A Weekend in Kishkaren

Last weekend, my Moldovan friend Alina invited me to her parent's home in the nearby village of Kishkaren to celebrate Old Christmas (January 7th, as it is determined based on the Eastern Orthodox calendar). I was nervous about spending the weekend with strangers, not to mention strangers who speak Ukrainian (in print it's really close to Russian, but spoken the accent is quite a bit different) but decided I'd be crazy not to go.

We took a marshrootka south from Balti until we reached the road that heads west to Kishkaren and several other villages, standing at the snowy roadside waiting for one of the buses that ambles back and forth a few times a day. On the bus Alina pointed out the window to the rolling hills outside, white and clean, with clusters of homes and trees here and there. I tried to focus on this each time the bus slid on the road, wincing and crossing my fingers that we wouldn't tumble down the embankments on either side of the road to our icy deaths. I think I was more bothered at the prospect of the "cold" part than the "death".

At last we reached Kishkaren, or rather the long icy road that leads into it. A few boys were iceskating to our left on the frozen creek running parallel to the road, and beyond them at the top of a hill stood a beautiful gold-topped church. Groups of geese and then turkeys crossed our path as we made our way along the icy ruts of the road.

At her parent's home we sat on a folded-out couch (also her parents' bed, come nighttime) with our backs against the thick tiled wall that divided the living room and kitchen and enclosed the coba. Cobas are a type of wood stove that is many traditional Moldovan homes' source of heat. I was thrilled to discover they have a little gray kitten, and for most of the weekend you could find me leaning against the coba playing with that purring ball of fur. This was only encouraged by Alina's mom's constant delivery of new snacks, like a steaming plate of freshly baked sweet biscuits, tea, or compote. (Here 'compote' refers to a drink, preserved in the summer and fall by pouring hot water and sugar over cherries, apricots or other fruits. I have come to love a good cup of this fruity sugar water with fruit in the bottom.)

Christmas dinner was an elaborate affair, involving the dishes I have grown accustomed to as Moldovan special occasion food ("salad Olivia", which is a whole lot like American potato salad; another mayonnaise-heavy salad of canned corn, imitation crab and diced hard-boiled eggs; and then my despised holodets, a sort of meat jello) as well as duck, rabbit and stacks of thick homebaked bread. I talked with Alina's dad about his time in Portugal (a popular country for Moldovan men to go to in search of construction or other work) and did my best to stay strong in face of the constant directive, "Beree! Kooshai!" (Take, eat!) 'Thank you, but I'm full' proved ineffective. "Alina, Bridgett's shy, here, give her some bread."

That night Alina and I walked down the road to meet her friends, a group of 20-something guys she's known forever. I was surprised by how bright it can be at night in the middle of nowhere when there is snow and a full moon. Introductions were made and, after puffing in the cold a few minutes, it was decided we'd head inside to one of the guys' houses. He also had a coba, the type of which I'd previously only heard of. This type, instead of being built into a wall, is built in the center of the room with a large waist-high platform adjoining it, on top of which is a bed. As we sat on this oven bed and drank apricot compote, and I found myself thinking what a wholesome evening it was, and how content I was. They were patient as I stumbled my way through answering their questions about what I think of Moldova, why or how I chose to come here, what kind of car I had in America, and what the current AC/DC track was saying. A couple of the guys sat playing Pac Man on an ancient computer and then, presumably for my benefit, popped in a tape of American songs recorded off one of their radio stations, Ruskoya Radio. I attempted to translate "my humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps," and thanks to me, six Moldovans now know what "ice" means. (Diamonds, by the way.)

Then next night the lot of us crammed into two cars to drive to the local disco, which was an old movie theater turned into a dancehall for young people. (A drive this time accompanied by visions of us sliding off the road to land on that frozen creek, then crash through the ice, again to our cold, cold deaths.) I have never worn so much clothing to go dancing in my life. Alina seemed nervous to have me there, making little jokes about how they're disco wasn't very good, not like the ones I'd probably been to, but I was thrilled for a chance to dance, at least as soon as I could feel my feet again.

There are a handful of American songs that are extremely popular in Moldova, all of which were played. The beginning beat of "Candy Shop", "Yeah", and "My humps" were all met with shouts of excitement, though I was the only person singing along, and also the only one who knew how naughty they all are.
"Hey Alina, do you understand this?" By the time Candy Shop played for the second time, I was feeling mischievious.
"No, what are they saying?"
"It's a dirty song. All about sex."
"No!" She ran off to tell her friends. Guess that's why dance troupes of little girls perform to 50 Cent here.

Adding to the feeling of wholesome goodness and/or a trip back in time, I was twice asked to slow dance by one of Alina's friends. I had noticed him the night before -- sweet boy, cute, beautiful eyes -- so I was happy. We danced in that, well, old people way, hands together and held out with the others on shoulder and waist respectively. It was nice. Thoughts of Erin's 'hand-holding revolution' come to mind as a write this. I just wish I could remember his name...with all the Sashas, Pashas, Kolyas and Valodias, I get really confused.

That night, after I pulled on the long, lace-collared nightgown I'd been given to wear, Alina and I climbed into bed under fifty pounds of blankets. "So, what do you think of my friends? Did you like any of them? That guy you danced with, maybe...?" The prospect of dating someone who's language I barely speak, not to mention cultural and other issues, is really weird to me, but...well, I'm looking forward to picnics with Alina and her friends in the countryside this spring and summer.
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