captivating. It would be a vast understatement to say that Pest's riverside palace which houses Hungary's parliament is ornate. Covered in spires, gargoyles, intricate carvings, and vast arrays of arched windows, the building would be hard to resist, no matter what angle one comes from. If that weren't enough, though, the building was constructed after winning an architectural bidding contest around 1880. However, the government was so impressed by the second- and third-place runners-up that it had them built adjacent to the magnificent first-place winner. Tour guides say (with some pride noticeable in their voices) that it is the only place in the world to have simultaneously built three parliament buildings, side by side.

The Matthias Church complex is also a grand imposition, though this time sitting not on Pest's shore of the Danube. The church overlooks the city from Buda's primary hilltop. While the church was (of course) covered in scaffolding and largely obstructed, pictures suggest a stunning structure. However, the church does not stand alone. Surrounding the church is a series of unscathed, white stone walls and towers. The area was entirely overrun by busloads of tourists while I was there, but the beauty of the place still pushed through. The church was the coronation site for many important rulers of Hungarian history. Such coronation ceremonies would begin at the church and then wind down the hill to cross the chain bridge, directly below. Now, Buda's pricey but classic-looking funicular provides a more kingly (and quick) descent. We kindly passed on the funicular, opting instead to explore the ancient streets in the quarter adjacent to the church. This was a great option, as the old streets were quaint and slightly more quiet. The only significant marring of this old castle-church complex is the ugly, tinted glass Marriott hotel, which alternately casts a shadow or reflects a brownish tint on the historical church. I hope the shameless guests at this hotel saw nothing but the church scaffolding from their 1970s-style windows. Heh heh...

Budapest was a bust, as far as I am concerned. The sights mentioned above were great, and the lively violinist at our dinner was brightening. But the crowds and huge sprawl of the city, compounded by scam artists and bold prostitutes, made my memories of Budapest less than gleeful. Maybe if I had been staying in hostels, wandering the city under the setting sun and moonlight, propelled along by coffee and great beer, I would have had a more pleasant experience. Then again, maybe Budapest's enormous size (by my standards) made it less than ideal for me, by default. Indeed, my favorite stops on this trip have been the tiny towns and villages. In any case, despite their wearing effect on the soles of my feet, my company was still great, and the journey continued. On that note...

We eventually concluded our days in Budapest with a relaxed stroll near Buda's newer citadel. After happily checking out of the drab Hotel Charles, we hailed a cab to the train station. Our next stop would turn out to be one of the best on the trip: Krakow, Poland.

Lag

Some words seem to hold inherent meaning. The mere sound of the word implies its definition, its signification. As the word rolls of the tongue and flows dramatically into a listener's ear, the sense of the word registers before the word itself.

Lag. This is the word I would choose to describe my performance in posting the continuance of the Whistlestop Wanderjahr series. Thanks to one perceptive reader, in particular, for calling me out on my neglect.

And now, with a slight burst of productivity, I give you the remainder of the journey, now out of Romania, through Hungary, Poland, and the Czech Republic. The conclusion, in Germany, shall be made available in the next couple days (read: whenever I get to it).

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Sighişoara

We opted for the train from Sibiu to Sighişoara. I recommend against the train. This is highly unusual, as I generally much prefer train over bus, plane, or car. However, the train between Sibiu and Sighişoara was privately run, and included a transfer approximately halfway, at Mediaş. The first leg was a success, despite clearly inferior train cars and slightly sketchy conductors. The second leg, however, masterfully exemplified train system failures with which we Americans (with our fairly pathetic publicly-run Amtrak) are all to familiar -- the delay was long enough to effectively qualify as a no-show. With precious, whistlestop daylight burning away, my parents and I quickly decided on an alternative: a taxi which would cost about 65 lei (~ $20 US). Our driver drove like a pro, too. Not "rally car" pro, luckily, but definitely a seasoned chauffeur.

Sighişoara is a beautiful, quaint town in the Mureş raion of Romania's Transylvania region. Most of the town lies at the foot of a smallish hill, spilling gracefully out into the endearing valleys which typify this part of Romania. Some active hotels and nightlife can be found in this newer part of town, but the citadel on the hill is definitely the destination for most passers-through. The citadel features fully intact fortifications, including a remarkable clock tower and defensive structures belonging to each of the major, medieval guilds of the town. Inside the walls, all of the buildings have been preserved as much as possible, to the extent that even the colors painted on exterior walls are required to be the same as they were some hundreds of years ago. There are also, of course, several non-Orthodox churches to remind visitors that they are leaving the territory of the Eastern Orthodox majority. (The modern town does, actually, have a large, new and/or well-maintained Orthodox church.)

On arrival, much to our dismay, we found the streets of the citadel utterly in pieces. Apparently, somebody made the decision to renew the cobblestone of the entire old city, but instead of repairing one section of road at a time, every walkable or drivable centimeter of the citadel had been torn up, and workers were slowly setting the new granite blocks. Street vendors and business owners in the citadel were openly upset and confused at this, and would say, "Come back in a year, and you'll see what our old town normally looks like." Ultimately, the lack of cobblestones was a minor practical inconvenience, despite its major aesthetic failing. That is to say: we easily checked into our hotel (Casa Wagner, as in Braşov), but none of our photos were nearly as romantic as the watercolor street art for sale.

At this stage of the trip, my enthusiasm for churches and castle turrets was noticeably in decline. Still, I casually followed my party up to the large church, at the very height of the citadel, as well as around the walls and through the winding streets of the well-preserved city. While my enthusiasm for the structures was smaller, my enjoyment of photography remained unshaken. Thus, I'm sure I appeared to have an intense interest in blurry architectural features and piles of cobblestones.

Our time in Sighişoara passed more quickly than I might have liked, and before we knew it we were in another taxi, headed for the inaptly-named "Târga Mureş" airport. Our young, timid taxi driver had no idea where this small, international runway-with-a-security-checkpoint actually was, and his (allegedly more experienced) dispatcher was little aid. Unexpectedly, and entirely unhelpfully, it turned out that the Târga Mureş airport is actually quite a lot closer to Cluj than its namesake. Maps of the area are altogether vague, with respect to this airport, and the only noticeable signage is, literally, within stone's throw of the airport entrance. A large, heavy, mostly unthrowable stone, that is. Suffice it to say that this airport did little to improve my opinion of air travel. I'll say no more.

