Look, she can talk!

What to write in 19 minutes? I'm trying to stay away from the internet cafe in order to focus more on immersing and learning the language and all that, but at the same time since I can't afford to call home (50 cents a minute, versus only 50 cents an hour for internet) this is one little thing I can do to feel connected to everyone.

This week I'm feeling a lot better about my Russian. Last night I felt like I had my first real conversation with my host mom. I'd been feeling bad about the one-sided nature of all interactions, but it's hard when I understand so much more than I can say, and I do secretly think people enjoy the sort of wonder therapist a virtually-silent foreigner makes. Nod smile nod smile...and how does that make you feel?

We discussed the experience of immigrants in the US, the types of jobs they often hold, and also parenting practices. Every day I see or hear things that have my inner voice saying, But my way is the right way!, and though I consider myself an open-minded person not afraid to analyze or criticize my own culture, my host mom's outsider's perspective was one I'd never considered. To her it seems cruel that parents would have children leave the home to fend for themselves at only 18.

"But Bridgett, they're still children! They're like little kittens, their eyes aren't even open yet!"

My explanation that parents don't do it to be cruel, nor do children interpret it that way, but rather it is to foster success and independence. She thought that was, in short, a bunch of crap. "How could I enjoy my dinner here at home, knowing my child is living alone somewhere surviving on bread and water?" I considered mentioning the fine dishes college students have invented using only ramen, but that seemed to only prove her point.

In a lot of ways life here is a lot like back home, yet in other ways (i.e. beliefs, values, habits, food) it can be so different. Ah, food. Always interesting. I pretty much like everything put in front of me, which makes my host mom here happy. We eat brinza, a salty sheep's milk cheese, crumbled on pasta, or we have chicken soup with sour cream stirred in (try it, it's excellent). Apple, cabbage or potato-filled pastries called platsinta are also a frequent fixture and sold everywhere as a sort of national fast food.

The produce here is amazing because it's all so fresh, and most homes have a small garden where cabbage, onions, carrots, beets and other vegetables are grown, along with a few cherry or apricot trees. Nearly every home has a grape arbor, where they grow grapes both for eating and for making wine. People are very self-sufficient, lending some credence to my joke before leaving that I was going to live in the midwest in the 1940s -- much of life here sounds like that my grandparents described to me when they were growing up.

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Moldovan hospitality is something you'll read about in the all the PC materials on the country, and in travel books as well. The other day I was walking around town, completing a "community mapping" assignment we have to do as part of our training, and came upon a group of guys working outside. We ended up talking -- guess foreigners drawing maps are pretty conspicuous -- and then the senior of the bunch called out his English-speaking teenage daughter to translate. Despite many of my answers being pitifully unsatisfactory ("Who's Moldova's president?" "Uh..." "You Americans don't even know our president's name, yet you come here and start messing around with things! Bah!") he still invited me in for tea.

Another day as I approached our gate, the next-door neighbors called me over to their yard where they were grilling shashlik. The father of the family is an incredibly jolly and friendly guy, and his urging to have a bit of meat and wine were hard to resist. Still, I wasn't sure it was a good idea, and hemmed and hawed at the door. Cue appearance of translator daughter!
"Please, you must join us, we are celebrating my mother's birthday!" Well, if you insist.

People are interested, as one might expect, in hearing what we volunteers are doing here, not that I really know myself at this point. They also love asking questions about life in America, from the general ("So, which country do you like better?") to the blunt ("How much does your dad make a year?"). I've met so many friendly and fun people and everyone has been patient with my struggling language, often giving me a "Molodets!" or "Bravo!" for saying one little thing correctly.

Oh! The local kids. Periodically our village's group of volunteers will meet with the volunteers from other villages at a central school where we then attend meetings and trainings. The other day as we sat outside eating the lunches our host moms had packed us, a bunch of 8-year-old students crowded around us, just giggling really. One volunteer, Ari, handed out stickers, and then I led a round of the Hokey Pokey. Huge hit. It went so well, in fact, that after consulting with one of the kids onhow to say "duck" and "goose" a couple of the guys and I led them in that game as well. Hooray, we had now established ourselves as the COOLEST ADULTS EVER! It made me wish for the millionth time that there were such a thing as recess for grownups.