Where am I now? I'm ecstatic. Sometimes I stop myself and am struck dumb by the reality of what I'm going to be doing soon and where I will be going--and I still can't even fully fathom that "reality." It's incredible. I hear a song that played before I left and I remember where I was at that time (just barely out of a major leap of faith) and then where I am now (flying head over heels on that same wind of faith, higher, stronger, and faster than ever), and I have to hold back joyous tears, so-grateful-that-I-can't-believe-it tears.

I've never been so confident, motivated, or optimistic. I've never been so impressed with other people's creative lawns, vegetarian restaurants, travel experiences, or diligent work outs. I've never cared so much about education...or about getting an education.

Where else am I? I'm back to pre-Moldova weight, almost to pre-first-marathon weight, and starting my last YMCA week before my membership expires. I'm trying to remember how to work out without a gym. I'm going to enjoy this calm week before my (how many times have I said this?) last week of coaching gymnastics. I'm finally relaxed enough to admit that I was avoiding coffee dates and lunch dates because I was nickel-and-dimed for about two months.

And here I am again, closing my eyes, remembering how young I am and grateful that I reminded myself (yet again) to slow down. Laughing that I still tend to forget it. "One year at a time," Grandma said when I told her I wasn't going straight to the PhD. "It's better that way." Oh yes it is! I realized today that I will have graduated from college, run two marathons and one half, served two years with the Peace Corps, and completed my masters degree ALL BEFORE TURNING 25!!!! And WHY ON EARTH do I still have the habit of always thinking about what to cram in next?

Meditation has helped limit that craziness a bit, but I still get caught up, especially now when I feel like my eyes are open to everything.

And this is going to be a full-throttle summer, heading straight into a full-speed academic year. So I will prepare for the full span as much as possible so that I can enjoy one while it is happening instead of thinking about what I need to do for the next.

Side note: My readjustment to America seems perfectly normal now...except when I still find myself COMPLETELY psycho in Trader Joe's. "Do you want to find a treat, Sammy?" Michael asked, oh-so-kindly. "But I want everything!" I said. "How about one healthy little treat?" he suggested. "Ok," I smiled as if I was getting away with theft. I couldn't focus on my brother (or the task at hand, for that matter) because my eyes couldn't stop spinning around, trying to take in every new type of granola, every spice, every type of honey!

Oh and then there's the shyness, the not wanting to drive somewhere that requires looking for parking, and the not wanting to go to parties by myself. "Samantha, you just spent two years in Moldova; you can go to a party by yourself!!!" I tell myself. (Of course there's the necessary "Sam, it's really easy," reassurance from Kimmy that helped get me out the door, too!) It usually works and I have had a great time, been recognized by people I swore had forgotten me, made a new friend, and found the world's best parking spot!

And now the same logic applies to the "It's so cold in Boston" conversation. Man, I spent two insulation-less, heat-by-coal winters in Moldova...I CAN DO ANYTHING!

As a family, we had a very over-the-top/academic/California weekend:

1. Brother flew in (oh, just for the weekend) from his business trip (in Vegas, of course);

2. Ate catfish, salmon, practically an entire top sirloin, and a tasty green cake;

3. Sunbathed;

4. Brother took a practice GMAT;

5. Parents had a study date: Dad went to school to research his paper and Mom hung out at the university because she could read there, too--in the sunshine, of course;

6. Went in the jacuzzi;

7. Discussed Dad's "history of history" paper;

8. Saw an old friend;

9. Said goodbye to a good friend and a much-closer-to-empty house;

10. Helped Dad dig holes for a cactus garden.

Well, maybe it's not the universal question, but it's the one that comes up most frequently with my haven't-seen-in-two-years-or-more-mates. This is in response to the "would you go to Moldova again?" question asked in a comment from the previous entry:

Hi Laquia -

Since I can't link to your profile, I'll respond here. Let me start by thanking you for asking my opinion! I was glad I ended up in Eastern Europe, but if you read my earliest blogs, I DID ask to go someplace else but then "left it up to fate/God/life/everyone that knew better." Some have somehow gotten the impression from my blog that I would have come home, which confuses me because I like to word my blogs carefully. But if that were the case then I actually WOULD have come home. No, it was sad and I was lonely sometimes, but I knew I was getting myself into this for two years and not at one point did I actually even seriously consider leaving early. And, truthfully, that was partly out of curiosity for what would come at the end -- an intuitive blessing, seeing as the most "productive" events did come at the end...but don't they always?

But it was my choice to "go where I was needed," and I have no doubt now that Moldova was the right place for me to be. But that's also my whole outlook on life, God, decisions, and events...but yes, I did FEEL as if it was the right place when I landed and I can REASON now exactly how it worked out in my benefit. "If I hadn't gone to Moldova, I never would have..." and so on. I now have a new understanding (and awareness!) of a whole region I had never really thought of before.

I, too, was in shock when they told me I had been sifted to Eastern Europe, but this was my process and it doesn't work for everyone. I understand intimately that this experience is not for everyone, and, even within the same village, volunteers have entirely different experiences.

So there are a million different ways I can elaborate upon this response, but to keep it short and straight to the "would I do it again?" question: I'm sure glad I did it once.

And here almost another two months have passed us by and it feels both like only a week has passed and simultaneously a whole lifetime.

This really has been an incredible period for me, these first few months of 2010. I received my first responses from schools in January and am actually still waiting for the last one. So it has, needless to say, been a very long and emotional process. But very exciting. I wanted an easy choice -- "just one school please" -- and instead got an avalanche of options. I tried to remember to feel glad to have these options, grateful for the opportunities that were throwing themselves at me, but I continued to feel stressed, saddened to have to let some of these options go. And with every response my emotions changed a million times over. So while I'm not going to waste time with the play-by-play, I'll tell you that the predominant lesson was in telling myself to wait "just a little longer" because I knew that it wasn't time to make a decision yet; there were still more factors.

And perhaps it still isn't yet time, but it feels close. And out of respect for the schools I will likely not be attending, I want to let them know in as timely a manner as possible. But...wonderfully...I have finally come to this great excitement, this liberation from worrying about the options I felt I am tossing and (almost pure) enthusiasm for the multitude of directions I could go in from here. (More on this later.)

But life, though seeming to revolve around graduate school responses, does not. And I have filled January, February, and March with an art class that I am so glad to have taken, new avenues in prayer and meditation, a re-inspired joy of teaching/coaching...and dreaming about SEA.

1) The painting class: This was something I told myself I wanted to do while I was still in Moldova. I wanted to improve. I wanted to learn. I didn't want my painting to be inhibited by ignorance, but to be propelled by whatever my inner spirit desires. So I went to an open house at the Los Angeles Academy of Figurative Art, won a small discount in their drawing, and (since I believe that serendipity is inspired) signed up. Although, truth be told, I probably would have signed up anyway. I was so nervous at first; I had never painted with oils and "drawing with a paintbrush" had only just begun to be even semi-successful. But there is so much concentration involved! I know this seems like a given, but it wore me out. I kept telling myself that I was taking this class to improve, to learn from it, to get feedback from a (very helpful) teacher...and that I could paint whatever I wanted when I was done.

And it has been so worth it. I don't feel totally skilled yet, but I feel optimistic. I am more aware and excited and eager and feel I have at least crossed a painting threshold.

2) Meditation: I had anteed up my prayer and meditation since summer 2006, and did some more reading while in Peace Corps. Prayer and patience and trust in the harmony of life's events became a silent constant while gone. But I knew that I wanted to seek it out. I wanted, like with painting, to learn from someone. When I got back, I looked up retreats and classes and all of them seemed either too far or too expensive or too "something," but then I found a group on Meetup.com (which I had signed up for in college to find French-speaking groups I never went to). The group is all the way in Torrance (anandasouthbay.org) but it has been so perfect and beautiful. I knew that I was going into more constant meditation practices because I wanted to learn how to listen better, to silence all excess and just LISTEN. But, again like painting, it takes concentration. And effort. And these two parallels completely exhausted me in the beginning.

Come mid-February, I was so emotionally spent, but I knew I was going in the right direction. I spent so much time in Moldova in inner-reflection, thinking about who I want to be, and these few months home have been the opportunity to LIVE IT OUT. And it feels GREAT!! Now, at least.

3) Coaching Gymnastics: Being around kindergarteners again was humbling. It reminded me that I really don't know what I'm doing. And coming in as the substitute at low-income schools (where the kids don't necessarily want to be there and certainly don't want to compete) was a big challenge. The driving around stressed me out. The rush hour traffic stressed me out. The kindergarteners stressed me out. And so this became the outlet for the attitude I've gained over these past few years. Because even through the stress, there are beautiful moments when you just feel...light...and totally at ease and you remember why you LOVE working with kids and why you applied to the schools you applied to and why you want to study what you want to study. And everything makes sense. And then by the beginning of March you feel on top of the world and you are rocking the classes again and you are smiling and see the good in each child and are so grateful to have the chance to do this again.

Each of these things affected the others and the culminating result is a Samantha that feels so much more patient and free. But now I can see the wheels turning again and I can't stop thinking about SEA. In a little over two months I will be heading to Massachusetts to learn about navigation and oceanography, to prep for a 4-week trip from Honolulu to San Francisco. I will know where I am going to school. I will be done with coaching and driving in rush hour. And I will be standing on a ship looking out into a literally limitless ocean. And I couldn't think of anything better.

I told myself that I would continue to write when I got back to America, even if I didn’t update the blog online. Of course I haven’t and I have totally felt the absence.

It has been stressful.

Exciting, but stressful.

My world could go in a million (very good) directions right now and that’s wonderful. These are the moments we pray for: opportunity-filled and limitless.

But what I actually pray for: easy decision-making. When it comes down to it, I don’t ask for opportunity. I have opportunity; I just need help taking advantage of it.

But these great moments of change and life are shadowed by other stresses, and so I haven’t really had the chance to sit and ponder my Moldovan experience. In fact, I find myself trying to avoid thinking about it – for reasons I’m still unsure of.

Perhaps I find it too difficult to focus on what “needs” to be done here when simultaneously thinking of what has already been done there?

I also find myself so overwhelmed with hypothetical situations, constantly reorganizing the matrix of possibilities in my mind. (It is this ever-changing matrix that normally helps keep me calm…it gives me faith that there are a million “right” ways for a situation to work out because everything else can shift accordingly. But here, where I was once again responsible to people...)

I had prepared myself mentally for a lot of the realities I knew I would face in America, and when I first returned I handled them almost effortlessly. But then I went away for Thanksgiving, had an excellent time, and returned to LA only to be met by the memories I had run away from in the first place. Smack. They materialized in the freeway exits that reminded me of events, the restaurants we passed, markets, street names, everything.