That's right, we flew out of Romania. Why? Good question, noble reader. Our next destination was Buda, and the nearby Pest (hereafter referred to as Budapest). Overnight train tickets were, so I'm told, substantially more expensive than air travel via WizzAir. I'd like to clarify, though, that I in no way recommend travel out of the unwisely named Târga Mureş airport, even if the cost of the equivalent night train is more expensive. Night trains rock, people. You can't double-fist 2 liters of cheap, Romanian beer on an airplane, these days. And the people who tend to chose airplanes are usually boring and asocial, anyway. Vote Night Trains!

I'll close with that little endorsement. Next stop, Budapest: the city of the (not so) blue Danube.

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Sibiu

Wow, do I need to write these posts more quickly! Sibiu seems a long distant memory, and recalling the events is going to take some serious contemplation.

It was a quick train ride from Braşov to Sibiu -- only a matter of a couple hours. Disembarking from the train, my parents and I glanced at our map and quickly concluded that walking from train station to hotel was entirely within the realm of possibility. In fact, it turned out to be possible, probable, and pleasant. Sibiu's cobblestoned roads and old, beautifully maintained houses made the short walk toward Piaţa Mica entirely worth it. As we approached the old tower that opens into the piaţa, our curiosity and impatience got the better of us, and we darted through a tiny passage into the square. The name belies Piaţa Mica's true nature; it is actually impressively sizable. It features myriad alleys and passages between the surrounding buildings, long lines of highly social cafes and restaurants, towers, churches, a sunken roadway, and (last but certainly not least) the affectionately named Liar's Bridge. We easily located our hotel, Casa Luxembourg, just across the bridge, checked in, and dropped the luggage.

The hotel room offered perfect views over the square, while being elevated enough to escape the prying eyes of passers-by. With live music pouring through large windows from the restaurant terraces below, I quickly succumbed to the urge to wander around Piaţa Mica and the adjacent squares with my camera, perhaps stopping here and there for a mouthful of drink and an earful of jazz. My mother was easily persuaded, and we left my father to doze comfortably on the large bed.

Outside, the night greeted us with eye-catching 16th-century edifices posing gracefully in cleverly placed floodlights. After a long, hot day, the evening air cooly persuaded us in a meandering path from corner to nook to cranny. As we finally made our way back toward the hotel, we passed some low windows of a cellar bar, from which a pianist's craft could be heard spilling out onto the street. Myself immediately swayed, I suggested that we stop in for a short while to enjoy the music. After teaching the bartender how to make a Tom Collins (for me) and a Lemon Drop (for my mother), we sat down at a piano-side table and listened to a wide variety of well executed songs. On the walls, a projector flipped through stills of old, classic movies -- Cassablanca, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Buch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and plenty with which I wasn't quite familiar. After finishing our drinks and paying the quite reasonably priced bill, we completed the previously postponed venture of retiring for the night.

The next day, we set off early (after a delicious in-hotel breakfast, of course) to wander around old city fortifications, churches, and museums. Sibiu has a great wealth of history, and proudly displays such through its low, multicolored houses and park-encompassed old town. But, with only an evening and a day to explore the city before again heading out, we really only just tasted the endearing city. Such is what leads to return trips, though.

The walk back to the train station seemed slightly longer, at least to me. But eventually we reached it, bought our tickets to Sighişoara, and set out to the next destination before the sun grew too low in the sky. Lucky, this, as the trip to Sighişoara would not be so seamless.

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Braşov

Let's not mince words: the train ride from Suceava to Braşov was long. Unfortunately, there were no overnight alternatives, or I might have suggested that. I'm a huge fan of overnight train travel... but more on that later.

As we enthusiastically snapped photo after photo of the picturesque countryside between Suceava and Braşov, my parents and I were approached by several friendly domestic travelers. One was a retired conductor of the very train we were on. Although he had worked the line for years, he had never stopped in Sibiu long enough to see what it was like. He was happy to have somebody with whom to converse, and cheerfully shared with us the old photos of his life (his time in the military in 1955, his first days as a train conductor, he and his wife when they were young and vibrant, and the more recent photos of them with their grandchildren), which he apparently carries with him everywhere. We also spoke briefly with a cute young couple going home to Braşov. As always, I quite enjoyed the casual and pleasant interactions with these random Romanians.

Arriving in Braşov, the young couple approached us and informed us that the taxis would try to cheat us, and offered to set the price for us. While this wasn't really necessary (as I'm used to haggling with taxi drivers, albeit in Moldova), I accepted and we soon found ourselves in the Piaţa Sfatului, checking into the wonderful Casa Wagner hotel. Aside from the charming rooms and entirely hospitable staff, the location of this establishment sets it apart from other options. With a view overlooking the square and the Black Church, it would be a serious challenge to top this hotel. After dropping our bags at the hotel, we wandered out into the beautiful old part of the city, eventually setting our sights on the Bristo de l'Arte restaurant for pleasantly tasty birthday dinner. That's right, as of 1 July, I am officially 26. Cheers to everybody back home, and to those waiting for me in Moldova to celebrate properly.

The next morning, we rose early (ish) and, after the excellent in-hotel mic dejun, we set out to explore the city. All of the sights in Braşov are worth checking out, but for those of you considering the trip, I recommend just wandering. There are two hills with constrain the town on each side, one of which has a tram (cablecar) that isn't quite worth it, and the other of which has two old towers, also not quite worth it. The view from the smaller of the two hills is wonderful, fără turnul, and everything in between is fascinating to behold, whether it be a row of old houses, a series of 16th century fortifications, or majestic old churches.

After getting our fill of Braşov for the day, we hired a taxi (100 RON) to take us to the Râşnov citadel and back. Râşnov is a small town, less than 15 km from Braşov. The citadel dates back to at least the 13th century, and is amazingly built upon the craggy, wooded peak which looms over the town. The citadel was built to repel Turks, and I have to imagine the Turks to be insane to want to scale those walls. Still, like most structures built to oppose the Ottoman Turks, much of the citadel now lies in ruins -- spectacular ruins, but ruins nonetheless.

Giving Bran castle a miss (on a tip from a trustworthy local that it is a tourist trap with little accurate historical value), we returned to Braşov with time to spare to catch the train to our next destination: Sibiu. With only a two-hour train ride between us and Sibiu, we said good-bye to Braşov and settled into the pleasantly new-ish seats of the passenger car.

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Moldova

After an unusually busy summer week, including some excellent meeting and greeting with the new group of volunteers, I finally made my way to the Chisinau airport to pick up my parents. This was the the zero hour of a 3+ week trip from the Republic of Moldova to Germany. In this trip, I am the guide (at least for the Romanian-speaking areas) and the passenger, as my parents (read: mom) have designed the overall itinerary. It's a great plan, of course, although its pitfall thus far appears to be the inordinately short amount of time we plan to spend in each town. With an average of one day at each place, this trip will feel more like a series of whistle-stop blitzes than the plodding, meandering wanderjahrs to which I am more accustomed. Still, the company is great, and I certainly can't complain about the amazing places I'll get to see.

