Chisinau

We decided to head to Chisinau the next day. We took the early morning train to Iasi. Since our host miscalculated the departure time, we had no time to buy tickets. We hopped on the train and I went off in search of a ticket controller. He sold us the tickets at almost twice the current rate, the extra going straight into his pocket, we presumed.

The ride to Iasi was uneventful. After a while, the man sitting next to me tried to carry on a conversation. I like practicing Romanian, but not at 8 am. He told me he is a police officer in Timisoara and by all means was a very nice man. However, I just wanted to be left alone. He was insisting on making small talk, so I obliged. Jason’s mini dictionary came in handy several times.

When we got off the train in Iasi, a man immediately approached us and asked "Chisinau?" "Chisinau!" we replied in unison. He said he would charge us 300,000 lei each, an excellent price in my opinion. He led us over to an old Dacia (!) where a 35-something year old wanna-be cougar was leaning on the car in a tight skirt, leather jacket, bleached blond hair and a cigarette hanging out of her lips. In the back was a young Romanian girl. I had no idea how we would all fit inside. Luckily, the cougar soon left and Melissa and I squeezed on the back while Jason (all two metres of him) lounged in the front.

The drive to the border was uneventful. Andrea, the Romanian girl, was a sweetheart and we chatted the whole way. I was excited to see the border crossing. It was only thirty minutes outside Iasi.

Of course, we waited almost an hour. Finally, it was our turn. A gruff USSR-type woman asked if we had any "narcotics, weapons or money" to declare. "Nope, nope". Of course, they wanted to see our luggage, to which we obliged. Then we drove over a huge hole (ok, a 3 metre deep ditch-like orifice) in the ground filled with dirty oily water, potato chip bags, cigarette butts and who knows what else. Melissa explained that it was so that people could check under the car (probably for narcotics, weapons and money). I couldn’t imagine anyone crawling into that cesspool.

We three North Americans needed visas and were led into a typical grey, blocky ugly Communist building filled with endless corridors and closed doors. We went to the very end of the hall on the top floor to meet possibly the nicest woman in Moldova. She was smiling and jolly and spoke excellent French. We filled out our forms, handed over the $61 USD for visa costs and had the nice light blue visas stuck in our passports. I was jubilant, the others slightly less impressed.

We joined our driver outside for yet another round of inquisitions from the Moldovan side. Finally, we could also use the bathroom. Of course, it had to be a squatter, but after my recent trip to Turkey, I am now a pro and used it quickly and efficiently.

Coming over the border, I noticed an immediate different. Bucovina was rural in a quaint way. Moldova was rural in a poor way. As we drove along the main street, it felt to me like we were stepping back into time. We passed several horse-drawn carriages. Many of the houses were run-down. Village streets were dusty.

The drive was also beautiful. The road was lined on either side with trees, so you could imagine driving up the driveway to Tara or Twelve Oaks in Gone With the Wind. The hills were a bright green and hills gently rolled in the distance.

We passed several cities, which were as nameless and faceless as any city in the former USSR. Big high rises filled every corner, children played in the streets or rode their bicycles, there were trees (surprisingly) and everything shoved neatly under a steel-grey sky.

We could see Chisinau from a distance: big apartment buildings rose from the horizon. Inside the city, it was chaos. Our driver dropped us off in the middle of the market/local bus station. He bid us adieu and was off, probably to drive people back to Chisinau. Total travel time: just over three hours.

Lonely Planet describes the Chisinau market as something akin to Istanbul: people running by with carpets, old women spitting sunflower seeds on the ground and everyone haggling for the best price. Having come back from Turkey and Istanbul, it wasn’t like the Grand Bazaar, but it was interesting nonetheless.

Old women and men and young girls with bleached blond hair and dark roots were selling everything from lacy lingerie to knock-off brand sneakers to kitchen supplies, shower curtains and carpets. Nothing was worth buying. The ground was black with sunflower seeds. Everyone was eating them and old women were selling them every few metres: a shotglass-full for a Moldovan lei. We couldn’t look much as we had all of our luggage to take care of. We thought about taking a taxi but instead decided to walk.