And so December and January found me wanting to leave again. But seeing as I have been in California for over two months and haven’t seen all of my dearest friends, I’m not ready yet…but I do need to acknowledge that inkling. When it comes time for graduate school, I will be ready to try out a new city, to explore it on my own terms, to get a feel for its culture, restaurants, people, and for what it has to offer me, too.

Perhaps that’s why I have been so preoccupied thinking about the hypothetical balance between all my varied choices: because I didn’t want to think about anything else.

Arriving in America had me finishing applications, patient as a nun, lighthearted and excited over simple things like green lawns, brick houses, and customer service.

Returning, then, to California, reminded me to slow down a little, that I didn’t need to finish all applications by my birthday, and that a little humility would do me some good (a theme that would reoccur shortly).

So we come to the stress: I was so worried about making the “right” decision in a matter that was not yet mine to direct. And as I’ve said multiple times now: I pray for easy decision-making, for help in listening. And so God gave me a big ol’ helping of humble pie, eliminating one of the “options” by telling me one school was saying “no” to me so I didn’t have to worry about saying “no” to it.

I chuckled, and I felt relief. Great relief. The truth is that not all of my emotion is caused by graduate school issues, but I had merely chosen to focus on those. And this reality (that the cards had not been laid for me yet, that it wasn’t time for me to worry about making a decision, and that it would be clear to me if I stopped worrying so much) helped to minimize my worry about the other issues too.

…What I believe most of all is that there will come a time when I am able to make a choice and if I can listen…truly listen…I will know which way I am supposed to go.

And so now I am learning how to trust that not only in theory, but at the present moment, rather than just in retrospect when I can say “ah, now I see how it has all pieced together.” If, when looking back, you see that there is a harmony, and, when looking forward, we trust that the harmony will prevail, then the only option is to trust each decision, each situation, and each moment right here.

So where does all of this take me? Well right now I am waiting to hear back from 8 more graduate schools. The circular conversation you may have followed brought me right back where I started with a more established interest in programs that range in name from Child Development, Human Development, Educational Psychology, and Interdisciplinary Studies in Development.

I have to constant remind myself that the mannerisms, attitudes, and habits I see around me are the same that were here in LA before I left. America, on the whole, has not changed much since I left. Even though I think I had the same frustrations before leaving (like when people honk at you while you are letting a pedestrian cross) I have to remind myself that I have indeed changed and that as universally correct as I may think I am, the world hasn't necessarily changed with me. (And, then of course, there is always the possibility that I am wrong...but we're not talking about that right now...)

When I first got to the village, I slept in the front room. That meant that we had to heat two fires (and sometimes twice a day each). So then I moved into the middle room. It was warmer, protected from cold by rooms on each side. And we only had to light one fire for both bedrooms and the kitchen combined. It was nice. But I didn’t make it my own until just this last winter when I finally put up pictures and letters from friends and family…and some Christmas garlands that I kept up on the walls until now.

Two weeks ago, though, host mama asked me if I could move my stuff back into the front room so they could do some repairs in the middle room before the cold comes. Ok. That meant that I needed to pack up all my clothes, get rid of even more, and move everything into the other room. So last week I was half in one room and half in the other and this week I am completely in the front room, all my belongings sprawled in various piles waiting for me to decide what to take and what to leave.

At the time, I didn’t want to move my stuff because it meant I would be living out of a suitcase for the next two weeks. But now I’m glad, because it forced me to get rid of a lot of stuff in advance, and now, when the last few days are up, I have significantly less to deal with. Getting rid of tons of items brought a much needed feeling of liberation. And it’s a nice cycle…back in the room where I started…

I also had a lot of documents to finish up: the last quarterly report of all activities, outcomes, and projects: site history report documenting all village organizations, relationships, possibilities for another volunteer, safety issues, transportation, etc.; the official “description of service” condensing my two years into 1.5 pages; the collecting, pasting, and reporting of all Kindergarten Project receipts, budget forms, and writing of the final report. Then I still needed to actually FINISH the project: the seminar; the demonstrations; ordering the furniture; buying the learning tools/books/games/musical instruments (when we don’t have our own transportation); convincing villagers why the money was already allocated to something specific and why it could not be used for A, B, or C.

I was stressed. I was excited to be busy, but it gave me very little time to relax, reflect, and adjust. I finished earlier than expected, baked pumpkin-pie-from-scratch number 2 for the Peace Corps Staff Appreciation, and exhaled. And now I have this week to visit with people, get pictures developed, and pack. Honestly, I don’t think I would have wanted more down time because this transition is uncomfortable enough. I’m neither truly here nor completely gone, my things are everywhere and I can’t yet think about home because then I won’t get anything done.

But as I was riding into Chisinau Friday, looking at the extraordinarily beautiful autumn we’ve had up north, I felt so utterly content. I was thinking about the seminar at the kindergarten and I was so energized! To update you all: Sunday the 4th Natalia came up and we held the training with kindergarten teachers. I was unbelievably nervous; I didn’t want to be the young American who has been here for two years and is now coming to tell them what they are doing wrong. But we planned well. Natalia did a great job of including them in the activities, of asking them for their input, telling them we understand that they are experienced but that they get tired sometimes and that we only want to offer them a wider selection of tools for their choosing.

They were smiling, nodding, participating, and throwing out ideas. This is the second time that I have planned a seminar directly related to child development, fourth time I have led the workshop, and second time that I thought the topic would be too basic. Again, I was surprised. Ideas that I took for granted even BEFORE undergrad had still gone unarticulated here: the purpose of hands-on learning; the ways movement-based activities are good for kindergarteners; the simplicity of using “baby talk” and repeating words to demonstrate actions (“open, close”) to young children; the benefit of limits and discipline that teaches instead of just punishing.

And then afterwards, the women were so excited to demonstrate some of these new activities, to be an example for other kindergartens and volunteers who might like to lead similar trainings. But my favorite comment was that “you taught us things that we already knew but didn’t realize we already knew.” (Of course there were those who chose not too participate, but as long as at least one teacher changes at least one technique and benefits at least one child, then we have made a difference.)

And then on Monday when we were discussing what learning materials to buy, the teachers were trying to explain a toy to me, and it was taking me a while. The word they were using was “pyramid” so I kept picturing a building block shaped like a pyramid. They were trying, instead, to describe the standing pole on which we stack rings of different sizes and colors, largest first and smallest on top. I was secretly stunned, realizing that we were planning consciously to provide these students with an item that I still imagined as a kindergarten given. Shame on me.

And it really is incredible how far the dollar goes. Each classroom now has books, balls, toys, building blocks, math cubes, and plastic “exotic fruit” that I also took for granted (bananas and oranges). There are now puzzles, a plastic piano, guitar, drawing easel, plastic vegetables, storybooks, math books, and a working accordion for their music time (the one “artistic” activity they had done consistently until the accordion decided to die).

And the tables and chairs, which were sure to come only after I’ve left, should get delivered within the next two days!

Wednesday two other volunteers came up to film the demonstrations and the children (and teachers!) were excited. The teachers were talking about what they learned, what the kids liked, why the guide was beneficial, and how they wished we had collaborated earlier.

I met the woman who is in charge of preschool education in the Soroca region (AMAZING WOMAN!), gave her a copy of the guide, and took her contact information. She was the best advocate of making sure the items were out and readily available in each classroom instead of tucked away in the downstairs cabinet. She wants to make copies for each kindergarten in Soroca and run an experience exchange with all the other teachers in the region! Oh how I wish I could have been able to see it happen…but perhaps this is the time to let it go, no? When someone else has offered to take it up on their own…

Well anyway…so I was on the way to Chisinau Friday, thinking about all of these happenings, the unexpected success I felt after this project…and I was overwhelmed with the strongest memory of coaching gymnastics. And the strongest desire to do things correctly, to work to the maximum, to give my all, and the joy of being creative in my work.

I have been writing graduate school application essays about how much coaching and PC have together contributed to my desire to study child development…but it was coming away from this project that brought such a joyful contentment. I have changed my mind a million times since coming here, modified my interests, thought about law school, med school, art school, and about working abroad for a few more years. But here, in this moment, overjoyed by memories of coaching and always trying to be one step ahead of the class in the most creative way possible….and already having started the application process in this same area, already sure that it was necessary to come full circle in this field…

Sorry, I’m not expressing myself clearly because I haven’t quite sorted it all out. But the point is that I felt content in the way things turned out, the way they are going, and the interconnected relationship between the two.

I almost studied something else, I almost went to a different school, I could have gone somewhere besides Moldova, I could have done a million things differently, and I don’t know exactly WHY things happened the way they did. But for better or worse, it all seems to fit together, the pieces became clear, and I could see the whole puzzle…and I KNEW without a shred of doubt that every moment that led to that moment staring out the window has been necessary and perfect and that each step taken has already set me up for the place I will eventually need to be…wherever that is.

And now I can’t tell you how even more excited I am for graduate school, for the ten months before then, for finding out where I will end up, for the topics I will be studying…for all of it!

A week ago I was testy, cranky at all villagers who didn’t respond to my “hello,” and now I am at peace. Calm. Appreciative.

Friday we had the staff appreciation dessert/ice cream bar. Saturday we had a Peer Support 5k and the Wine Festival. Sunday before leaving Chisinau, I sent in my first application! I said goodbye to some volunteers who I won’t see next weekend (and maybe ever again). Then I got on the bus for my last trip back to the village. The further out of the city, the more orange and red the trees and the more grateful I became that I’ve lived somewhere with four distinct seasons…and that I’ve gotten to see them cycle twice. And the orange leaves reminded me first of Halloween and then of Thanksgiving…and then I smiled, because I will be home for Thanksgiving this year. And now I’ve made a pumpkin pie from scratch. Twice.

I started this a week ago but my emotions have been so up and down that the mood of the writing kept shifting. It’s going to keep changing so I might as well write. Memories from the last month:

1) September first brought a sudden shift in weather. It was autumn. Dry wind and cold nights. And tons of caterpillars. Where do they all come from? They are short and black with long fuzzy white hairs and they are EVERYWHERE. They climb up the front door and the curtains and I have to shake out my outside slippers before putting them on.

2) I was on my way back from the capital when the bus stopped in Soroca (our regional center). I got off to buy something and when I got on the bus a drunk man was drinking from my water bottle. Wordlessly, he asked if he could have some (though he already had) and I told him to take the whole thing. The bus driver yelled at him and he got off.