Stop one: Moldova. This includes the Republic of Moldova as well as the Moldova regions of Romania -- primarily Suceava. At the airport in Chisinau, my parents and I are met by our driver for the next few days: Boris, one essential part of a family business run primarily by a Moldovan woman, named Marisha. Although I had never heard of Marisha before, my parents seems sold on her, and her successful little tourism business happily led my parents and I on walking tours of Chisinau and Orheiul Veche. Boris served as our driver for the whole bit, and our lovely and knowledgeable guide, Elena, made my parents feel very comfortable and well-attended.

After our time with Marisha's tours had concluded, we made our way to my work site. My parents seemed thrilled to see the town in which I work and live, as well as to meet so many of the people with whom I interact, daily. The highlights of our time in my town were the piaţa, the city hall (with a special sit-down with the mayor), visits to my school and an NGO in town, and of course my former host family. I made sure to give them a thorough tour of the town, despite its hills and stray dogs, as it is part of a culture that is completely new to them. The only person I regrettably was not able to introduce to them was the priest with whom I am acquainted. Next time...

Following our time in my town, we made the slightly troublesome journey to Suceava, Romania. I had been to Suceava the previous winter, but I was excited to see the area and its famous, painted monasteries without all the snow. Thanks to that brilliant aforementioned planning, our entire stay in Suceava was in the Dragomirna monastery. This is an old, walled convent in perfect condition, entirely populated by kind, warm-hearted nun who gladly conversed with us and welcomed us into their home. We would find out later that staying at this monastery is really only possible due to a woman (Monika) who personally knows many of the nuns and happens to run tourism services out of her High Class Hostel in Suceava. While the church at the monastery was absent any external paint, we got our fill from Monika's driving tour of the painted monasteries, including those at Humor, Voroneţ, Moldoviţa, and Suceviţa. Each of these featured some special characteristic, all of which Monika was more than qualified to explain. The only monastery in the area that we passed up, but which fully deserves a future visit, is that at which Ştefan cel Mare's mother was a nun (featured in a common bit of history for the area), and where that same great leader is buried -- Putna monastery.

We spent a fulfilling two days in Suceava, which is more than we will stay in any other stop on the trip, from there on. Even still, two days was far too few to explore all that we wanted before making our way to our next destination -- Braşov. And while we were anxious to see the so-called home of Vlad "Ţepeş" Drăculea (better known to those in the west as Dracula, or Vlad III the Impaler), we were also sad to have to leave the beautiful scenery and friendly people of Suceava.

Then again, having not seen any real mountains for over a year, I was more than ready to board that train and make our way into the Carpathians. We left Braşov, today, so check back later for the synopsis in a day or two.

Vacation from Moldova

Bucareşti, the biggest city and capital of Romania, has been a blast. I have found the architecture and parks to be altogether satisfying, and the people to be hospitable and (of course) beautiful. With blue skies and mild temperatures, my friend and I have explored the city on foot, with little incident and much success. Having only a day and a half is about perfect, although we have found it to be a bit too short a trip for visiting museums and such. Still, it has been more than sufficient to wander the winding city streets, taste some local food, and tour the second largest building in the world -- which may be smaller than the Pentagon, but certainly blows it out of the water in terms of aesthetics.

Bucareşti (known to the English-speaking world as Bucharest) shares several cultural undertones with my current country of residence, Moldova, but stands on a whole different level of development and culture. Indeed, while the Romanian language may be pretty much the same, people in Bucareşti speak with different accent and pronunciation, in such a way that I feel almost as though I were in France or Italy -- even though I've never been to either of those countries. People here seem to have difficulty understanding me, and I am becoming increasingly more aware of the subtle and not-so-subtle discrepancies between the Romanian of Bucareşti and that of Moldova.

Having a vacation from Moldova and my Peace Corps service has come not a moment too soon, and I can't wait for the next stop on the trip. So, where to next? Wait and see...

The Final Stretch

School in Moldova officially ends on the final weekday of May. This means that students unofficially checked out around the beginning of May. More so, in my case, as certain students harbor almost no respect for me, the foreign teacher, which leads to completely unproductive classes. As a result, I have little choice but to check out, as well.

In the States, summer vacation persists as an archaic tradition wrought by the agrarian demand for child labor during the peak growing and harvesting season. Many would argue that because that demand no longer exists* in any real form, the three-month break from school serves only educationally detrimental purposes. Summer vacation sees unbelievable mental attrition in students. The first one to three months of any school year are consumed by "reviewing" or relearning what the students failed to retain during three months of TV, video games, and internet, to say nothing of their other, more nefarious pursuits.

However, this first year of teaching in Moldova have made clear to me the true purpose of summer vacation: teachers would go completely insane if continually and unceasingly exposed to the stresses of the classroom -- namely, the students. Teaching is a tough job, and like most tough jobs it is vastly under-rewarded. Low salaries and long work hours are common for teachers around the world. And while the "joys of teaching" are myriad, so are the stressors.

For the past several weeks, school has gradually been losing touch with that primary quality: education. The first real indicator is the kids, who grow louder and more restless as the days tick on. The teachers have to spend more and more energy just keeping the kids in their seats. After about a week of this, the teachers begin to show signs of resignation: yelling turns into disenthused pleading; lessons plans are replaced with "activities" (read: games); classes occasionally change venues, to greener pastures. In the end, we teachers are so shaken from our groove, our rhythm, that we are finally in a position to realize how tired teaching makes us. The days get warmer, and fruit starts appearing on the trees outside, and suddenly we begin to think of days without classes. Ah... Summer is almost here.

Indeed, by the time summer arrives, I can't say for sure who wants it more: the students, or the teachers?

*In Moldova, this demand most certainly does exist, at present. Thus, summer vacation has real and apparent purpose, and most of the next paragraph or two don't actually apply to it.

Paşte Fericit

Orthodox Easter is a many-fold event. It is preceded by over a month of fasting, and days of frantic, thorough cleaning and food preparation, all of which would be of absolutely absurd proportions out of context. The celebration of Easter, itself, is the sweet fruit of those labors. Then there is a week of feasts and celebrations, concluded with an Easter for the Dead. Of this latter, I still know relatively little, but I'll make sure to share interesting experiences and adventures in a later post.

But let's start from the beginning.

