Moldova

Given what little we knew about Moldova's past and present, it is fair to say that we approached our visit with some trepidation. In the early 1900’s, Russian-led pogroms targeted Jewish communities throughout Bessarabia (the Moldovan territory west of the Dniestr River), prompting Jewish families to flee to Europe or to the Americas. Lesley’s Zaida was from Bessarabia, and left for Canada when he was a young teenager. Little is known about his childhood. All we know is of a village or shtetl called Sucaron and that he took a ship from Hamburg, perhaps with a cousin, perhaps with some of his brothers and sisters, sometime in the early 1920’s. His parents died when he was young—his mother of influenza in Bessarabia, and his father in Brazil where he was exploring moving the family given the Anti-Semitic climate at home. Zaida never spoke of Bessarabia; Lesley’s Bubby and father could not believe why she would want to visit.

Current Moldovan events continue to be grim---after years of occupation by Russia (and Romania before) and an ugly civil war in1991 after the breakup of the Moldovan S.S.R., the news typically focuses on the drug and arms trade and human trafficking of young women. In looking up the train schedules to Moldova on a travel website, we came across a bleak statistic in a blog entry about the high percentage of young women missing from rural villages. We also read that the mafia presence looms large, as seen by the large new BMW’s and Mercedes cruising around Chisinau. An old guidebook warned you to carry your passport at all times, as not having it on you could warrant a steep fine from the police (though there is technically no law prohibiting this).

It should also be noted that though there is little tourism in Moldova, the few pages in our guidebook spoke of lively people and bucolic fields of sunflowers and wine grapes.

This is the context in which we boarded a train from Kiev to Moldova’s capital city, Chisinau. We both believed that as part of the purpose of this journey, Moldova was an essential place to visit. As you will learn, our time there proved to be very special—we experienced the beauty of a fertile countryside, the most delicious apples we’ve had outside of Washington, and warm, welcoming people who made our visit truly memorable.

Three Moldovan muses: Larisa
At 8:30am Wednesday morning we boarded a15-hour train to Chisinau. The train had traveled from Moscow throughout the night before, and our car was bustling with these passengers waking up and new passengers settling in. The train car was massive, with couchettes to accommodate four sleeping passengers in two double bunks, and two more passengers in one double bunk across the aisle. During the day the upper bunks were folded away and the lower bunks were used as seats. Across from us was a petite, middle-aged red-headed woman who was busily tucking in above and below the seats far more bags than she could carry. We soon learned from watching her that one purchased sheets and towels for the journey from the car steward. We made our bed and tucked ourselves in for a nap to begin the long ride.

We were shortly after woken up by a smiling young man touching Joe’s beard (!). If this were to happen on a train in the States, you might freak out. In this case there was an obvious harmlessness to this situation, and even though we could not communicate with language, it was clear that it was a friendly gesture, if a bit bizarre. Our seatmate soon explained that the young man was very happy (and a bit drunk) because he was returning home to Moldova after working in Moscow, and that his beard-stroking was typical Moldovani. By explained, we mean that through hand gestures and a mix of German, Moldovan and Russian, we learned Valentin’s story. And this is how we met our first muse, Larisa.

The rest of our train ride was spent getting to know each other through stories, photos and food, lots of picture drawing, and some back and forth with our little phrasebook. We soon learned that Moldovan and Romanian are very similar languages (according to some Moldovans, they are the same language; to others, the distinction is important for their national identity). Vasil (another man on leave from working in Moscow and returning to his family) and Larisa helped us put together a little dictionary of key Moldovan words and phrases, from dedushka (grandfather) to svadba (wedding). As we went through the phrases, we were reminded that Romanian is a Roman language, and therefore, similar to Italian. Suddenly we knew some Molodvan, like buna siera (good evening) and come ti chiame (what is your name?). Woo hoo! We knew there was a reason we learned Italian (besides Italy and all its bounty, of course). We also learned that Larisa and her beloved Deema (who she spoke of throughout the trip, giddily, excited to see him) had been together the same amount of time as we have (16 years). Larisa’s many bags were full of family treasures that she generously shared: carvings off a 3-foot long piece of smoked sturgeon, homemade strawberry compote, preserved lemon jellies.

Heading south, we passed through many small stations (here’s one in the Ukraine).

Shortly before crossing into Moldova.

In between getting to know each other, we relaxed with crosswords and writing.

Who doesn’t get a kick out of seeing the front of a train round the bend?

At the Ukraine-Moldova border. Crossing into Moldova in the late afternoon quiet, Lesley was struck by the emotion of the moment, of returning to the country of her grandfather. Without warning, tears well up at times like these--the sense of place is unexpected and beautiful.









Our first Moldovan video (note Joe’s comprehension of Russian and Moldovan).


Pulling away from the border, through Moldovan countryside. The radio that you hear was playing for the entire journey. It was surprisingly quite nice, providing an appropriate soundtrack.

Throughout the train journey, people roam the aisles selling beer, phone cards, battery-operated toys, Christian amulets, and magazines. The woman selling the latter dumps a stack on your table, gives you a few minutes to peruse, you take what you want from the pile or leave them be, then she comes back and takes them away to dump them on the table next to you. In the late afternoon/early evening, bubushkas sell local grapes, grape juice, and apples from their villages, and plates of food at dinnertime. At one stop, Larissa jumped up and ran excitedly off the train, returning with a bag of small crayfish (raki). We had learned this word earlier in the day during one of our many food discussions. The raki had been boiled in a light herb broth and were salty and sweet. We also enjoyed the local grapes—wine grapes with thick skins and seeds that you sucked the juice from. Washed down with pivo (beer), delicious.












When we got to Chisinau at 11:30pm, we were full and happy. Larissa’s kindness continued as she and her husband (a taxi driver) gave us a ride to the apartment that we rented nearby. It was only a 5 minute walk from the station but arriving at night to an unfamiliar city with swarms of taxi drivers and a dark, concrete apartment building with no clear entrance…it was a blessing. We hugged and kissed and she left us with her number should we need anything.

Thinking back, it’s kind of amazing we chatted for hours without sharing a common language other then food, family, beer, travel, love, cats, and friendship. We fell asleep grinning.