You know you're in Moldova when:

1) You've begun using piles of cow poop, differing in size and gusto, as mile markers on your running trail.

2) There are 8X the number of host animals in your family than host humans.

3) [After being instructed that when in the outhouse and on your period, the only safe place to store a tampon before you need it is in your clevage,] You've never wanted clevage more.

4) The Romanian for: "No, I'm not running after anything, I just enjoy running," is more commonly used than: "I don't speak Russian."

5) In an attempt to take money out of the bank in your village (I knew I was too lucky to have one,) the teller assumes you are trying to buy a cow, and then you learn that you can't actually access money there, you can only buy animals.

6) Mud is the most pressing threat to your security and livelihood.

Furthermore,

7) Your purse is curiously heavy, not because you couldn't decide which book to bring so you brought all four, but because you're now accustomed to carrying around slabs of broken brick, so when you confront a lake of mud, you can throw down the bricks and create a walking path.

8) The directions to your house are as follows: Take the paved road past the three muddiest roads in the village and make a left. You will pass a senile looking cow on your right, and on the left will be three houses, all with smurf-blue gates. Mine is the fourth smurf-blue gate.

9) When someone tells you, in English, to Shut Up!, it's because they want to show off the one English phrase they know, not because they actually want you to shut up, and certainly not because they know what it means.

10) The Romanian phrase for 'Can I take a shower,' [spelled phonetically] is 'Pot se Fahk Douche.' Thus, among RomAnglish speaking Peace Corps volunteers, you're likely to hear--Sure, I'll meet you at the bar, just as soon as I fahk a douche. (We'll never get over that one.)

11) You can now relate with Bill Murray in Lost in Translation for more reasons than a shared desire to grab Scarlett Johanson's ass.

Ovary Ice-Cream

I apologize for being so caught up with that fly in my room that I failed to give any kind of real update on my life.

I just got out of the celebration for Moldovan Independence. There were speeches about war, much crying and singing. The mayor made me give a speech. It was intense. To finish it off, the VIPs of the village, 5 people, me included, went into the bowels of the mayor's offfice together--to pound vodka shots. Aparently this is how they celebrate. I stood my ground with one shot for a while, until I just couldn't do it any longer. So I'm a little drunk, forgive me. Ps--halfway through the debauchery, I was given a hairbrush from the mayor. He took it out of his desk, traces of his grey hairs more than present, and gave it to me, with one word: Gift. I tried to say I had a hair brush, even tried to say it isn't good to brush curly hair. But one of the VIPs looked at me and sternly instructed--just take it. And then they had a twenty minute conversation about which Moldovan in the village I should marry.

Have I talked about curent? I think I have. The latest curent story comes from my partner teacher, who told me that while her family was doing repairs on her apartment, one of the windows they were fixing had to be left open....at the time time as one of the doors...which equals the magical phenomenon of curent. We know it as a draft. We also know it as a good thing. A gift in times of sticky heat.

But the Moldovans think it kills. The curent in her apartment that day, however, was not of the killing kind, but it did "knock her daughter down" (her daugher is 20) "stole her breath, caused bruises up and down her spine, and all over her arms." This is draft we're talking about. And no, the draft isn't different in Moldova, nor is it the Romanian nickname for a large man. I always want to explain to Moldovan curent-believers what it's like to walk down 5th Avenue when it's windy outside. If I survived that surely I could survive an open window in my classroom when it's 105 degrees outside, 120 inside.

As if it wasn't hard enough for me to maintain the integrity of my serious-concerned face during that conversation, the next day I just gave in to the laughter. I was told that her husband is now sick because he placed both hands on his daughter's shoulders as to pull the curent out of her and into his body. He's now sick in bed with a fever. [Please note this part of the story is no doubt sensationalized by my poor Romanian comprehension skills.]

What else? I fell in love with Soroca this weekend. It was a good thing to happen this early on. I went to the Nistru River, where I spent the whole day, staring at the Ukraine on the other side, wondering pensively if the cows over there have more fun grazing than the cows on my side. I sat with a silence no New Yorker could ever know. What I'm getting at is that it really is a beautiful place, certainly the kind of place I could spend two years in. Check back with me when winter begins, which I've heard could really be any time now.

I was caught doing yoga the other day, by my host sister Lenuta, who proceeded to bring me into the kitchen where I was told I'd have more space. So there I was, in the middle of the kitchen, demonstrating Warrior II to this 16 year old Moldovan, when a team of neighbors who I'd never met walked in. Good first impression for the American they already think is strange because she does this weird thing in the mornings, she's always, what is it--running? At least I got to meet them when I was emulting a warrior, right?