Orthodox Easter began at midnight, on the first moments of Sunday, and continues through sunrise. I would love to tell you everything about the ceremony: the singing and chanting, the prayers, and passing of fire. I would love to do so, but I'm afraid it's a secret. And by "secret" I mean that I slept through it. Bah! I suppose I was simply too exhausted to sufficiently respond to the myriad alarms I had set to go off at 11:45 Saturday night. So, instead of participating in a celebration for which I had long been waiting, I caught a few senseless hours of sleep. Luckily, all was not lost.

The Easter service is held at the church, and can be divided into at least two sub-ceremonies. The first, of which I may have dreamed but certainly did not see, involves about four hours of singing prayers and receiving blessings from the priests. This is the part that meant the most to me, and I will be beating myself up about missing it until next Easter. Still, I hear it's exhausting, difficult to bear, and absolutely wonderful. The conclusion of this part of the Easter service is marked by the sharing of a holy flame which is brought from Jerusalem. Last year, a person actually carried the fire by plane from Israel to Moldova, and then distributed it throughout the towns and villages. This year, I don't know.

What I do know is that the church rings bells to mark the beginning of the second sub-ceremony. I know this because it was these bells, ringing at about 4:45 am, that finally pulled me from my sleep. I heard the bells, saw that it was quite dark outside, and thought maybe it was almost midnight. A short, panicked paralysis following the discovery of the actual time, and I rushed to get dressed, hoping to catch whatever was left of the service.

I arrived in time for the the blessing of the Paşca (pashka, pronounced with 'a' like pasta), a special Easter cake. Not everybody goes to the midnight service, but as I hurried toward the church, small groups of shadows also worked their way up the road to the church, quickly filling the small church grounds and then forming two long rows on the street leading away from the church. It was a clear night out, but only a sickle moon, so most of the light came from the hundreds of candles people had lit and stuck into their Paşca. I arrived just as the priests were beginning to splash holy water over the cakes and their owners.

As with the school blessing ceremony, the priests were accompanied by a small entourage: the head priest carried the holy water, which he flung using a small bundle of basil; another priest (this one my friend) carried the little metal ball of incense familiar to Orthodox and Catholic, alike; yet another priest carried a box for monetary donations. All sang prayers as they made their way down the lines, occasionally stopping to fetch another pail of holy water. Apparently, it is proper to shower the holy water liberally, quite without reserve. Understanding the significance, I appreciate that the priests are not stingy with their blessings, even if I need a towel, afterward. (Some volunteers, and probably some Moldovans, detest getting showered with holy water, but I am not among them in this.)

That's pretty much it for the ceremony. But Orthodox Easter is far from over.

Taking the Paşca home, my girlfriend and I cut pieces of the sweet bread and enjoyed some non-drowsy (thanks to the holy shower) conversation with very strong coffee. Eventually, the rest of the house came alive, and the Easter celebrations could be seen quite clearly on the horizon. I had a couple invitations for Easter feasts, and ultimately decided to join a couple from one of my adult English classes. One semi-unforeseen catch on this decision was that they would be taking me to a primarily Russian-speaking household, and while everybody there was able to speak Romanian to me, it is neither their mother tongue nor their language of choice. Another (completely) unforeseen catch was that, despite living in the middle of one of the best wine-producing regions of Moldova, this Russian family generally prefers vodka. The Russian wasn't a problem, and the vodka was simply a matter of preference, for me. So, in all, it was a great feast.

Orthodox Easter follows more than a month of fasting. For strict adherents of the faith, this means a completely vegan diet, no alcohol or other intoxicants, and a bunch of other sacrifices that generally make protestants cringe. Following such dietary suffering, most Orthodox Christians celebrate with appreciable overcompensation: more food than you can shake a stick at, and (sometimes) insane amounts of alcohol consumption. I'm not a large guy, and despite my highly-active metabolism, there's really no possible justification for the absurd quantities of food and (alas) vodka that gradually filled my mouth, stomach, and even that hollow left leg. *wink*

I'm inexpressibly glad that I was able to participate in at least some part of the Easter ceremonies, and I had a great time at the Easter feast. But it's not over yet. As I said, this next week will consist of further feasting and celebration, concluded by Easter for the Dead. Thus, I'm sure many more adventures will find and corner me before it's over. Wish me luck!

Preparation for Easter

In this part of the world, Easter is just about the most important time of year. It's not all about bunnies and candy, as the secular culture of the USA has made it. Instead, it is a mixture of highly-serious religious observation and light-hearted family and community celebration. I have yet to experience either aspect of the holiday, first-hand, so I'll wait to explain the history, ceremony, and customs of Moldovan Easter until after Sunday. Right now, people are preparing. And how!

Maybe "preparing" is too soft a word. It's more like turning the houses upside down in a spring cleaning to trump all spring cleanings, and preparing for the biggest and most wonderful feast possibly imaginable. The cleaning doesn't require further explanation. Everything must be proudly sparkling and brimming with pure cleanliness before Christ rises. I'm still not fully on-board with this concept, but I guess I understand why it is important the others.

The most visible (and curious) aspect of this pre-Easter cleaning is to be found on the roads. Every respectable curb is coated a brilliant, shining white. Or, at least, it is brilliant and shining for about a day. The curbs are not painted with "paint" per se; rather, they are whitewashed with what seems to be a chalky water. I'm pretty sure this is the same annoying substance covering the walls of most non-wallpapered rooms (such as schools). Benefit: it's cheap and easy to apply. Reason it's not worth it: it's chalk. A brief and gentle grazing of a wall covered in this stuff leaves an embarrassing white mark on everything. But to paint a curb with this chalk is a whole new level of senseless, as the first wash of rain strips away 100% of the glorious whiteness. Well, but it looks good for a few days, so there you have it.

The food is another matter, though. While I may feel ambivalent about the cleaning and the white curbs, the culinary exposé of tomorrow's holiday is entirely something to be anticipated with glee and rumbling stomach. Said rumbling stomach is amplified by the period of fasting leading up to Easter, known in Romanian as "Post" (equivalent to Catholic Lent, but much more extreme: people are strict vegans for over a month). Moldova has a rich tradition of sweet cakes, roasted meats, knotted breads, and excessively sugary candies with which to break Post ("post" with a lower-case 'p' simply means "fast"). The last day of Post, today (Saturday), people are supposed not to eat for the entire day, until after the mid-night Easter service. Then, immediately after the service (which ends around 6:00am), each household digs into the biggest masa (feast, or literally "table") of the year. Oh boy!

I'll be attending the Easter services, here, and I am very excited -- not just for the food, and certainly not for these spring cleaning rites. This will be my first Orthodox service since I arrived, and I am very much interested in learning more about this particular faith, and perhaps partaking in regular services and even a catechumin.

