Day 7
Wednesday is a short day but more advanced students are in the mix. I think I’m understanding what is expected of me but I still need to slow down my speech and drop the slang. My very proper English ancestors would be pleased.
Because it was a short day I had more time to see the area in daylight.
The capital is pronounced keeshnow and the town is pronounced koshen. There is a subtle difference between the Romanian and Russian pronunciation but I could never remember it. I was told this is how one pronounces the little squiggles under the letters. If anyone cares there is 31 letters in the Moldovan alphabet.
Olga Gogu owns the apartment where Laramie and I are staying. One buys an apartment in Moldova similar to our condo arrangement. She lives there with her mother, who only speaks Russian and her 2 boys, aged 7 and 4. Olga’s English is basic. She has a live-in boyfriend and a continual parade of relatives visiting from Moscow or elsewhere. The apartment is very active. Olga is continually busy, always doing something with busy hands. Her mother has an early morning job (?maybe cleaning) and then returns home to mind the boys at 9 AM when Olga goes off to work at a restaurant. Then the mother helps with cooking and laundry.
The food is the same I have eaten over the years but here it is called something different. The national dish, served with every meal, is mamaliga which I call grits. They adorn it the same way with butter on top, or just plain, but I never saw anyone splash ketchup on it, nor did I see anyone mash sunny-side up eggs into it. Breakfast cereal I call oatmeal porridge. They do have what I would call sausages but mostly it refers to Oscar Meyer weiners. Yup, for any meal. Looks the same, tastes the same but is not served with relish nor mustard. The whole meal is washed down with homemade red wine. Most evenings are spent with a pleasant buzz.
It is fall here and the leaves are falling. Crews of women take short handled brooms and, as they stoop over, sweep the leaves with a sideways motion. A large farm wagon then picks up the piles of leaves and they disappear. It is the end of the season for what must be beautiful beds of roses scattered around the town.
The apartment buildings are Soviet styled and very practical with painted concrete hallways and steel doors to the apartments. But, no one does any maintenance on the buildings and they are disintegrating with spalling concrete, cracks in foundations and rather scary rewiring jobs. Lots of exposed, rusting steel rebar all over town. A lot of the exterior concrete is covered by tiles but they are peeling and nobody seems interested in fixing this. I do not understand the vacant lots nor the abandoned half-constructed buildings around town. Nobody can give me an explanation - it is just the way it is. The gas and electric supply is bolted to the outside of the building in long runs of piping or conduit. You can follow the modifications of this over the years because they simple cut off the piping and leave the abandoned run attached. All the apartments have window air conditions that vent the condensation to the outside walls where it must drip down the walls all summer.
People always stare at you on the street. Laramie and I cannot understand why we look different. I was told that Causeni is so small that everyone knows everyone but I also noted the look in Chisinau. I asked several people and they seemed to hint that we looked foreign but it is not the style of our clothing. Possibly we walked differently or ?aggressively. They couldn’t improve the explanation.
The town is filled with street dogs. These dogs are not aggressive as I have seen toddlers in the park walk up to a sleeping dog and pull its tail and the mothers kept gossiping with neighbors. I never saw anyone feed the dogs, but there are some elderly people that feed the masses of feral cats in the evening. I never saw any roadkill.
The citizens are very law abiding and cross the road at cross walks and with the light. I never saw a car driver get aggressive at a cross walk. I haven’t heard a car horn yet.
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