I tried desparately to explain the importance of yoga as a mental exercise, but all Lenuta wanted to know was how to change it up to make it a weight loss exercise. Se began jumping up and down, contorting herself in ways I knew would hurt my Gumby doll. And then I realized once again, the limiations of my language thus far. I had no vocabulary what-so-ever to tell her how to be careful and slow. I mean, I can literally saw be careful, be slow, but what does that really mean to her? Nothing. I kept yelling "Cu Grija. Cu mai mult Grija!" [With care, with more care!] We had to stop.

And once again my ovaries froze three times this week. Oops, four. I ran in the rain, sat on the floor outside, carried a backpack, and...I drank cold water. Yup. I drank water I had intentionally left in the fridge, for the exact purpose of consuming cold water. Ovary ice-cream, anyone? Ice ream is just fine. Cold water isn't. I'll explain that one a little later.

Love to all. Thanks so much for all the letters, I really appreciate the time, and then the patience and faith in the mail system that it takes to get one here.

Lord of the Flies

I'm about to go on talking about the flies here, so consider this a warning.

Like outhouses, flies are not all created equal.

The fly had been buzzing circles around my head for ten minutes while I read, occasionally darting in random horizontal lines between my face and my book. I'd seen my mama gazda grab the flies in her kitchen with two fingers, something I know would not be possible in my apartment in Brooklyn--flies are just a bit more speedy in America, and perhaps a bit less haughty--I never knew what it felt like to have a fly land on my forehead before I came here. As I read, I sang Tori Amos just loud enough to drown the buzzing out of my thoughts. A I reached the same high note that I could never hit, I noticed the buzzing was now centralized, and frighteningly close to my right ear. Under the windowsill I saw the fligh, stationary, but not not because it had landed purposely or safely. It had gotten itself caught in a spider web, where a small and delicate spider stood, pausing from her work, to contemplate the intruder. The fly looked a though it was suspended in air, but both the spider and I knew Mr. Fly was stuck. Its legs and arms were moving frantically, as the buzzing became a consistent roar. No high notes, no low notes or lulls--a straight buzz, like an electric razor. I stared for a moment, assuming the fly's fervor would tear the web, freeing it to continue its circle game around my head. My eyes focused on my book once again, but only for the three seconds it took my to remember the fly. I now began to feel bad for it, as it tried to fidget its way free. Mama spider watched with the same amazement as my own, and I assumed she wanted this stranger out of her home before any of her babies arrived. And then the roles changed. The spider was no longer the victim of a break-in. She crawled right up to the fly and began batting at it, back and forth, alternating one strike for every leg. This lasted long enough for me to realize that she wasn't trying to free him, she was encasing him in the center of her home. The buzzing faded and the fly became successively lighter shades of gray, as she wrapped it, rapidly, ten, twenty times over. The fly lost--he was now a mere wall hanging in the house of this spider--I thought of my 7th grade subsititue homeroom teacher's amber ring--she wore it on her middle finger--with a fly mercilessly in the center.
Minutes later, I was curious about the spider's afterlife. In the exact same spot under the windowsill, I stared for a long time before I realized what was happening. The spider had gripped my fly firmly between her eight feet. She was squeezing as tightly as I imagined Matsui held his bat, enough to keep the fly in place, while allowing a bit of flexibility from her core. Her belly was pulsating as though she was making love to this dead fly. As the seconds past the fly became smaller and smaller, while the spider's belly became bright red. She was viciously eating the fly. Wings first. Despite how much it pissed me off earlier that day, I now felt immensely sad for the deceased.
Perhaps my fly story should serve as an idication that I don't have many others. I wanted to post to show life, now that I've moved to Rublenita, far, far from other Americans.
The day before I was about to leave, I found out the family I chose to live with decided to move it Italy. Thus my parnter teacher in all her glory, decided for me that I'd live with a different family in the village--a family I'd visited but hadn't had the chance to meet the parents. Moving day was a bit scary but it turned out just fine--my host dad is incredibly lax and goes out of his way all the time to make my life easier. My host sister was excited to tell me that she hadn't eaten anything in three days, save for a handful of grapes, because she wants to be the skinniest girl in her school. I new I had to jump on this though my Romanian skills wouldn't do the subject justice, but this didn't stop me from finding myself in a conversation about Type A personalities. I apologize to all the psychotherapists in the world, for my romanian created strong barriers in explanation.
For dinner the first night, my family put a plate of tomatoes in front of me, as they attacked thier chicken-jelly. No, you don't know what chicken jelly is because they don't have it in the states, or anywhere other than Moldova, I imagine. I had to explain that vegetarian doesn't mean six tomatoes for dinner. I cooked myself some buckwheat and they were glowing with happiness to see that I actually eat food.
I suppose that's it for now. I won't ramble on about flies anymore. I've been meeting with my parnter teacher to make our long term plan for the semester, fighting daily with her because she wants to have three lessons on communication and zero on nutrition. Apparently communication is more of a pressing issue? Did I understand her corrently?