That's all for now. More on Easter after the fact, so stay tuned.

On those who sit in cars

Is anybody else creeped out by people who, for no apparent reason and for long periods of time, sit in their cars? Am I alone on this one, or are others baffled by such strange behavior?

It's something I've noticed in Moldova, though it may be endemic to a larger population group. Walking down the street in Chisinau, you may notice that every third car, sitting silently among the rows of parked cars, contains some person who seems content with his little metal sidewalk container. Do they think they are moving? Is the car, for them, some small refuge from the beautiful, sunny day outside? Perhaps it is a cheap (albeit time-consuming) theft deterrent? Maybe it just smells good?

The best explanation I have yet divined is this: Moldovans don't like leaning or sitting on non-seat surfaces (including retaining walls, curbs, window-sills, etc). I'll refrain from stating the 'why' of this until I can devise a way to explain it delicately and without upsetting my Moldovan friends. However, this cultural nuance, combined with the general lack of public seating, perhaps leaves car-owners little choice but to rest in their vehicles... no matter how long the wait, nor how small the vehicle, nor how creeped out the occasional passing pedestrian may be.

The real baffler, though, is when four of five people remain crammed into the three-person bench seat of a truck that is, quite apparently, not going anywhere for the foreseeable future. My logic does a half-back-flip and lands on its head when I see this (which is surprisingly often). This broken-neck-logic results in slight internal laughter, usually coupled with pity and severe confusion.

Clearly, there is a vast cultural rift that has so far prevented me from seeing such car-sitters and thinking, "Yah, OK. That's normal." Maybe somebody who "gets it" can help me understand.

The State of Moldova

The outcome of recent elections in Moldova has led to seemingly widespread discontent, as well as large demonstrations in Chisinau. On Tuesday, protesters stormed and severely damaged both the Parliament building and the Office of the President. The government has responded in a variety of manner, at one point declaring the Romanian Ambassador a persona non grata. Several local and international news organizations have been reporting on these events, to varying degrees. (Unfortunately, American media seems more interested in Twitter's role than in the actual events unfolding in the Republic of Moldova.)

While there has been grumbling and some organized demonstrations throughout the country, most of the protest seems concentrated in the capital. Please keep in mind: this has simply been my perception, and I am in no position to be declaring any definite facts. I merely say this to inform friends and family at home of what is going on, and that my town has remained peaceful and non-threatening, so far. I have no intention of posting anything further about the events to this blog, but friends and family are welcome to email me for updates and assurances.

For those of you looking for more information about Moldova and the history that has led to these current events, please follow these links:

• Wikipedia (of course)
• Ca La Moldova (an interesting and VERY recent documentary; link removed, as some people might find the content biased or inappropriate.)
  
• CIA World Factbook
• BBC Country Profile
  

There are a lot of really great links at the bottom of that Wikipedia page, so check those out if you just can't get enough. I'll be living life as normal, unless the situation escalates significantly. Of course, I'll let family and friends if things change for the worse.

EDIT: Here are some links to news articles that have seemed fairly accurate, although I don't think I've read a single article, yet, that has fully and fairly captured the events.

• BBC News
• Reuters
  

World Cup Championship... kind of

Portland's futball (or, for those of you afflicted with knowledge of the American sport known as football: soccer) team, the Timbers, has a pretty impressive. It's only USL, and Portland isn't a particularly large city, so it's remarkable that the games draw loud, energetic, and sizable crowds to partially fill the slightly miniature stadium (primarily a minor league baseball venue). The Timbers Army makes the games worth going to, even on the occasion of a loss. Despite filling fewer than half the seats of the small stadium, Timbers game crowds provide an unusual opportunity (in the states) to participate in the pulsing mass of passionate and creative futball fans. American football games got nothing on this -- sorry, America.

Being a Timbers fan of any degree is great. But there was talk (read: sighing and resigned acceptance) that futball games in the rest of the world were a whole different beast: enormous stadiums packed with painted legions, whose roaring and stamping cause the city around them to tremble.

Last weekend, I had my first opportunity to experience something approaching this quality of game. By some stroke of last-minute luck, I landed a ticket to the World Cup qualifier match between Moldova and Switzerland. There was (deafening) whispering of a chance that Moldova might be able to win the match, and thus making it past the first round of qualifiers for the only official event more international the a UN meeting. The Swiss are not the strongest of futball players, but would still be a formidable challenge for the Moldovan team. Sadly blaspheming, I arrived moments after kick-off, sitting down at nearly center-field, sideline seats. (!)

I was out of practice, as a fan. My throat was hoarse after only a couple minutes, and I had no idea who I should be watching. I caught on, after a while, though. The Moldovan chants were rather uncreative, and thus easy to learn: Hai Moldova! Hai Moldova! (That is: Come on Moldova!). Still, the stadium was significantly larger than any other futball stadium I had previously seen, and it was packed well beyond the "sold out" level. Several sections, solid red, were obviously Swiss, but the majority of the crowd carried the Moldovan colors. (I wasn't able to find myself apparel in anything above "child's medium" size, this time.)

Ultimately, the Moldovan team lost. We discussed post-game: Clearly, it was because the Moldovans weren't challenging for the ball, and there wasn't enough small play. We fans are experts on the game, of course; we would play, were it not for some knee injury, or some other such excuse. Regardless of the fan review, the Moldovan team made a worthy effort, and it is unfortunate that their bid for the World Cup Championship had to end at Game One. Nonetheless, I feel privileged to have been in attendance. And Moldova's next chance is only a few years away, right?

Now I'm even more eager to attend regular matches -- here, and elsewhere in Europe.

On Tutoring

I recently began accepting requests from people -- both individuals and groups -- to teach English classes outside of school. In my first few months as site, I had refused such requests on the grounds that I was simply not settled enough in the community and in my primary role as a volunteer. However, one of the results of my hitting bottom a few weeks ago was the realization that I do not particularly enjoy teaching English in the classroom. This, paired with my lack of diverse social interaction in my community, spurred me to change my self-limitations, thus opening the doors for tutoring.

I waded into the waters of tutoring with one-on-one home lessons with a student who desired knowledge of English, in addition to his in-school French studies. Sure, why not? Ambition should not be stifled, right? He proved to be an eager learner, which is (incidentally) my favorite kind of student. In these lessons, I discovered that such tutoring could proceed at a much faster pace than classroom lessons. More importantly, I could teach material that matters: relevant grammar, phrases and idioms, American and British variants of words, vocabulary that is more pertinent than "Wellington boots" (yah, that's a real vocab word from the Moldovan textbooks). And all of this at a variable pace that best suits the particular student.