3) Giardia: I still have it, and truthfully, I think it’s the same bit I’ve had since the beginning. I try not to be angry. In fact, throughout my service I took it as a given of the circumstances and the fact that it is everywhere and you can’t really protect yourself completely. But seeing as there has never been a point when it’s been out of my system completely, I began to get really angry with the people who served me the gallon of well water and didn’t bother telling me that they had refilled the store-bought bottle without my knowing. “Is the water good?” he asked me. At the time I just thought it was an odd question but at the moment it makes me fume. It isn’t the TASTE of well water that makes us distill it, it’s the bacteria. Distilled water tastes even worse than well water. But honestly, who knows? I COULD have gotten this giardia from somewhere else and it COULD be different bacteria than the first time. Unfortunately, I’ll never know. But now I have giardia that is resistant to medication and I can’t run more than thirty minutes without needing a bathroom break. So I was finally given the more complicated 5-day medication with stronger side effects and at the end of the week we’ll see if it’s finally been kicked.

4) The Close of Service conference: this really hit home. I had found out that I would have funding for my project by the end of the week so as I went to the conference, I knew I would be able to leave on time, thus listening more objectively to the speakers. The conversation became real; I was able to picture the bizarreness of returning home. We talked about how to explain our service, job searching, financial planning, the paperwork required before leaving, as well as what to expect upon returning. And the weeks that have followed have been emotional. The optimism I encouraged throughout my experience has thinned as I have accepted what I no longer have time for. The adrenaline that sustained me has thinned as I see the finish line. And that’s ok. I am still very grateful for the project that will occupy my time during the final month, but I am now able to accept that I will have an emotional catharsis when I return. I know it’s part of the process; I had just denied that I would have one.

5) The Close of Service physical: I was really grateful that she took the time to discuss all of my worries, symptoms, and improvements. But once she told me that someone had brought a concern to her attention, I could no longer focus. The ultimate point was that I should “be careful who I talk to,” and perhaps I took this the wrong way, but it took me a few days to get over. This isn’t the first time someone has warned me that not all people are as goodhearted as they appear but this time caught me especially off guard because she couldn’t tell me to what she was referring. I’ll never know and it could’ve been brought up in an infinite number of ways – possible even out of genuine concern. But I’ve come a long way because of the people I’ve grown with here in Moldova and would rather be disappointed than expect ill intentions.

6) The kindergarten project is on the way and tomorrow we will be purchasing the furniture! Then next weekend we will hold the first hands-on training with the teachers. It really is quite exciting, especially as it will fill my last month here. Thank you so much to everyone who contributed to this project and whose hopes, support, and prayers made it possible. Our time in Moldova teaches us more thoroughly how to cover all bases and make sure your interests are met, but whatever we did along the way, the mayor and kindergarten director have lived up to their promises as well and I am even more grateful for the experience I’ve had.

7) I finally helped pick grapes! Granted, I was glad I didn’t need to pick grapes the whole day – and I couldn’t imagine how intimidating it could be to have an entire vineyard to pick – but the three hours I spent were quite peaceful and enjoyable. And, tasting each kind, I was able to see the great uniqueness of each grape. Some are juicier, some have more pulp or thicker skins, and some are sweeter or have a more saturated color. But I have great respect for those whose hands turn blue picking grapes all day long!

8) My host mom asked me randomly how I was planning on getting all of my things to Chisinau. It wasn’t the question that caught me off guard, but her assumption that I would only leave a day early so I can catch my early-morning flight. As it is, I don’t actually know what my last day in the village will be but one day early is the latest I would leave…and that made me sad, both realizing that I would then be leaving in less than one month and that I didn’t know how to explain that I would probably spend my last nights in Chisinau. I’ve been able to spend this weekend in the village – visiting an old monastery with some students who participated in the summer village cleanup – but I know that this last month will be filled with a lot of trips to the city. I just have to accept that. Each week I’ve been bringing in a bag of items to give away: clothes, books, etc. I’ve been trying to fit as many activities into as few trips as possible. But it seems like just yesterday I was saying “seven weeks left” and now it feels as if I’ll be leaving tomorrow. And I almost don’t want to be this busy at the end because it will make the last month go by that much faster.

And I forgot to mention two things:

1) We now have a pump and a hose! In June they showed me how they put a pump in the well and how we can pump water into buckets at the push of a button. Literally. But just as I was trying to figure out where the hose went (I was looking at the well as if I had never seen it before) host pops showed me that he hosed it near the front of the house. Now just in front of the house, I can stick the hose in a bucket, plug in the cord and watch as the bucket fills itself! I don't even have to walk to the well!

2) The kindergarten project is coming along slowly but surely but time is definitely cutting short. If you would like more information on the project you can visit http://kindergartenproject.webs.com

There is also a link to the donation site as well. If you know of organizations that would be interested, please don't hesitate to pass along the link. God willing, we'd like all funding to be in by then end of the month as we can't use a dime until the entire amount is in.

August 1, 2009

I suppose I’ve mentioned every time that writing today’s date has given me a shock. But it wasn’t just writing it this time. It was seeing it as I woke up. Perhaps it’s premature, but this month is the start of what I feel will be the “dreading what can’t be gotten done” period. I’ve mentally crossed the line between thinking there’s still time and accepting that there’s only time for smaller things now, or for finishing things that have already been started. And perhaps that’s not true. I’m not a pessimist, after all. I feel, instead that this is just part of the cycle. I’m entering the last phase. August and September might very well be my last full months in the village. October is a possibility but I’d rather plan under a tighter deadline than a longer one. Wow. Even writing that is weird. Last full months.

Seeing as I haven’t written a detailed update in months now, this could go on for ages. I’ll keep it (as) short (as possible) with some of my strongest memories from June and July.

1) Michael and Kat visiting in June: My main thought is gratitude but my second thought is: this makes it real now. When I left last May for Michael’s graduation, I felt as if I had left too soon. I had woken up from a long dream and wondered if Moldova even existed. But now, they have come and experienced this with me and it connects both parts of my life. These will not be isolated experiences, detached from those who have known me my whole life. Thank you, as well, to all of you who read my updates, who have followed this experience with me. I want, more than ever, for you all to be a part of this with me.

2) I had a great conversation with the Agricultural guy at the mayor’s office. He hinted me into his office and shut the door behind him. I was mildly concerned. But then he leaned behind his desk and pulled out a plastic bottle filled with dark wine. “Oh no,” I said. “I can’t. I got sick. I can’t.” “Just a little,” he insisted. “Today’s a holiday.” But what ensued was by far the best conversation we’ve ever had. He’s normally a joker, purposefully trying to push my buttons by asking me inappropriate, stereotyping questions about Americans and telling me I don’t understand him. But here, he was genuinely open, curious about what I would take away from my experience and asking me if I was going to write a book. He wanted to know if other Americans got along as well with their community, with their mayor’s office. We talked about the gamble of Peace Corps service and he told me I should title my book “21” after the card game.

But then he asked me about whether it was tiring to be in another culture for so long. That was the perfect word: tiring. Yes. I had been thinking that just recently. Even when it becomes easier, even when you speak the language well enough, you still have to be aware 24/7 of the things you are doing and saying, of how you look and present yourself, of who you offend. Even when you aren’t aware of it, your mind is working to adjust to the language around you, to the norms that still aren’t normal, and to how to translate the response you haven’t thought of yet.

But then he told me that when his daughter was in America, she got the impression that Americans “fight for themselves.” And when he said it in Romanian, I took slight offense, thinking that he implied we were selfish. But when I write it in English – word for word – it could come across instead that we just don’t like handouts, we don’t expect someone to solve our problems for us. In Moldova, everything is communal. Everything. And sometimes that is wonderful. If you bring a water bottle with you, it will be shared. But I understand now how rude it can seem when I have a water bottle that’s just for me and I’m going to bring it to the table that you have prepared without offering it to you. So what do we do? We hide the water bottle.

3) Training with the new group: Last week I went to lead a one-hour training for the new group on “finding and defining work in the community.” I sat in for the motivation training that came before mine. And I just kept thinking: if only you knew how important this really is. And so by the time my session came, I was so filled with emotion and adrenaline that my tired (and sick) body was re-energized. No one tells us what to expect. Instead they tell us not to expect anything. But I cannot tell you how emotional it was for me to sit in that room and listen to the trainees’ optimism. One of the saddest things for me has been seeing some of the most warm, lighthearted people turn into cold, pessimistic volunteers. And I didn’t realize how heartbreaking it has been until I was once again around a group of volunteers who don’t yet have a reason to drop their optimism. So I told them honestly about the ways I messed up and what I learned from it. I told them what I did wrong so that they don’t make the same mistakes. And then I told them how I learned, what I did differently, and what I would definitely do again. I told them WHY these topics are so important and WHY to take it to heart. Without anything to relate to, these “motivation” trainings just seemed like common sense to me back then. But being there two years later, looking in hindsight, they are so essential. I wanted to make sure that the reality of that session and then my own session was carried to them, was explained and elaborated upon. The training needs to be real. It needs to give honest preparation for the ups and the downs, not just telling us that there will be downs but what they might look like.

4) Saying Goodbye: The first goodbye was awkward. I hadn’t seen enough of her in the last year. I would’ve liked to have seen her more. It seemed the last few times were just moments in passing. And as she walked me out, I knew I wouldn’t see her before she left. And I was quiet, sad, and reflective. But the second one was surprising to me. It was a surprise because I didn’t expect to cry. I left the night early but I would’ve had to leave at some point. And when it actually came to it, I started crying. Really crying. I’ve missed people that have left already. I’ve genuinely missed people that left a year ago. But there’s something different about one of your peers, one of your friends, someone who has been here almost the entirety of your service leaving you when you are not quite done. And it’s totally possible that I will see her again, but the question is now obvious: when?

There are still things to get done, some of which are exciting and stressful and I know that this is part of the game: learning only at the end what is possible. But I desperately want to learn from those who have led good examples, to copy some of their successes during this last period. I would like to go visit another volunteer tomorrow as he opens a center he’s funded, but my own camp starts on Monday and that is exciting in itself. It’s going to be a scramble at the end, but I want to soak it all in, get in as much as possible, and to not let this last-leg fatigue keep me down. I remember another volunteer mentioning a few months ago: every time I ride the bus in now, I try to stay awake to look out the window because I know I’ll be leaving in a few months. I think that my time has come for that as well.

June 3, 2009

May was an amazing month, a month that felt as “productive” as I can risk saying. I know I’ve said this before, but I can’t believe so much time has passed since last writing. And I really understand why we’re here for two years….why productivity partly depends onto the time we put in.