Bad idea. Jason thought the apartment was close to downtown. It was…we just took the long way. We didn’t know if it was futile to even all go to the apartment, as we had no idea if there would be enough space for us all to stay.

We finally found the correct building. It was modern and bright. Jason was disappointed as he wanted a "true" Moldovan experience. He went into what he thought was the front door, but it turned out this was a door and window store. He walked around the building, until I suggested he go back into the store and try to call our host. He did.

Five minutes later, we were trudging up about six flights of stairs. Our host wasn’t there, but her friend was and said it would be no problem for Melissa and I to stay. Considering how we were each willing to pay 15 euros a night for two nights, and the average Moldovan salary is about 50-75 euros a month, none of us thought there would be a problem.

After we got settled in, we decided to head downtown and explore. And eat. And check our email. We settled on a café called "Orange". Our waiter was a riot and eager to practice his few words of English. He asked us about water. "With or without gas?" Then he asked if we wanted our food with or without gas as well. Jason and I got pasta while Melissa got what looked to be an absolutely delicious Margarita pizza. Since her food came first, Jason and I were teased by seeing this succulent pizza in front of us that we could not touch. Our waiter could not stop smiling and we left him an extra big tip.

We spent the next few hours wandering the streets of Chisinau. It really is a hip city. I felt at home immediately. It’s clean, well-laid out, full of trees and people are nicely dressed. Lonely Planet says this is probably the coziest of all former USSR cities, as it was completely rebuilt after being bombed in WWII.

We saw a particularly jolie-laide Orthodox church. As Melissa commented, "Only in Chisinau, could you see a church that can look pretty in orange and ‘hospital-gown green’". How true. We saw a tiny art market filled with local artists. Most of the paintings were indistinguishable from the art you see in park-markets back home, but I did see a lady selling an interesting variety of old Communist pins. I got myself a treasure trove of Moldovan flag pins, fiery Lenin heads, Lenin as a child, Communist hat pins and a Communist-logo children’s belt buckle for my friend Tim. Oh, and some old Rubles and a Communist medal for a veteran. I also got this kick-ass cow pin. The Moldovan coat of arms has a cow head on it. (Nelu told me that it’s a bull-head, but I know better. The symbology for cows is all over the shield. At the bottom are a flower and a moon. It’s a commonly known fact that all cows are named Daisy, and we all know the cow jumped over the moon. And cows give milk, and the moon is made of green cheese. Right?)
We went to the centre of town with the Triumph Arch, another Orthodox church and statues of Stefen Cel Mar, a 15th century war Romanian/Molovan war-leader. Two beggar children came up to us. "Daaaaaaaaa-mi baaaaaaaaani". We ignored them. They followed us. We walked faster. They left Jason alone because of his height. They looked at Melissa and she turned around and gave them a look of death. So I was their victim. I just walked faster and they followed me. "Daaaaaaaaa-mi baaaaaaaaani". Finally, I said that I didn’t have money, so the little kid grabbed my arm and pushed me. That did it. He broke the sacred law of beggar child and victim: no touching.

Officially, Moldova is a Romanian (or "Moldovan" as they like to call it) speaking country, however, they is a large Russian-speaking minority. I heard mostly Romanian on the street, but all the Romanians seemed to have knowledge of Russian. I asked Alex (see below) if it was the same for the Russians and he said no. Most Russian-speaking Moldovans don’t know any Romanian. One thing I noticed is that in Moldova, they stuck to the old ways of spelling things. In Romania, a and i with a circumflex are pronounced as the same letter, except that ǐ always starts a word and i is always found inside the word. Not so in Moldova. In Romania, bread is "paine". In Moldovan, it’s "piine".

My comprehension of Romania is pretty good but I had such a hard time understanding "Moldovan". Many speak with what seems to be a Russian accent or speak "Romanussian": a Russianised Romanian. I could only understand half of what one cab driver was telling me…until Melissa told me that the other half was Russian.