The following week, I began classes with a small group of women at a local social services NGO. The first week with this group was quite fun for me, as I led three happy and energetic women through the alphabet and some basic salutations. The next week, I arrived to a group which had more than tripled in size, including two priests and a few people from a nearby government office. Word was getting out that a volunteer was offering free English classes to the community. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I was becoming fairly popular in town. What started as one-on-one tutoring with a student had quickly exploded into several separate classes of groups which varied both in number of attendees and average age. This week, I began a class with over 15 people at the primaria (the Mayor's office), to which the mayor is expected, post-elections, to attend.

All of my out-of-school classes started with the very basics of English, such as the alphabet, common pronunciation, and plenty of pointers, such as: English isn't a phonetic language, and To make the 'th' sound, put your tongue between your teeth... no, don't use your lips, and Remember, English is not phonetic. The 'a' makes a lot of different sounds. These are the sort of reminders that English teachers in this part of the world get to (or should, at least) use every single day of their careers. Luckily, the materials for these lessons are easily adaptable to all types of classes, whether younger or older, smaller or larger.

Let's be clear on one thing, though: I don't teach these classes simply out of my love for the English language. I teach English at the school enough to satisfy my responsibility as an English Education volunteer. However, teaching these courses provides me opportunities to meet and get to know people in my community -- such opportunities as were painfully lacking in the first seven months of my service. This extra social stimulation, the subsequent filling of my free time, and the coming of spring, have all contributed to bringing me out of the shell of my bedroom / the internet.

Now, if only I could just do this sort of thing all day, instead of banging my head against the wall (read: teaching English according to the national curriculum)...

Primavara A Venit

As I sit in my room at the tail-end of a long day, listening to "Beautiful Otherness" by the Nottingham, England-based group, Bent, I feel a pleasant feeling of contentedness. Today was a good day, finishing out a fairly good week.

My Fridays are always a bit easier to swallow than the other weekdays. While I must rise early, my eight o'clock class eighth-form class is both the beginning and end of the school day for me. Despite an epic battle between my alarm clock and my dreams, I managed to get out the door in time. On my way to school, ignoring the frost and biting breeze, I observed the year's first bright red squirrel bounding down a tree on some dangerous mission, its strangely long ears and scraggly tail bringing a smile to my face. I seem to remember hearing a bird slamming its beak into some nearby tree, as well. Ah, so spring my finally have arrived! Indeed, small buds were even beginning to push forth on the tips of small tree branches.

The rest of my Friday mornings are spent teaching English to a group of adults at a local social services organization. Teaching this group is extremely fun for me -- partly because the "students" are much more engaged and interested in their studies, but also because I have the opportunity to socially interact with people who are not younger than me. A fringe benefit that is worth noting, is that I am not restricted by any National Curriculum, and can thus teach pertinent material at whatever pace is most appropriate. Teaching English outside of the classroom has rapidly become my preferred mode.

This Friday class is relatively new. Today, it tripled in size to an impressive head-count of nine. Among the new attendees was a priest, who I hadn't seen in town before. At the end of class, I asked him which church he was with, and he informed me that he is actually the priest at a nearby monastery. I told him that I have been on the edge of my seat to visit some of the monasteries around my town, and he immediately offered to show me around his.

After a short 10 km drive, we stepped through a great iron gate and onto the modest monastery ground. In fact, we entered the convent, for this was home to a devote group of women, and the only men were the two or three priests and some helpers (such as our chauffeur). The priest explained the history of the 200-year-old community and convent, including the Soviet decades in which the churches had served as a sport center and a night club.

The monastery was practically destroyed during the Soviet period, but it received official support again in 1994. It wasn't until 2003 that work began to restore the main church. The project, supported by local communities and the larger church, was finished a year later. This smaller church was not as badly damaged and will wait for the relatively minor repairs it needs. Seeing both of these churches, hearing the history of the monastery, speaking with the priest, and seeing some few aspects of daily life among the women -- all of these were exceptional treats for me, and I look forward to further conversation with the priest.

It seems that the coming of spring may bring budding social opportunities, in addition to furry squirrels, flowering trees, and (hopefully) warm weather.

A Threatening Black Cloud Has Passed

Those in Peace Corps service often face what is called "Early Termination" (ET), which is to return home before the full 27 months of volunteer service. Sometimes, it is the result of some event at home which requires their return. Other times, it is the inability or unwillingness to continue service under varying degrees of difficult lifestyle or work. Almost none of us enter Peace Corps expecting to ET, and those who do return home early do so only after much struggling, I imagine.

A few weeks ago, for the first time, I seriously weighed the possibility of ETing. After two weeks of solitude (due to illness, cold weather, and only minimal social opportunities in my town), I returned finally to the classroom. As in the States, students are often unresponsive in class, and all but the most stoutly confident instructors stumble at the lack of any apparent appreciation students may have for them. I am not, to be sure, a stoutly confident instructor when it comes to my students' valuation of me. That, coupled with my feelings of intense isolation among my community, contributes to a recurring sensation that my service is not welcome. And, as the thinking goes, if my service is not welcome, then why am I here? In my case, the face of this uncertainty and isolation is the face of Early Termination.

The straws which didn't break the camel's back, but still managed to put it in critical condition: some species of cold virus, a week-long spring vacation, and a subsequent two-week absence from school. Being out of the classroom for two weeks set me up for a huge shock when I returned. It was during those first few hours that I found myself contemplating a plane ride home. As the day progressed, however, I slowly fell into an attitude of dull, subconscious resignation toward teaching. One thing I realized: I am not a high school teacher. I enjoy teaching English, but I have patience for neither adolescent attention spans, nor semi- and unmotivated students.

But the day progressed and improved. I had hit bottom, and if there is one thing that tends to happen when one hits bottom, it would be to bounce back. I floated through the remaining classes. The day prior had been 8 March, International Women's Day, and the fifth graders were following Monday classes with a short performance honoring their female teachers and beloved mothers. In need of a positive focus, I decided to sneak in to see and to hear the cheerful celebrations of these young students. This put the first smile on my face, thereby breaking the mood and opening the way for further bouncing back.

After the performance, several of the teachers (male and female) and I conducted ourselves to a local restaurant to further celebrate 8 March. Over pizza and some more traditionally Moldovan food, the teachers happily chattered about life and sang songs (which most of them mostly knew). And while I sat amidst their company, I could feel my spirits rising. The negative effects of social isolation are quickly dispelled, as it were.