The fact is that most of my activities are not “with” a Moldovan. I take that back, they are “with” Moldovans but they were not necessarily involved in every step…or even the initiators of the project. But I’m getting more done. In some ways this is contradictory because our goal is supposed to be helping people help themselves, but we are still working together, the activities are still involving the local youth, and the outcomes will still benefit all. Yes, if you can involve someone in the planning process, this is ideal, but just because you can’t do it one way doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it at all.

May…let me see…what made it go by so quickly?

I visited another village (without other Americans) and hung out with some other Moldovan ladies my own age who (shock!) aren’t married and (even still!) live in a village. I turned in three project proposals – some of which will undoubtedly flop – and now I am waiting for the funding period…the slow process that still involves me looking for sources. What else did I do in May? I finished up my English class (which started with 20 and ended with 3), finished collecting clothes for our clothing drive, and starting taking Russian lessons!

I’ve gotten the hang of only staying in Chisinau for one night at a time and that has really helped my mood. In the beginning, staying only one night was stressful because I was nervous about travel and that didn’t let me enjoy the night…but now…I’ve had enough of Chisinau and staying too much makes me antsy. But this is what learning is: realizing how I react in bizarre and unique situations and then adjusting my plans accordingly. And regardless, the weather has me so much more lighthearted that needing to stay out of the village longer doesn’t stress me out. I can much better enjoy the changes in events.

But I really am feeling quite comfortable with Moldova, with my service, with the possibilities of all of the things I can do before I leave – even if they aren’t “tangible.”

Ah, yes, this reminds me…Also in May I organized a seminar for some of the older girls in the village. Actually, I invited all students in grades 9-12. An NGO from Chisinau came to lead the seminar and I really enjoyed seeing the Moldovan perspective on interactive learning and seeing the girls reactions to activities that I take for granted (e.g. role play). But of course the only participants were the same girls that always participate. I suppose this makes sense; they are less nervous about coming, know what to expect, and are not as uncomfortable around the American. But I am trying to accept that I wasn’t necessarily receptive to opening up myself, my time, and my events, to all people because I was (ridiculously) worried about not being able to handle it…so as a result, I had sometimes excluded necessary parts of the young population. That’s why, this time, I went to every class and made sure each of the kids of that age group was notified. They still didn’t come. What is it, then? A competitive relationship with the active girls? Uninteresting topics? Bad timing? No interest in me? Bad translation?

So I came up with a competition that hopefully solves all of this. (And, importantly, forces me to plan a long series of events throughout summer.) The competition is for the “most active students” and will include everything from a poster contest, village clean up, and leadership seminars. All you have to do is participate enough to win 5 points and you can come with us on a trip (to either the waterfalls or the monastery). But if you include other people, you get more points. If you are more active at the events, more points. Picked up more trash, more points. Students with the most points will be recognized by the mayor (and the Peace Corps director) for their service to the community and will be acclaimed as the “most active students.” My main obstacle will be announcing every activity during summer, since I can no longer go to the school and talk from class to class. I tried collected the info of each class rep – who then promised to transmit all messages to classmates – but this hasn’t been as fruitful as I’d hoped. We’ll see. Even if it doesn’t turn out how I’d like, it still ensures a good handful of activities for the summer.

I also went to my second Moldovan wedding! The mayor’s son married the kindergarten director’s daughter and it was an incredibly beautiful event. By taking place in town, and at a restaurant, it differed slightly from the village wedding I went to last month. But the idea was the same, I recognized the traditions, and even though the food was more elaborate, I still saw the pattern in the plating. And I danced! (But not after ripping up my feet. Yes, this was unfortunate. When I got to Soroca, I called for directions and was told to go “in the valley.” I have never understood what this is supposed to mean and how on earth I am supposed to know which direction is “in the valley” when I am standing on a hill. But of course “in the valley” was the direction I didn’t go in. So my little 30 minute pre-wedding jaunt brought enough blisters to last me the next three weeks – without exaggeration – and bringing a new understanding of what it means to take care of yourself – and wounds – without running water. Thank God for antiseptic! The process of putting warm water and your feet in a bowl really isn’t that complicated. But at this point, I realize more that infection is not worth laziness.)

While this last month seems fast and productive, it was also stressful. This is crunch time…and not because I have to come up with ideas, but because I actually have expectations for the existing ideas!

Cultural note: washing laundry by hand does not get easier. As opposed to the ‘boiling water to drink” issue (which has become habitual), the labor-and-time-intensive laundry process just makes me more lazy. Perhaps this is partly because I know I’m leaving in 6 months and will arrive somewhere with a washing machine…but I’m just doing this to get through.

But we have strawberries! They are ripe and sweet and in abundance. I plan on eating loads of them everyday. Last year I kept forgetting. Or even if I remembered, I was bizarrely too lazy to pick fresh strawberries (really!) and so now that this is my last summer here I am trying to take advantage.

And I started French lessons again today! My Romanian tutor is the French teacher at the school. I figured my Romanian is down enough that I can mix in a language I should know already. But even if we are moving more quickly than someone who never learned French, it’s still frustratingly basic. “I haven’t done first year French in a while,” she said to me. But oh how fun it was to go into her garden and practice our French vocabulary while we picked her strawberries too!

I know that June will go by even more quickly because of all the events that spawn from May’s and because of visitors! It’s a good time for me to reanalyze my priorities and to start better appreciating what I have here.

As I left you last, I had just come back from a week out of the village, working on the children-designed greeting cards. I had planned to stay in the village for the following three weeks, and, as I mentioned, that was confirmed for me when I found out that we would hold the one-year-since-passing funeral for grandma the following weekend. Immediately after, though, I found out that we would further be required to stay out of the capital after the April 5th elections were followed by protests and riots. But I loved the timing and was once again grateful for the spontaneous decision to spend that first week preparing for the expo so that I could enjoy the following three weeks without worry.

The three weeks were full with the Easter holiday season:

April 5 – elections followed by protests and recount requests

April 11 – 50-person “funeral party” for the one-year-since-passing. This year I was able to help make the stuffed cabbage leaves with the women, participated in the post-stuffing meal and toast, and received the “thank you” bread and decorative towel. I feel so much more prepared for these long days of giant meals when some people eat straight out of the serving plate. It comes down to three things: eating slowly, paying attention to which plates/sides to avoid, and eating the vegetables one at a time to take up time. Hoards of bread, but no where near as many as last year – though at least 80 people has passed through then.

April 18-19 – Orthodox Easter. This year we still had a boat load of food from the following week but we had more plates to make. At 11:00 p.m. I headed to the church with mama’s cousin who I love. Her husband chuckled as he wrapped my head in a scarf and “made me a baba.” We walked in the dark slowly to the church, arm in arm over the dirt roads, slipping occasionally on the different levels of dirt. As we got to the church, she bought us each a long white candle and we waited with the others, all standing. As I waited, the priest came in, made a double take as he saw my face and expressed audibly that he was so glad to see me and glad to know that “the Americans are with us too.” I felt uncomfortable, but I smiled and nodded. This is a holiday about equality, not about singling out the American. I felt awkward enough as it is, standing around with a scarf wrapped around my head, the only one in eyeglasses, and taller than most. I followed mama’s cousin as she went to each altar, crossed herself and kiss each portrait. As I bent over the first, I froze about 6 inches from the table and realized I didn’t know what I was doing, so I stood there, bent over the frame, with people watching the frozen American, and just put my hand to my lips and then touched the frame. I stayed in the middle of the crowd after that.

But as we waited for the priest, crowded together in this small, beautiful space, I felt overcome with heat. Blood rush to my head and I felt the urge to throw up. I loosened my coat (the one I said I’d never wear again now that it was no longer winter), excused myself, and rain outside. I took deep breaths, walking around the others standing outside whose faces were hidden in the dark. I heard some “hello” here and there and couldn’t tell if they were playing with me. I went back in and within another two minutes, I was overcome once again with immediate heat and nausea. So we both went outside and waited in the cool spring night air. The priest came with a candle that had supposedly traveled from Jerusalem to Chisinau, to Soroca and then to us. We all lit our candles and proclaimed that Christ has risen and then walked around the church, guarding our flames and stepping on each other. Then we walked around the church again. And then one more time. Then we made our way back to the house, slowly and still cupping the flames, which didn’t give much light on the dark roads, but we made it back and went to bed. I thought I might get up for the sunrise bread blessing that I went to last year, but I stayed in bed and semi-acknowledged the sunrise through my window. Unfortunate, as I love Easter sunrise.

There is this flower with long green leaves on the bottom, with a long stem spouting from the middle, a green tuft of leaves on top and orange petals hanging below towards the ground. It’s called “Jesus has risen” or “little pasca” (a special sweet bread made on Easter). It blooms around Easter. Last year Easter was at the end of the month and that’s when it bloomed. This year Easter was the 19th and it bloomed the 17th. Wonderful. At 9:30 a.m. we ate the blessed food, napped, I practiced a little ukulele, and ate a large meal in the middle of the day. It was a beautiful day with a great mood that continued throughout the week. The week following Easter was vacation for students so the family stayed with us.

April 22 – the one year birthday of my godson. He is walking and trying to talk, smiling, and playing. He seems less uncomfortable with me and I seem less uncomfortable trying to baby-talk with him in Romanian. It was wonderful for me to experience these occasions the second time around. Last year this season was just as busy with Easter, the birth and baptism, and then the funeral. This year was similar but different and it was momentous for me to realize that I’ve been here long enough to witness this cycle again.

April 24 – Art Expo “Night of Art” in Chisinau. We rushed into Chisinau to put together the new sets of cards, frames, etc. then hurried to the expo to set up at 4 where I was overwhelmed with nerves. Perhaps it was because I had no idea what to expect and found myself once again in a very cosmopolitan setting – and international art exhibit with wine and food and Natalie Cole playing in the background. I could barely sit down and I certainly couldn’t keep my mouth shut from 4 until 10 when we left. But it worked out and I remember why I DO love these things. There were a handful of volunteers who came by as well to enjoy the night and support the causes (the night was ultimately a fundraiser for the International Women’s Club of Moldova that supports small projects around the country). I don’t know what I expected. Our nerves flip-flopped between feeling like we wouldn’t sell anything and feeling as if we didn’t bring enough. Turns out that we sold enough to make back what we invested in the night and still have enough stock to continue to raise profit for the art school. Most importantly, our partner seemed to really enjoy the night and luckily there was no negative balance to diminish her enthusiasm for the project. While we would ideally like to help her establish a long-term sponsor, supporting her current efforts through non-grant-writing means is rewarding enough. But this could be something I would like to do with all of my day’s hours. There could be so much more we’d get done if it was fulltime. And yet my energies are divided up between a lot of “possibilities” both in my own village and outside of it.

