Changes

Wow, it has been a very long time since I last posted here. The first semester of my final school year in Moldova has flown by, and I'm already well into the second. For the most part, my work at the school has leveled out to the point where I spend most of each class either observing, correcting essays, or helping students on a one-on-one basis. I have also spent a considerable amount of time developing a collection of English language tips for native Romanian speakers, which I am now beginning to make available online (link to come soon).

By the end of last Summer, I had effectively cleared the hurdle. The hurdle. All of my time since has been spent well and with the confidence that I am gaining a truly valuable experience. I have come to accept certain truths about Moldova, as well as about the nature of Peace Corps in Moldova, and this acceptance has led to a much more satisfying experience for me. It's no longer about changing the world (or Moldova); opening one pair of eyes at a time is just as good. Success can be as seemingly trivial as finally convincing one high school student that allowing their friend to copy off of their paper is ultimately going to hurt both of them.

Much of what was unclear for me, as of the writing of my last post on this blog, has become much more clear. I have been honored to spend my time with a remarkable Moldovan woman who never ceases to amaze me, and I have never been more satisfied in a relationship. I have set my sights on a couple MBA programs, taken the GMAT, and have an interview with my first pick school (Bentley University, near Boston, MA) in a couple days. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Thanks to all of you who have made efforts to keep in touch with me during my service in Moldova. It makes a huge difference to me to receive little messages from home from time to time, even if it's just a little thumbs up on Facebook.

Sper să ne mai vedem pe curând.

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.

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.

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.

Thanksgiving in Non-USA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On height and width

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

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

Moving on...

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

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

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

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

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

On Potatoes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pain in my... back

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

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

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

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

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

And so the experience continues...

Manufactured Clouds

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


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

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

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

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

Adjustments

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

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

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

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