The celebrations concluded with one of our fellow teachers inviting a small group of us to her house for tea and further conversation. In the seven months I had lived in the town, this was the first time I had personally been invited to any person's house for a social purpose. Despite a calm exterior, I was altogether elated. Even though my confidence in my Romanian does not yet permit me to participate in the discussion more than haphazardly, I am thrilled to be included in any socializing among my Moldovan colleagues and friends. At the end of the day, I was feeling great and ready to get on with being a volunteer. In fact, the rest of the week was among my best since I arrive in Moldova. I started several tutoring classes, recommitted myself to previously suspended clubs, and began to feel more secure in my place in the town, despite the isolation.

Hitting the bottom permitted me to reassess my personal goals in Moldova. It confirmed that I do not consider myself a teacher of public secondary education, by nature. But it also showed me that I can (even if only occasionally) feel very welcome by my community.

The Blessing of Schools

First of all, let me say that the following is based strictly on observation. It is neither my opinion nor fact unless specifically identified as such. Second, I have been working on this post for weeks. The reason for its delay has been my inability to carefully weave an informative yet apolitical essay on a matter that involves the interaction between religion and government. After many attempts and several stressful paragraphs, I've decided to cut the informative yet potentially explosive preface and just explain the story. The links used in that prefaces, should you desire to imagine the potential controversy, are: Here, here, here, here, here, and here.

OK, let's see what I can do about a simply retelling. Ready?

A few weeks ago, following several tragedies involving students from my school during the winter holiday, an event occurred at my school which I'm sure most Americans (of the US variety) have never experienced. The school was blessed. Given the fact that the vast majority of Americans are Christian, in one form or another, this probably didn't bother most volunteers. However, I know that a significant portion of volunteers (as with Americans, in general) are non-Christian or even non-religious, and their experiences with such an event are probably beyond my imagining. I suppose I fall into the 'Christian, in one form or another' category, although primarily on grounds of theology, not practice. So for me, the event was intriguing, culturally educational, and even touching.

The school day began as normal. After the second or third lesson, all of the students at school convened in the foyer and milled around, chattering, while the priest prepared the ceremony, the three or four choir singers discussed something inaudible, and the teachers passed out thin, yellow candles to the students. Just before the ceremony began, one of the teachers noticed the absence of a candle in my hand, and (after confirming whether I wanted one) quickly found an extra for me. The ceremony was relatively brief, with the priest singing some beautiful prayers and the whole crowd repeated making the sign of the cross with dizzying speed and synchronicity.

At one point, a list of names was read, which I deduced to be the names of people specifically being blessed, of which my own name was one. Shortly thereafter, having finished the initial batch of prayers, the priest walked around in the crowd, flinging holy water onto the students and teachers using a bouquet of fresh basil. It should be noted that basil is only used for religious ceremony, here; despite it's delicious effect on food, adherents to Serbian, Macedonian, and Romanian Orthodoxy abstain from using basil as an ingredient.

Once the students had been blessed, they returned to their classrooms and continued with the daily lessons. But the ceremony wasn't quite over. Back in my English class, I explained that this was the first such event I had ever experienced. Then I asked them, "Why do you think that is?" Some of the students suggested it was because we don't have Orthodoxy in the States, which is a good guess. When I explained that such events would be considered illegal in schools in the USA, most of the students seemed very surprised. It stimulated a lot of interest in hearing about why government in the States is (supposed to be) secular -- where the idea comes from, and why such separation of church and state is so important for such a culturally (and religiously) diverse place as the USA.

About ten minutes into this discussion, the school blessing ceremony caught up to us. While we were discussing why religion is necessarily absent from public schools in the States, the priest and his choir were walking from room to room in the school, blessing all four walls and singing further prayer. The priest entered our classroom, threw water on each wall (and on any students or teachers in between), said another prayer (accompanied by the choir, in the hall), and then moved on to the next room. The ceremony wasn't very well explained to me, but it left me feeling honored to be included in such an event. It also left me with a feeling of curiosity and intrigue, which I hope to answer with discussions with the priest and other members of the community.

On Cheating

People here often ask me what the most challenging part of my service is. It's a difficult question to answer, sometimes.

Teachers all over the world, in all subjects and all levels, have the unfortunate responsibility of dealing with cheating students. It may come in the form of subtle (or not so subtle) plagiarism or seemingly innocent glances (or staring) over the smarter kid's shoulder. Often, these cheaters are students who lack self-motivation to learn the material, who lack interest in the subject, or who simply think it's not going to matter. And it doesn't. Well, maybe not at first.

I wasn't the sort of student who even considered cheating in school. I would rather take an honest zero (and I did) than take a grade I hadn't earned. Sometimes it had to do with not wanting to lose the respect of a teacher whose opinion I valued, although such figures in my academic history are few and far between. Instead, my excuse for not cheating was simply that I was not in class for a grade; I was in class for the knowledge. For those who cheat, even with the improved academic record and any accompanying rewards, the fact remains that no knowledge is gained. That record is only a thin, brittle shell over an empty mind. Ultimately, that lack of knowledge will begin to show, and no amount of cheating, lying, or deception can hide it.

It seems to me that the concept which underlies cheating is the same which supports bribery, fraud, and other forms of corruption. I'm not an expert on corruption, but I know that any action that unjustly and selfishly propels one person above the rules or laws of a system is extremely destructive to that system. In a school system, cheating causes disruption in the classroom, undeserved progression from one grade to the next, and a sense that no student really needs to study in order to pass. What does it say about a student when their high marks conflict with an essay copied from the internet or a book? What does it say to the students who actually try when the student who only lies is still allowed to pass? Doesn't it say that lying is acceptable? Doesn't it say that cheating is an OK way to live?

I find it not only frustrating but utterly disappointing to see my students so completely reckless with their education. It's my responsibility to teach my language to students in a country on the opposite side of the world from my home. What is the most difficult part of my service? Convincing myself that the students who try outnumber the students who lie, and that I wouldn't be more productive helping Sisyphus with his boulder.

All the medicine and technology in the world can't heal a person who doesn't want to get better. All the books and teachers in the world can't teach a student who won't lift a finger for his own education.

A long overdue review (Part II)

This second part of the long overdue review is, itself, delayed. This week was busier than expected, which didn't couple well with my general laziness. I did, however, manage to drink lots of tea and read Borges's The Garden of Forking Paths for the millionth time. It never really gets old.