The funniest thing about Moldova is that everything begins with "Mold": MoldCom, MoldTel and, our favourite, MoldConBank.

Since it was getting dark, we went to check our mail. I went on IRC to brag about being in Moldova. I’ve been using IRC since 1997 and I’ve been in the same two channels since 1998. Everyone knows my penchant for traveling.

"Hey everyone, I’m in Moldova!!!" One of the guys whom I recognize, but rarely speak to, messaged me that he’s also in Chisinau, a fact I forgot. I asked if he wanted to come out with us. "I’m too old". "How old are you?" "24." "Me too". I finally coerced him into meeting with us that night. Melissa, Jason and I wanted to hang out with real Moldovans, and we told him we’d take him out. Alex said he didn’t have a cell phone, but gave us his home phone number instead.
When we got back to the apartment, we got our host to call him and confirm our plans: 11:30 at the Black Elephant, a rock/jazz/art club. He barely spoke English and no Romanian, but our host speaks perfect Russian, so all was good.

Melissa, Jason and I headed off in search of food. While I don’t recommend using Lonely Planet food guides, a Lebanese restaurant that was listed intrigued us. They also had nargile, which was enough for Jason. We found it easily and were surprised to see actual Lebanese there.
We ordered hummus, tabouli, grilled meats and falafel. All was delicious. Chickpeas are almost non-existent in Romania. Real hummus is akin to ambrosia and it was all I could do to prevent myself from licking the (communal) plate clean. Afterwards, we shared a nargile. Unlike Turkey, they don’t have coal-boys who go around replacing the coals, so our pipe quickly ran out. We decided it was time to head to the Black Elephant.

We found the street it was on: One of the major streets in Chisinau. None of the buildings had numbers on them. I saw some sparkling lights in the distance so I thought that must be the club. Nope, a bank. Nice way to advertise for a bank though! I asked directions from a fast food stand and they pointed me in the opposite direction. Ok…

After much crossing and uncrossing the street, we passed the 24 hour flower market, which was mentioned in LP. Great, we were on the right track. I’m used to 24 hour EVERYTHING after living in Timisoara, but Melissa and Jason were amused. Some of the stalls had people chatting to their friends, others had people fast asleep on cots. Finally, we spotted the entrance. We walked in, paid our cover fee and sat down.

A few minutes later, a young, shy-looking guy tapped me on the shoulder. "Karla?" "Alex?" He looked nothing like I pictured him to. He described himself online as a "metal-head", but this guy was clean-cut with blond hair, a slight goatee, an eyebrow piercing and a leather jacket.
We immediately started talking. I blabbered on about IRC, told him about the people I met, asked him questions, etc etc. His English was quite good but I could tell he was nervous about speaking. We discussed computers, viruses and security techniques. Suddenly, his pocket started ringing and he pulled out a cell phone. "Liar!" I cried, pointing my finger at him. "You said you didn’t have a cell phone!" Alex blushed. "I knew you had a cell phone! Everyone in Moldova has a cell phone!"

He went to the bathroom. Melissa, Jason and I started talking about our evening. Turns out they were having a bet on how old Alex was. Jason guessed 24, Melissa guessed 21. Since Jason was right, Melissa had to buy the next round. I told them what a nice guy he was, how he was easy to talk to, and how I was really enjoying our conversation.

Alex came back. He made a confession to me: he was not the Alex I had talked to that afternoon!

Turns out, the real Alex didn’t have enough money to go out, so he told his friend Alex to meet "a Canadian girl who’s interested in computer security". I was pissed at first, but then saw the humour in it, since we ended up buying fake-Alex all his alcohol. We had a great evening all talking. He was born in Moldova but moved to Siberia at a young child and only recently came back to Chisinau. He’s also 21, so technically Melissa won the bet. Melissa, Jason and I loved talking to him! However, we couldn’t stay as late as we wanted as we planned on going to Tiraspol the next day.