April 26, 2009 – I rushed back to the village to celebrate “Easter of the Deceased” which my family didn’t participate in last year because of grandma’s recent passing (but I believe I was out of the village or on my way to American at that point either way). I made it too late for my village bus but waited instead for the one that goes to a neighboring village. It’s a smaller bus and it gets full quite quickly on holidays, so I stood in the packed bus as it made its way without hurry. The majority of people were packed in the front by the door as those in the middle found reasons not to move along. And of course we shouldn’t open any of the windows even as we are packed in as sardines. As I started to get nauseas I realized that the season of overheated minibuses is now upon us. And then I just hoped that the woman near me would feel better before she threw up on my jacket. Of course this was followed by extreme guilt because I understood her pain and wished that we BOTH had enough time to make it to our stop (which happened to be the same one, of course).

I made it home without losing it, only to find host dad waiting solo at the house. “The plane has left,” he told me. “The others left?” I asked, having been told they would wait for me but knowing I probably should’ve come back the day before anyway. I changed into a skirt, cooled down, and then their son came back to meet me and we headed off to the cemetery, the road of which was packed with cars all trying to get to the same place. We found our way through the crowded cemetery, covered with grass, crosses on top of crosses, and people blessing those who have passed. Blankets were laid on graves and covered with breads, candles, wine, sweets, and flowers. Some set up full meals on small tables and had what seemed like a picnic. We toasted (from the same glass) to those who passed and those who still are and took a sweet for each toast. Strangers came around offering their own wine and sweets. Host mama was sitting on the grass by the family’s gated lot where five people were laid in a space that we would consider for two. And she was smiling. She looked so at ease. And as I looked around, most all people were smiling, this day of remembrance, not of grieving. The sad images were only of the random single old women who stood lingering by the crosses of their loved ones, wearing layers of old hand-made clothes, with no one to celebrate with. Strangers (and maybe distant relatives) shared wine with them as they walked around. But soon we packed up our picnic basket, left the flowers and headed back to the house where we sat outside under the wooden canopy and had a casual spring meal.

And now it’s Monday, the official day of the holiday that we celebrated yesterday and tomorrow it’s back to business. We are working on three main things in the village at the moment that all need to get down within the next two weeks. And while I’m glad for the work, I sometimes find myself again with the “afraid these won’t work out” feeling, knowing fully well you have to try in order for it to work at all. And ANY success will be better than none at all. But I’m nervous. Nervous because these are the opportunities I’d hoped for in DOING something worthwhile (and tangible) in my village.

This reminds me of the Friday before Easter when the program director came to visit my village and talk with my mayor about his request for another volunteer to come in August. It might be unlikely, as I will still be here and we have too many locations for the smaller number of volunteers, but of course now people keep asking, “So another volunteer is coming after you leave?” And I find myself frustrated with claims of certainty that may or may not just be a tone of translation (and third-party hearsay). But this optimism is only frustrating to me because I will feel responsible for whatever doesn’t work out…as with the three possible projects that we’ll be working on this week: tables and chairs and training seminar at the kindergarten; a bus stop/trash can/anti-littering campaign; windows and doors replacement at the kindergarten. In addition, there was talk before the holidays that we would hold an “American night” at the local one-room library to promote the books that were donated that no one knows about. And the English group is doing a clothing drive that will finish up soon.

So there are things to do. And this is a great time to do it – before Summer starts.

But I still find myself trying to balance so many items that haven’t been determined yet, trying to find the best possible balance between events that haven’t occurred yet (and the budget, logistics, and benefit it all involves) – both for my remaining time in Moldova and the time that will follow.

All in all, April has been a great month and I look forward to the period that will come in May and all of the things I’ve wanted to do in Moldova before I leave in 6-or-so months.

I do NOT, however, look forward to overheated travel, but that’s life and I complained just as much when it was too cold.

Spring is here! It surprised me a couple times, snuck away again, and then came back with determination.

I noticed my mood change when we had to hitchhike to the art school on Monday afternoon, lucky that the weather was walking-permitting. And then as we catch a bus after waiting only 10 minutes, it started going at a snail’s pace for the potholes that surprisingly didn’t merit the caution. But I found myself amused instead of impatient. What were we going to do about it at that point? We had actually planned on arriving at 8 a.m., so the difference between 12:30 and 1:30 didn’t much matter. But what I liked most was that I didn’t mind…that I was, instead, grateful for the weather and the sudden freedom over my travel schedule, no longer dictated by snow, biting wind, few hours of sunlight, or heavy winter clothes. Lighter clothing, lighter spirit. It also turned out that the minibus we were on goes to the mysterious Ukrainian camping spot I had been wondering about for months!

Tuesday was gray and rainy again, as was Wednesday. But Thursday through Sunday have thus far been phenomenal. And I’m enjoying a day back in the village, having been gone for over a week.

I also find myself thinking: I don’t think I feel guilty about being gone for this week. And then: I thoroughly enjoyed the productivity of this week as I had been screaming of boredom for so long that I need to appreciate the fatigue that came from a fast-paced and surprisingly productive week doing something I enjoyed.

And this was all brought about by surprising coincidences. I had only planned to be gone for the weekend, but the start of a joke got me thinking about what we COULD get done during the week….and boy were we lucky. We ended up with a lot to get done before the art expo on the 24th where we will promote the greeting cards we’ve been designing from the children’s artwork (website almost ready!)

Then as I think I can leave on Thursday, I wasn’t sure if I could make it home before dark. (I now need to walk every time I get dropped off at the main road since a) the car isn’t here and b) I should be able to do it solo, without bothering my host dad to pick me up.) The 45-minute walk is much easier when the sun is out and I’m not carrying armloads of bags. I’ve yet to start the walk at dark, though I have arrived at the edge of the village as the sun set and I slipped over icy roads in the dark. Regardless, I decided I would have enough time to make it home, but then the minibus broke down, assuring my post-sunset arrival. I made my way as far north as possible and stayed with another volunteer, sure I would make it home the next day. Of course I woke up with a health annoyance and ran back down to Chisinau for meds, which was much easier to do from her village than from mine – another lucky coincidence. I then had to stay the night to check the improvement in the morning and was finally on my way Saturday at noon. I made it to the main road on a beautiful sunny afternoon and made it home around 3:00 – 7 days later than I had planned and wearing the same grungy clothes, but satisfied at a fulfilling week.

And as I first entered the village, something smelled different. It was familiar, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. But it brought a warm nostalgia and an excitement. And today as I went for a long walk, exploring areas I never realized were connected, I smelled the sunny Moldova aroma that I never noticed until it returned.

I told myself that I would be able to stay in the village for at least three weeks after this productive week, but I knew that was partly out of guilt and partly out of a fatigue of travel. But then the sun came out and I didn’t mind anymore. I felt at ease with whichever direction next weekend went, knowing the summer would make either one enjoyable. But I came home to find that next weekend we would hold the one-year-since-passing funeral for my host mom’s mother. I am glad that happenings have determined that I will stay home next week…and as the following week is Orthodox Easter, I will be home that full week as well.

I’d like to say that my change in disposition is more than just weather-derived. Rather, I feel that it is fascinating timing between my ever-changing outlook and the change in season.

I had seen the door to the outside summer kitchen propped open. I peeked inside but couldn’t tell if it wasn’t getting prepped for approaching use or if it was just being aired out. It got me wondering when we would switch to eating and bathing outside. Then today, as I started typing this entry, my host dad walks by with a towel on his head. “Where’s Samantha?” he asked. “I’m here,” I said, half worried. “Go wash.” “Outside?” I asked with a smile. “Yes! Use all the water.” And we both smiled at the simple excitement of warm weather. I rushed outside and sang praises as I bathed, knowing that even if we hit a couple more mud-plagued rainy days, the warm season is pushing in.

March 17, 2009

A couple of weeks ago I found myself very irritable, stuck within some frustrating combination of apathy and anger. I would cry at unnecessary moments, snap at those who were trying to help me, and get frustrated at the simplest of questions. I felt significantly disappointed by those around me and I didn’t really know where it came from. The answer, though, always almost comes from within.

We were told from the beginning to reevaluate our expectations. Every step of the way, a sign of frustration is followed by someone questioning our expectations. Lowering expectations is not something you can say to a group of overachievers who have crossed great ponds to meet their high standards. And if my “unrealistic expectations” had been replaced by something more appropriate from the onset, perhaps I wouldn’t be where I am. But no one can give you a correct set of expectations while simultaneously telling you that each experience is unique.

My current frustration came from the shock of another awkward transition from the dead depression of winter to the unexpected wake-up call of not-quite-spring. You see, I have reassessed my expectations on a continual basis, trying to find ways to match any worthwhile outcome to existing opportunities. And yet, it keeps getting redesigned, new expectations keep getting thrown out at me, and what I once threw out as dead or dying has been resurrected and thrown in my face.

As of the 12th, I have been in Moldova for a year and six months. And the first of us will Close Service in 7 months (excluding those who have/will leave early for medical, educational, personal, or additional reasons).

I think, ultimately, it’s fatigue. It’s not homesickness; it was an overall lack of energy and a reluctance to take on more responsibility because I don’t want to be disappointed, to fail.

“Many volunteers feel they need to create a monument,” he told me. And I didn’t get it at first. “Like a statue?” I said. “No, like a monument project: one concrete accomplishment to signify their service.” And I got the impression that he was either judging them or trying to persuade me into not relying on that same evaluation of my service: based on one concrete accomplishment. And I do agree that the perspective I’ll gain in ten years will shine light on the significance of each of these daily activities, but I also understand the longing for something solid…at least until the time of great perspective has washed over me.

Purging expectations is not the same as lowering standards.

When March came and I noticed the grayness, I remembered two stories. In Moldova, spring starts on March 1st and there is a story that starts on that day: the story of “Baba Dochia.” (doh-kee-ya) In this story, a woman ventures out with the first sign of spring on March 1 and as the sun slowly comes out, she gradually undresses. First her scarf, then her hat and gloves. Next come her large coat and sweater. And once she has taken off all of her clothes and the sun has warmed her whole body, the winter wind whips back and freezes her to death. This is the warning of the first week of spring: it’s a tease, keep your clothes on. What a depressing story. But I definitely remember to keep well-clothed and to not be tricked by the sun.

The second story is actually a memory. I forget the reason (probably that same intestinal parasite), but I stayed in the medical apartment last March. I was in the kitchen with a volunteer who would finish up that summer and we were both looking out the window at the gray March sky. I was wondering why it didn’t look like spring yet. “I remember it being nice by April,” she told me. True enough, I remember the Romania trip taking place on the first sunny weekend, the second week in April. So my shock at the March grayness was mitigated this time around and, knowing that spring truly is around the corner, I feel more patient.