Love.

There ain't nobody here but us chickens

Loves,

So sorry it's been so long--we had practice school for the past ten days and it's been out of control intense. I'll write more about that after I explain the chickens lyric.

After dinner the other night, on the way to the outhouse, I saw my host mom, standing in the middle of her farm, blood dripping from her elbows and gathering in bracelets around her wrists. I ran towards her frantically asking what happened, as she, almost singing to me, explained--this is the work of men, I'm sorry you have to see this, this isn't work for women. I looked down at her ankles, both covered in blood. And then it hit me, that she has literally one moment ago slaughtered a chicken, whose head was besides a bucket with it's upside-down body. My host brother came to pluck the feathers out, and gave them one by one, like little candies, to all of the animals. I immediately started crying, not being able to control it, but then felt intensely culturally insensitive, so I proceeded, throught my tears and in Romanian to ask questiosn--So, tatiana (I said with my neck craned as to not see the feather-fest in front of me), what will you do with the head of the chicken? Do you eat all of the organs? Are you going to cook it tonight, or tomorrow? And then, still crying and still feeling horrible that I couldn't stop crying about somethign so normal in her life, I actually asked her--

--will you need help cooking the chicken?

What was I thinking? I had to chop chicken that night, and the family ate it for the next four days. In the morning after the occurence, I found the neighborhood cat bouncing the dead chicken's beak between its two front paws, as it stood on the two back paws. That night I buried the beak, as the children's song--there ain't nobody here but us chicken--vibrated through my thoughts.

I've spoken about about the sunflower fields. They are getting larger and more yellow as the days pass. But don't get too excited, because you can't frolic in them. Why, you ask? Because there's no word for frolicing in Romanian. Thus, when I asked my language teacher about the translation of frolic, in his this Romanian accent he replied: We do not do this here.

However, what you can do, is pull a chicken of sleep. What does that mean? It means to take a nap. When I want to nap, I have to literally say to my host mother, that I am going to pull a chicken of sleep. Similar to cat nap but funnier.

So, practice school. A huge part of our job here is not just to work in schools and educate students, it's also to work with Moldovan partner teachers to teach alternative teaching styles. For example, during soviet times in Moldova (until 1991) there was a very specific way to teach--in front of the class, lecturing for 45 minutes with very little activity for the students. I've been told that this has taught students to memorize exact definitions from textbooks, in order to spit it back to the their teachers when asked, but has failed to challenge them to think much deeper than that. Which is why the Ministry of Education asked the Peace Corps to come in and work with teachers. The teachers want to learn more but obviously don't have the time or money to attend trainings. So we do it together. We demonstrate how doing a role play or writing a short story can be a way of learning. We talk about different learning styles, etc.

Practice school is the first time we teach in Romanian, with our partner teachers, who are Moldovan host country nationals. Most of them sought out volunteers, so are pretty excited to teach together. But it's pretty intense, I imagine, for someone who's been teaching a certain way for 20 years then have this young american counterpart to co-teach with. But they were incredibly receptive and patient with us. And I got to prove to my partner teacher that I could teach a class for 45 minutes in Romanian, which she didn't really believe I'd be able to do. So kids from Mitoc, my village until Aug 17, came to school for a week to learn about health. It was pretty cool. We had 12 year olds taking about gender roles and non violence. And for some reason, they take what we say pretty seriously--it's the mystery of knowledge that comes from americans I suppose.

I signed my name 120 times that week. Why do they want my signature? I have no idea. We also had someone stand up in front of the class, and in efforts to say that she was excited for class that day, explained that she was in fact aroused for class. I heard a story of someone yelling "die, die die," to his students, "why aren't you dying??" He meant to ask why there weren't drawing. It's hard to teach in another language. The slightest intonation difference can change the entire meaning.

This week we are holding a seminar about AIDS/HIV and TB in Mitoc, for the parents, with our medical partners from our future sites. Thus, the midwive from Soroca came down, and we'll lead the session on Wednesday. On the 17th I move to Soroca, where I just realized, I'll live for two years--the longest I've lived anywhere since high school.

That's all for now. Sorry it took so long to post. If you're planning on visiting me, remember, there will be no frolicing.

Love.