I feel like I’ve stepped into some sort of time warp where eras collide and the Soviet Union still exists–or at least remnants of it do. There are comb overs, plaid dresses, melancholic buildings and stoic faces. Most people have dark features, and even darker family roots.
Amidst the weary cloud that seems to loom incessantly despite the springlike sun, there is hope. Pure happiness may be a stretch, but there is hope.
March 8th was Women’s day. I didn’t know it was a thing, either. But it’s quite a celebration here in Moldova, and we women found ourselves being celebrated. In church, poems were read about mothers, songs were sung, and the grand finale was the receiving of a yellow or white tulip and taking photos (is church paparazzi a thing?). Remember that time warp concept? These photos could be old fashioned glued into yellowed albums right next to your mom’s senior photos.
The afternoon consisted of surprises galore. We were swept into a whirlwind of unknown excitement, full of secretive conversations and an obligatory stroll through the city. An hour or so later, we were walking along a river, the city far behind us.
“This feels like we’re part of some angsty teenage group in a movie,” I joked as we walked to nowhere fields. But soon enough, we came to an area of trees where balloons were taped into a banner fashion from trunk to trunk.
We set up picnic (some type of crab and fish egg salad and mystery hot dogs). Valentin, the main man, spoke beautiful words of love and encouragement over the ladies, then tossed the volleyball he was holding to the next guy. One by one, the boys received the volleyball and spoke, reminding us that we are needed and valued and special.
I didn’t know charades was a picnic game, but that day it was. We played and cheered, and chocolate was won. So much for teen angst; these Europeans not only welcomed us into their group, but celebrated us.
It’s not every day that you are led to a field to have a picnic. It’s not every day that you carry a yellow tulip around until it wilts and the leaves fall off. It’s not everyday that you are thanked simply for being alive and female. Being you.
So Moldova may seem like a gloomy, rising from ashes country, but its sunny days shine brighter than most. There is hope here, and chivalry is not dead.
Spasiba, Moldova. You are charming.