Some of the girls that I had been working with have just let me know that they are going to be too busy to continue our weekly English meetings because they’ll be studying for their graduation examinations, etc. I understand, but I’m saddened; these were great girls and I enjoyed this source of consistency. I had also hoped that the relationships would develop. There’s still time. And that’s not the full extent of my activities in the village, but I looked forward to it. And it was an opportunity. The fewer people I meet with, the fewer opportunities there are.

As grim as this letter might sound, I actually feel a lot better. I feel calmer and I try to remember to stretch and pray more frequently, to say my mind, and to not take things so personally. And I feel like a have come through another transition and am now in a new (although unchanged) part of my service. I still have no doubt that I want to finish – and part of it is simple curiosity to see what will come of the full experience, what might come at the end. I’m also just not ready to leave.

To add a little humility to my seemingly “I know how to live life correctly” entry below, let me just say that I’m humbled by my own realization that I have not been invited to nearly as many meals as I assumed I would’ve. I’m not normally the “I can’t believe I wasn’t invited” person, but this is supposed to be a culture of inviting everyone over, of spontaneous meals that come from nowhere for the guest who just popped in. And even my host mom commented that it was weird that none of the students I work with invited me to their house for one of the millions of holiday celebrations. Or my former partner (ever). But that’s the weird line between teacher and friend. I’m neither I guess.

I am perfectly aware of my hypocrisy; I want to be with my host family. Having spent so much time running back and forth to Chisinau, I like to just be at home, especially during the holidays, when we have family here as well. And there has been a friend of the family who has invited me to her village on innumerable occasions and I have turned her down repeatedly because of the rarity that I am actually at home and thus prefer to stay home. And the spontaneous “you need to come to my house to eat loads of food” hospitality can sometimes be stressful instead of flattering.

But now that I realize that I’ve only been to one spontaneous evening (which included two houses – and that was one year ago), well I feel a little disappointed. Am I just not warm with these people? Is my village just slightly less tied to this tradition? I do know that the various traditions of saying “good morning” also vary from village to village. In some villages I should only speak to women. In other villages, anyone older than me (as in my current village now). And the frequency with which young children (and teenage boys) say hello to their elders varies greatly. It is then my hypothesis that the “open doors, big table” attitude parallels the variations in “good morning” frequency.

And yet, I still feel a bizarre combination of rejected, guilty, and disappointed.

February 8, 2009

I recently wrote an email detailing my marathon experience. I wanted to post the whole thing, but it wasn’t entirely publicly appropriate. In fact the details that are the most emotional are simultaneously the most personal – but isn’t that normally the case? I can say, though, that I was surprised once again by the strength of my own body. I have not experienced anything as motivating as the confidence that comes after completing a marathon, especially after not thinking you would and wrestling an angry stomach with an absence of toilets. I finished. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t doubt it. It had gotten to the point pre-race when I just accepted that it would be painful, but temporary. Muscularly, it felt much better than anticipated. Emotionally/stomach-wise…not so much. But the resulting high that came from emotional stress rather than muscle fatigue was more satisfying.

The trip to Morocco was fantastic. I enjoyed each moment of the trip and was continuously impressed by events that worked out for us. When I first got back to Chisinau, I felt invincible. I was sure that I would be able to battle the remaining winter weeks with style and energy. It turned out that the week of my return was much harder than I imagined. I succumbed back to habits of Office-watching and pajama-wearing. Knowing that a bath would help me only added to the frustration; I didn’t want to start heating water again. There was no longer a marathon routine. No scheduled run, shower, or activity. But there was definitely still winter.

Except yesterday it was a shocking 50 degrees – almost as warm as when we were in Morocco.

February 21, 2009

Well that warm-ish weather left as surprisingly as it showed up. It’s back down to zero and there is snow once again upon the ground. I want the weather to start heating up, but that means mud. I forgot how much I disliked the mud – especially as I was complaining about the ice. The fact was that if I had worn my Yak Traks the snow/ice wouldn’t have been as much of a problem.

They don’t work as well with the mud which is ridiculously slippery. Sometimes the thicker stuff is better – just trudge right through it with those cheap Moldovan boots that you’re going to throw away in a few months anyway. But the thicker stuff acts like a plunger, sucking in your foot and making the same sloppy, popping sound when you pull your foot out.

I’ve gotten back into a semi-routine now, but I wouldn’t mind being able to run again (it’s too cold for pleasure walks). And I remember why the February wind was my enemy; it bites. Unfortunately I left my running stuff in Chisinau before leaving for the race and I haven’t been able to bring it back yet. It’s barely been three weeks since I’ve been back (seems like ages). And I’m already back contemplating what I’m still doing here – or what I’ve ever been doing here.

The mental perception of November-March seemed longer last year. But this year it’s still too long. I’m tired. Tired of heating water for a bath (but I am oh-so-efficient now). I’m tired of washing laundry by hand (so sometimes I just don’t). I’m tired of carbs (and how I usually love them). I’m sure this is all exaggerated by winter. Once things get moving again, when everything starts warming up and I can be outside in the sunshine, I will likely cheer up. But I will be ready to go when the time comes. I can’t wait for the summer sun-heated shower that drips over me bucket-free. I guess, then, it’s not just Moldova…it’s winter in Moldova.

When April comes, I’ll tell you that I didn’t gain 15 pounds this winter. March was the peak of last year’s winter weight. I’d never had a winter weight before. And that will be Marathon Goal #1. Check.

No this experience has not been what I expected but I think that is a factor of my expectations. I don’t want to hypothesize on my final Peace Corps recommendations as I’m not done with the experience yet. But I am more solidified in my belief that each person needs to follow their own direction and that following the advice of people who have different intentions will only end up in frustration and disappointment.

Ironically, this also means that I’ve shifted gears slightly when it comes to graduate school planning. I’m still planning on getting all of my applications ready by the time I leave Moldova, but my expected direction has morphed again. My interests (numerous as they are) haven’t gone away. They haven’t narrowed themselves or changed drastically in any other way as I expected them to do during my two years in Moldova. Instead, they’ve become more unified and magnified as a whole. Thus it’s become more essential to find a program, a field that would allow me to study the relationship between each of my interests. And, funnily enough, it leads me right back to the place I started. Every step, every degree idea I’ve researched (and on dial-up, each “idea” is a month-long process of researching schools, courses, and options) has led to the next, more specific program. It follows the same theory that discovering what you don’t like (or “what you’re not writing about” as the metaphor started) leads you to what you DO want. And it’s taking me in a circle, which each turn more educated than the last.

It’s funny too, that one small green book continues to echo in my mind, telling me something I knew even before I read it. Isn’t it interesting, too, that my “favorite little book” is one that agrees with my own thoughts? Do what you love. If you have the chance to be where you want, to do what you want, take a leap and do it and things will end up where they are supposed to end up. Follow your gut. Get down to the simplicity gut-driven heart of the matter. Me, who has been so lucky in the past…how could I not trust that? I have seen the way that life leads ME in the right directions. And I’ve spouted this to friends and family, so why not follow it myself? It’s not a matter of what you are good at but what makes you feel good. (I’m writing this to myself now.) And the scariest part is sometimes feeling that you aren’t supported in your bizarre interests, your unorthodox desires. But if there’s a natural gift within you for something, if it sparks a fire…that’s the type of motivation you want to follow! And I’ve have been so phenomenally supported by friends and family (especially throughout my Peace Corps experience) that I can almost throw out the “what if I don’t have support?” whopper.

And so when I think about what I’ve actually taken my precious dial-up time to read about, to argue about, to research and discuss…well that’s as simple as it gets. The things that interest me most about the youth I work with, for example…the idiosyncrasies that may not stick out to someone else. Or perhaps they are frustrations to someone else and, in this particular interest, they are curiosities to me…something I want to get to the heart of. Simply put, this is what I want to study and if I can find a place where I can explore each of these (I can) then why not? Why choose one and feel incomplete?

Perhaps this is the most time I’ve devoted to talking about a program I’m not naming (but I’ve changed my mind so passionately so many times).

So I’ve come around the circle once again, both with my feelings about being in Moldova and my ideas about what to do when I get back. Undoubtedly I’ll flip around a dozen more times, but there is something reassuring in the fact that it’s brought me back to the same spot each time.

Here we are as close to the holiday season as we can get without already being stuck in the up-and-down-ness of winter blues, gray skies, and knee deep mud. Unfortunately, we’ve already met Mr. I-don’t-like-the-cold, Mrs. The-skies-are-still-gray, and their daughter Ms. I-wish-I-was-still-on-vacation. And instead of mud, they’ve brought ice with them. I don’t remember there being as much ice last year though. I’ve already fallen three times on the ice and yesterday I stood in the middle of the frozen road because every step was ice skating. I was 1) too scared to move seeing as I already have a 4” diameter bruise on my leg and 2) hoping the boys who were sliding around would leave and grant me the honor of falling in privacy. They didn’t leave. But my director called, giving me a reprieve from decision making and a reason to stay put for the duration of our conversation. She brought good news: I would still be able to leave in January for the marathon though it conflicted with a program conference. But once the conversation was over I had to get back to the business of walking on ice.

I never thought I’d say this….but I’d prefer the mud…even the slippery, you-think-you’re-going-to-fall-with-every-step, so-ubiquitous-that-there’s-no-way-around-it, everything-is-covered-and-clothes-are-ruined type of mud. But the anger at risking falling in mud is nowhere as nerve-wracking as not being able to put a single foot down because each step slides underneath you and your aching knee is too stiff (or sore or temperamental) to help you stay up. (Mommy, I have a new found empathy for what I used to think was just your humorous clumsiness. My apologies.)

Yesterday, after my run, I tried to take a bath. A real bath. I heated up what I thought would be enough water to fill the tub once I mixed it with an equal amount of cool water. It wasn’t enough, but I sat in the water and poured it over myself anyway. Either way, I had used up all the buckets of water in the house, and, trying to be a thoughtful host daughter, I decided that I would go to the well to refill at least one of the two buckets. First mistake: I didn’t wear gloves and the handle of the well was solid ice. Second mistake: I wore slippers. Don’t ask me why, but I did. Though my only other pair of possibly appropriate shoes was the same Nikes I was wearing when I was skating to work, frozen in indecisiveness in the middle of the road. I filled up the bucket and made my way slowly back to the house until, just in front of the house, the slightest of inclines brought me down, spilling all of the cold water I had just filled. I could’ve gone back and tried again, but I didn’t. I settled with a half-hearted attempt at being responsible and thoughtful only to find that as I left to work I also left the door unlocked.