I left off at the end of a vacation to Romania. Getting back into Moldova was a trial that I hope not to repeat. Our driver had agreed to pick us up at our hotel in Iaşi around 10:00 am. By the time he finally arrived at 6:00pm, my travel colleagues and I had considered all our options, including walking across the border (which, as it turns out, isn't allowed), and had settled on just staying in Iaşi for the night and returning to Moldova a day late and a few bucks shorter. Our spirits weren't lifted, though, until we reached the border and discovered that we once again had cell phone reception. And by "our spirits" I guess I really mean "my spirits," as the entire duration of my time in Romania had involved a complete lack of communication with Moldova -- in my case, specifically, with a certain girlfriend. Arriving at the border was thus a happy occasion for me, despite the sudden shift in pavement quality. Suffice it to say that I spent the majority of what remained of the vacation with said female friend.

I'd like to continue writing about what I did, but I think perhaps the moment has passed. Instead, I'm going to take a tea break, maybe investigate why the power keeps shutting off, and then return here to write something interesting and more closely related to the present.

A long overdue review (Part I)

It's been almost a month since my last post, and I can't believe how time has flown by. Since that last post, much has happened, the highlights of which I will now recount. Without cheating and reading the last post, I think I can remember that it was a failed attempt to convey some wonder of my short vacation in Romania. Let's start again, shall we?

Vacation started on December 25, just in time to enjoy what Moldovans refer to as 'new calendar Christmas' -- the celebration of a certain savior's birth according to the Gregorian calendar, as distinguished from the slightly later celebration of the same event according to the Julian calendar (the 'old calendar Christmas'). For Moldovans, this wasn't much a problem. Most Moldovans celebrate Christmas according to both calendars, but the celebration is drastically different. Imagine a Christmas without all the wild consumerism, without the spiked eggnog, and without highly-decorated fire hazards in the central room of every house in the neighborhood. That's Moldovan Christmas, as far as I can tell. I wasn't in attendance at any Christmas parties or family celebration, but I got the sense that it is considered primarily a religious holiday here. Imagine that. There were concerts in Chisinau and enormous Christmas trees in city centers everywhere, and the street decor was impressive (although almost impossible to capture on camera without getting hit by passing buses and such). But whatever flare and craze we Americans exhibit during the Christmas season, Moldovans seem to save that for bringing in the New Year -- which is good, because they do it twice (new calendar, old calendar).

I know many Americans were put off by the inception date of vacation, as it ruined many a plan to spend Christmas somewhere outside of Moldova. I, on the other hand, enjoyed staying at home and calling my family to wish them a merry one, half a world away. Christmas is a good time in my family, but not being huge consumers or extremely religious, it is mostly just an opportunity to huddle together, drink hot spiced cider, admire the fire hazard in the sitting room, and sing traditional 'American' carols (many of which actually come from Eastern Europe). I spent a few days in Chisinau with somebody special, and then boarded a train bound, eventually, for Romania.

My first impressions of Romania included smooth roads, relatively spacious country-side, and cities apparently governed by the somewhat more noticeable presence of coherent building codes and urban planning. Romania is part of the European Union, so their relative financial stability and development (compared with those of Moldova) probably account for most of these first impressions. However, it is important to point out that my vacation did not wander beyond the borders of Moldova. Let me explain. In medieval times, Moldavia was a relatively small territory that I don't quite have the right word for. Principality, maybe? As with the Romans, traditional Moldovan culture abhorred mention of a 'king' and therefore referred to their medieval heads of state as what English-speaking people would call 'rulers' or 'lords'. Thus, it couldn't have been a kingdom. Wikipedia says 'Principality', so let's go with that. Moldavia no longer exists. Most of the eastern half is where I live (the Republic of Moldova); regions in the north and south belong to the Ukraine; and most of the western half served as the host to my Romania vacation. My vacation party consisted of me and four of my friendly Peace Corps colleagues.

First stop was in Suceava, a large town and raion (district) center in Northeast Romania. The town is absolutely gorgeous and absolutely worth the trip. Lacking excessive industrial build-up, Suceava instead enjoys aesthetic and historical plenitude. As is common in this region of the world, the raion center is surrounded by several handfuls of small villages, monasteries, and more farmland or empty terrain than you can shake a stick at. One of the stunning sites we visited is the Voroneţ monastery, considered by many to be the little-known treasure of this part of the world. The church at the Voroneţ monastery was constructed in the 15th century by none other than Stefan cel Mare (Stephan the Great, the single most important figure in Moldovan history), and is remarkable for its detailed frescoes covering not only the walls and ceiling of the interior, but also the entire exterior.

Following the visit to Voroneţ, my colleagues and I stopped at the remains of the Citadel of Suceava, where Stefan cel Mare and his peers sat on the throne overlooking their beloved Moldova. This was my first visit to an actual castle of the non-sand variety. Much of the castle was destroyed, and while I haven't done my research to find out how, I would guess it had something to do with the Ottoman Turks. Still, much of the castle remains, including what I think was the sanctuary of the chapel, which catches the light of the setting Sun in a most striking and indescribable way. My post-castle sentiment was one of wonder that we, with all our modern technology and materials, build our structures today to last 40 or 50 years. The Suceava citadel would still be standing today (and probably in pretty damn good condition) had the Turks not torn it down.

Visiting Suceava in the Winter was beautiful, but I would love to return when the vast tracts of land are covered in various shades of life and the people can frolic around without the burden of heavy coats and perilous sheets of ice.

Next came Iaşi, a large municipality that served as a more modern capital for the region before it was unified with Wallacia and Transylvania to form what we now know as Romania. While Iaşi is certain no London or Moscow in size, it still has the feel of age and regality, as well as that of practicality and industry. My stay in Iaşi was, perhaps, tainted by two unfortunate facts: our hotel was woefully suburban, meaning long and expensive taxi-rides to get anywhere interesting; and I was there for New Year celebrations and the days following, in which the entire city was virtually out-of-order. However, these two misfortunes did not stop my travel-buddies and I from enjoying the exterior visual pleasures of the city. The Church of the Three Hierarchs and the Metropolitan Cathedral of Moldova were absolutely unparalleled by any other religious structures I have yet seen (but I've also never been to Paris, for that matter). The Palace of Culture certainly demanded an hour-long photo shoot, despite the fact that the inside was closed.

One aspect of Iaşi that we Peace Corps Moldova volunteers celebrate is its Pizza Hut. I don't much care for Pizza Hut in the States, due to the poor quality of food and suspect service. However, the Pizza Hut in Iaşi was truly as close as any fast-food establishment can possibly come to being gourmet. From beautiful ambiance to friendly, sit-down service to wine recommendations on the pizza menu -- this must have been the king of all Pizza Huts.

With that, I'll take a short break, and pick up the review with my post-Romania adventures. Look for the follow-up (Part II) to this post in the next few days. It's a busy week for me, but I'll make sure to squeeze in some blog time, somewhere.