But while I grumble at the cold and curse the ice, I don’t feel nearly as gloomy this December. I’m more homesick for holiday traditions, but not as depressed. It’s an odd balance. Part of my sanity is most likely due to three things: a semi-regular schedule, having people I enjoy talking/brainstorming with, and running. I’ll take them apart: the semi-regular schedule is only possible because of the new arrangement made after last month’s conflict, so for this, I’m grateful; the people I talk with has helped salvage my idealism and optimism in being able to accomplish something during my time here; both the schedule and the people have led to a feeling of regular productivity – or at least the hope of it; the marathon, though proving more painful than I imagined, has kept me more active, as was the intention.

We volunteers have set out across seas toward adventures that we knew would be “challenging and rewarding” but we could not have guessed what the challenges or rewards would be. The beauty though, is that this has been the reoccurring case with all expectations I’ve been setting thus far. It does not only refer to my service itself, but also the individual goals and ideas. We didn’t expect that moral dilemmas, persevering through boredom, and resisting a pessimistic outlook would be some of the major challenges. I know that I didn’t expect to tire so quickly of boiling water and washing my clothes by hand. I thought the adaptation would only become more established, not that it would drop after its peak.

I knew that training during the winter would be a pain in the butt and that I would need major moments of self-motivation and discipline to keep myself going (and wasn’t that the goal?); however, with about 5 weeks left until warm-weather running, I’m realizing that the challenge is greater than just wind and rain. I’ve tried to be honest with myself. I’ve tried to keep to a regime that would be realistic and still allow for community involvement (and marathon completion). (And when you have to heat your own water, an hour run turns into a three-hour process.) I’ve also tried to be realistic about my expectations while simultaneously recognizing pains and balancing the need for pushing through them and holding back. My goal for the race has changed three times over and each adjustment is an inner struggle to discern between laziness and realities. While the right knee is more upset during these iced-road runs, I have to remind myself that this was the exact same pattern in Sunny California: knee in the beginning, shin splints in the middle, knee at the end…only more exaggerated. Last time the knee kept me off the road for 4 weeks before the race. I used bikes and stationary exercises instead. But that’s not an option right now. But the clincher is that I don’t remember my everyday walking being affected. Do I stretch enough? Surely not. Have I been strengthening my calves enough? No.

But this training – getting outside, staying active, having a goal – was supposed to help reduce stress and stabilize my winter emotional-ness. It wasn’t supposed to add to pressure, worry, and pain. And yet, wholeheartedly, deep down in the heart of the matter, I know that this surprise challenge will make it all even more worth while. And that is one of the reasons why I’ve no doubt that I will get through this, that I will finish and that I will have a much better winter – both than last winter and than would’ve been possible otherwise.

I’ve also re-acknowledged my frustration with people who are supposed to represent me. Yes, frustration with people we are conflicting with is a continual aggravation regardless of the person, but frustration with those who are supposed to represent us is even more deep-rooted. When someone tarnishes something that I’ve been working on, I am more angry than discouraged, especially when they ruin the effectiveness of a whole, well-intentioned group. This isn’t a new realization. Just rare enough for me to need to comment each time.

But here is a wish for all of you: that whatever surprises have come your way, that you have the love of those around you to help see them through. I’ve been blessed enough to have enough clear days to run, to have enough people to talk with, and to have enough coal to keep the fire warm this winter. I hope that each of you has something for which you are grateful this holiday season and that you have others to share it with.

I just need to give credit to Autumn. It’s beautiful and mysterious. It reminds me abstractedly of California Fall but it’s more surprising. The dry wind still signifies that Thanksgiving Day is coming, but the difference is the proximity of all colors together. Sure, trees change color in California too, but there’s no one to sweep the leaves away here. And the narrowness of the roads brings all the leaves together, so with the above-and-below of auburn, yellow, and orange, I’m surrounded in Fall – and I love it. And Los Angeles doesn’t have the sweet, fermenting wine smell. I have that here.

My stubbornness against the cold won’t hurt anyone else, but I’m a walking contradiction: I hate being cold, but resist layering up in loads of clothing. So I wore a skirt today. A denim miniskirt. (I haven’t worn a miniskirt of any kind since I was a cheerleader, meaning I wore miniskirts every Friday – woohoo!) But I want to soak up all bits of sunlight before I turn pallid, bundled in clothing I don’t want to be wearing.

In 18 days I’ll be testing my English on the GRE. My verbal and math skills had normally been about on par with each other, but studying English words in a Moldovaneasca-speaking country means I speak JUMBLISH. Words I thought I knew now look intimidating and, more often, annoying. Before October hit, I started really missing English, missing my understanding of nuances, missing the richness of our vocabulary. And then I started studying that richness and now I’m not so sure that we need scores of words for “criticism” or “bad-tempered.” And why does there have to be a separate word for “the support structures of measuring instruments”?

When I’m done being tested on my English-language vocabulary, I’m sure I’ll appreciate it once again. But for the time being, I need to start living the “don’t be afraid to aim high” blabber I’ve been exclaiming to those who have dared it before me. Ironically, last week was quite emotional and, frustratingly, without a specific stimulus. All the richness of two languages couldn’t describe my mood. Not that I’m new to the random desire to “cry it out” but an extended inability to sleep hit a head when I was reintroduced to shin splints. Part of aiming high means getting your hopes up – something I haven’t let myself do for a while (maybe that’s why it’s more exciting for me to “leave things to fate”). Trying to do everything you can to “do it right” means that you’ve put energy and hope and faith into it and you risk losing that when it doesn’t work out. But the biggest thing I’m remembering is that keeping your chin up is more important than not getting your hopes up. So I guess this is me saying: I’m not afraid to want something.

Of course this random entry is an example of my need to 1) clarify the previous frustration-filled “I hate winter” entry and 2) procrastinate from studying. But I’m going to get back to my vocabulary enhancing because I 1) see progress and 2) really want to go to graduate school. Since deciding spontaneously about a month ago that I would take the GRE, I’ve since increased my graduate school enthusiasm tenfold. Of course I have a tendency to change my “future plans” spontaneously and radically. I didn’t go to the college I accepted, I didn’t finish grad school applications one month before they were due, I left the Peace Corps decision up to destiny, and I still think about art school – but this is where my heart (and mind) is at the moment.

Not surprisingly, that enthusiasm has come hand-in-hand with a specific program direction. Perhaps if my interest for the program wanes, so, too, will my urgent desire for grad school. But no other program has ever gotten me so eager and motivated. You can’t ignore that spontaneous YES feeling. That’s what I always hope for – the unquestionable desire for something, the lack of uncertainty, and the ease of decision making. In fact, it’s one of the things I pray for on a reoccurring basis – the ease of decision making. But I also know myself well enough to never say “it won’t change,” just that it’s one more factor pointing me in the right direction, and watching it happen is captivating and reassuring. Of course, the other irony is that it’s the one program I scratched off immediately two years ago. Funny how it works out. I have no doubt that my experience here was necessary and that it is truly setting me up for everything that will follow…even if I “abhor pompous words” for a while.

It’s been a weekend of exhaling, that’s what I’m calling it. It’s amazing how many times you can catch your muscles relaxing when you didn’t even notice that they had been tense. Let me catch you up with what followed my one-year-in-country moment: gray sky. Sixteen days without even a hint of blue sky, not one moment of sunshine. That’s 24/7 moodiness and complaining; 384 hours of “you’ve got to be kidding me” and “it’s way too early for this.” When September 1st came, so did a cool, dry wind, i.e. Fall. I told myself: it’s not that cold yet, this is ok. And then BOOM! My “congratulations for one year” was freezing rain on September 12th. The “cold months” in Moldova (as allocated by the Peace Corps heating allowance) are October through March

(read: HALF OF THE YEAR!). Six months is too long as it is, the additional September phase was not welcomed at all.

But, that’s all over now; there’s blue sky today. And there was blue sky yesterday, too. It started Saturday evening on my way home from a full Friday of baking. Let me tell you, for someone who hasn’t felt sunlight in a while, you can almost forget what it feels like on your face. It’s beautiful and calming. It’s necessary.

Other little “thank you” moments came from finding my tweezers, then my engraved Swiss Army knife, being able to (finally) save my documents after not being able to use the portable hard drive for an entire year, then reloading the operating system and applications on my computer. Being able to sign on to the internet from my own computer was exciting, too. But the largest, most anticipated exhale came today when I submitted two separate grant proposals, one of which asks for way too much money for something that is totally necessary.

Perhaps this is the more appropriate one-year-in-country entry, as only passing the one year mark has made me better able to reflect on it. As with the previously mentioned exhaling moments, I’ve found that my prayers changed a million times over, as well. They went from “please let this pass” to asking for patience to “please let this work” to trying to be open to what came my way. I cannot help but put expectations on some of these project proposals – one of the most dangerous non-defensive moves I can make. Yet the fact that I have actually put a significant amount of tangible work into these is not something I can easily ignore. Of course, there is a second option, and I just hope that I am optimistic enough to follow through with it if this 27,000 Euro request isn’t granted. It would prove that there’s no need to give up after a first try. And while that “proof” would be directed toward my Moldovan counterpart, it would be essential for my own learning as well.

Moldova has emphatically proven to me that what we learn in theory is not always easily transferred to practice. After graduating, I felt confident that I had enrichment my Child and Adolescent Development education with thorough, simultaneous practice. I’ve spouted multiple times that it was the busy schedule, the parallel of work and study that propelled my learning and made it more comprehensive. However, what works in California (in English) doesn’t necessarily work in village of 3,000 (in Romanian).

I realized that my “relationship” with youth, in front of a class, in the gym, and in uncomfortable situations, was language-dependent. Not just language in the English-Romanian sense, but language in my ability to communicate emotionally, to relate through examples, to choose age-appropriate responses and to explain myself. While it was immediately evident that I was the “talky coach,” I hadn’t outlined how I exhibited that – I just thought I talked more. I also hadn’t realized that those methods would be more difficult to utilize here.

Additionally surprising was the realization that I had always been “supplied” a group of youth, kids, girls, etc. What I hadn’t been prepared for was the motivating-from-scratch factor. Sure, I understand the necessity of motivating in all social domains, but motivating a group that isn’t yet formed, in a language you’ve just learned, for an interest that you came up with yourself….well, it develops a lot more slowly.

I also find that my patience with cultural difference, with questions that I feel are inappropriate, with hospitality that comes across as pushiness…well it tires. And yet, just when I snap and say something sarcastic to myself, I’m proven wrong and the motives that I judged as improper dissipate to reveal misconceptions and prejudgments on my part. Of course, I acknowledge the need to express frustration, especially as some get ready to leave for good. Working day in and day out with logistics that don’t make sense and apparent intrusions to personal space…well we spend so much time trying to have patience with it, trying to understand the beauty of cultural differences, that when the time comes when you can exhale and release all frustrations, when you no longer need to conform to someone else’s standard…I can see the liberation. But I’m not there yet. Right now I still have one more year, and, truthfully, I hope that I don’t need to think of it as liberation. I’d rather spend this next year finding better ways to express, explain, and stand up for myself.

And what I never knew how much I loved: chopped apples in brown sugar and cinnamon. I knew I like the combo as it’s the same as apple pie filling (and don’t get me started talking about pie…) but whenever eating or making an apple pie, I never ate the filling before baking it, and I never eat the filling without the crust (or it just wouldn’t be pie). But there’s something so enjoyable about crisp cool apples that make their own glaze when tossed with brown sugar.

I need to acknowledge that any moment of release, any of those “thank you moments” was aided by another person. I have been so blessed by the people around me. I’ve caught myself literally wondering why I have been as blessed as I am, and I know that I won’t hear or see an answer for years to come – if ever – but all I know is that I am frequently filled with divine gratitude and that all I can do is make it all worthwhile, to live up to it, not letting inconsequential factors get in the way of momentous and purposeful experiences.

On a similar subject, I’ve decided to train for another marathon, publicizing it as much as I can so that I have more motivation to get my tush outside when it gets permanently cold and uncomfortable. Last winter I didn’t know what to expect, which, in hindsight, helped me until March when I was confused about why it didn’t feel like Spring. The problem with this upcoming winter is that I know exactly how long it might very likely last and I don’t like it. While hibernating is comfortable when it’s cold outside, the 24/7 sedentary-ness doesn’t help your state of mind. So I’m going to stay active, to keep my mind moving, to fight the emotional-ness that creeps up indisputably in the winter. And yet, even though the majority of my winter-related thoughts involve grimacing and complaining, the random “it wasn’t actually that bad” thoughts come up from time to time, too. We’ll see. I do know, though, that I don’t plan on letting winter get the best of me. So I will run through the majority of the winter and February 13th I will run in Luxor City, both keeping me motivated and getting me to a warm climate in the winter.

And if there were any host family I would want to be snowed inside with, it would be this one. I feel no stress about food or communication here and they are always up for a chat when I need some non-American support. I know that I will stay here, in this house, for the full two years. I will not move families (don’t want to) and I will not live solo (nowhere to go anyway). But instead of being frustrated, I want to embrace the short-lived time when I will have homemade bread available everyday, when the patter of chickens is normal, and when all dairy is home-processed.

It doesn’t surprise me either, that while I may be adapting well enough to this situation, being out of the loop on happenings at home – and unable to help when need be – hasn’t gotten much easier.

Yes, I am enjoying my time in Moldova. Yes, to date I have had the experience that I could wish to have during the first 12 months. But I also know that the next year will bring even more uncertainty and anxiety and that it will shock me, as well. I can’t comprehend, let alone express, the weirdness that is living in an experience that you know will end. Working and adapting and fighting for an experience that you will soon leave can be reassuring but is often discouraging. I came here for an experience that I hoped would not be isolated, that I would utilize for years to come. And I trust that will be the case. But there will surely be some experiences, relationships, realizations, and memories that will remain only here…and that is enormously bizarre.

I feel good. Things are good. Things are moving. I’m going to be vague at the moment, but only because I feel content enough to let well enough alone. I will, however, say that I have noticed some of the ways that I’m changing. Of course there are a million ways I’ve changed (and will change) that I won’t notice for years. But the way evident to me as an insider is in my ever changing idea about what to go back to school for. Because going back to school is a guaranteed, it’s a constant factor of my changing mindset, interests, and whims. No need to hold it down, it’ll change again…but it’s my evidence: I’m growing. And I’m growing up too. Every day. Using that category as the sole factor for the moment: Seeing as I’ve changed my mind so frequently over this past year (minus two weeks), I’m eager to see how many different routes pop up during this next year (plus a couple months). Considering November will mark my first Presidential vote, I’ve decided to do something about the “I don’t want to spout uninformed opinions” mentality I’ve been hiding behind. I remember telling my grandpa once about preferring one candidate over another because I had a “better feeling” about one. (I was fourteen.) Well while the rest of my entries demonstrate my “go with your gut” inclination, that doesn’t quite roll with me when it comes to casting a vote. So I made a chart. It took very little time to actually make a visual of each candidate and where they stood on the issues that are most important to me. It doesn’t surprise me that after my (more educated) analysis, I’ve confirmed my previous preference. But now I feel more confident about why I feel one way or another. And a little village humor now…I was home alone last night and then for the good part of today. So I was left in charge of the poultry. Seriously. It was my job to lock ‘em up at night and let ‘em loose in the morning. Did you know that birds will put themselves to bed at nightfall? I was imagining needing to chase the chickens into the coop before it became too dark to see, then consequently slipping in the dark mud, getting cranky, and leaving some of the chicks out to get eaten by village monsters. But no…I peaked in the coop and heard the “peep peep” of baby chicks, closed the door and went after the turkeys. The turkeys, too, put themselves away at night. They were perched up on ladders, side-by-side facing the wall. I closed the door and chuckled at the fact that it’s taken me nine months to be “farm helpful,” and even then, I didn’t do much. I did, however, get myself out of bed at seven – early even on non-Saturdays – to let the birds out…who didn’t rush out because it was raining. I wanted to see the birds run. I wanted them to fly out at my face with excitement! They didn’t, so I went back to bed. But I am definitely much more comfortable living here. The school year starts again Monday and 13 days from now will mark One Year in Country (which isn’t quite the same as One Year Left). Here we go.

written: July 27, 2008 Another energy-consumed-by-calm feeling has come over me, signaling only that I’m ready to write again. And while I feel this is a necessary time to write, I don’t know where to start. So I will begin with something I wrote over a year ago: “The world is blooming in front of me. Some flowers bloom and perfume the air while others turn ugly. But I want to see it all happen. I want to see the world at its ugliest. I want to be shocked and horrified. Surprised and emotionally connected to a world that isn't seemingly my own. I want to be challenged. Before I had wished for a middle-of-the-road experience as my first Peace Corps project. Now I want the hut. I want to be as far away from all crutches as possible...” The world is blooming literally here – fresh and lush gardens combined with a widening world view. And I do want to see it all happen. I still want to see the ugly and the angry. But I needed to remind myself of that. Because I have been getting angry; I have been feeling disconnected from the world that is still my world, instead of feeling gratitude for this eye opening experience. I have seen generosity and humanity, but I have also seen selfishness and pain – from both fellow countrymen and from strangers. In addition to the “shocked and horrified” I’ve also been impressed with my own unintentional prediction that one of my biggest goals and challenges would be in maintaining self-discipline throughout the self-defined schedule. Both ideas were written before I even knew I would be coming to Moldova, before I knew specifically what my challenges would be. And they have come to be spot-on-accurate. One of the biggest difficulties is finding balance, and it’s not just one type of balance, but quite a ridiculous number of opposites that I’ve been trying to equalize: time in the village and time in the city, responsibility to the point of guilt or acting like a volunteer to the point of indifference, not caring what people think and not wanting to offend anyone, productivity or cultural integration, frustration for change or acceptance for the situation. Listening intuitively is something I seem to remind myself of only randomly. Sometimes it seems to carry more pressed importance to me than others, but it’s a growing process – though I may forget to listen to the greater will of things at times, when I do listen, my faith and trust grows exponentially so that the general growth is positive…and powerful. You have to try it to feel it; you have to feel it to trust it, to believe it. I’m saying this entirely to myself because I know what darkness feels like. I know what little sense “blind faith” can hold when you are shrouded and deaf. That’s the word: deaf. It’s not so much “sight” as “hearing,” as “listening.” Simple things such as: what do I want at this simple moment, where do I want to be? Then getting up from the bus stop and walking to the river so that I can see some glimpse of water in this ocean-deprived country. And so instead of waiting for the I-don’t-know-when-it-will-get-here bus, I sat somewhere more enjoyable and got up only when I was ready; no looking at the time. Then as I get back to the bus stop, I wait only five minutes before the bus comes to take me home. Home. Yes, it’s “home” because it is where I felt most comfortable after the three consecutive nights in different places. It’s home because it’s where I was heading when I finally felt relieved of the eggshells I had been walking on for ten months. At first, I defined that “relief” as the spontaneous readiness to stop caring about what other people thought (while admitting to myself that it had been a silent source of steady stress since coming to country). Though, I now realize that my spontaneous transition is greater than just eggshells. It’s the readiness to listen at every moment. To close my eyes and ask where I want to be, what I feel, where I’m being led at each moment, so that I let things work out the way they are supposed to work out instead of trying to fix everything all the time – instead of thinking that I know what’s best. I don’t. There is a cycle, a purpose, a harmony to things when we let them work out, and I want to let them work out. I don’t want to ignore the obvious. And I’ve said this to myself for the last two years but I don’t always act on it. I feel wholeheartedly that by getting down to the gut-of-the-matter, all of the “Peace Corps balances” will be found. But I need to acknowledge the others that lead their life this way. There is something necessary in my reading The Meaning of Life and The Tao of Pooh (and, sure, The Alchemist, too) that reminds me that someone else is thinking the same thing. And, yes, that’s nice…but to know the PEOPLE, to see their lives and to feel their energy, their peace, their lightness of step…to know the people who lead their lives on a regular basis based on the subtle “this is where I need to be” feeling…well it’s awesomely inspiring. When we ask ourselves simply: what would I miss most if I couldn’t have it in my life? And then following that, regardless of how weird or scary that path may be… I’m not ready for that question yet, let alone the answer, but I am already grateful for those that I have seen make that step. Ideally, when I get there, I’ll be able to take that jump too. In one year and four months. Backing up to tell you a story: I didn’t know how long I would wait for the minibus, I knew only that there would be nothing between 5:00 and 6:15, but it was not yet 4:00. I took my time, knowing that the 6:15 would still be there, assured and trying not to rush (I loathe that feeling). I went from here to there, forgetting something, going back, saying goodbye, saying it again, and then leaving when I was ready, regardless of time. I got a few fresh apricots out of it (yeah!) and some lovely walking company. And as I arrived at the Gara, there was the exact surprise minibus that I needed to take, leaving at just that moment. I hopped right on. The last seat was the one next to the driver. A coincidence, I said to myself, since the same thing happened last time and the driver bought me ice cream. This time was not as sweet. Different driver, different day. Grateful as I was that it wasn’t raining when I walked to the station (because it probably would have convinced me to stay another night), the downpour that followed while we were driving was scary enough to make up for it. It was brain-rattlingly scary. I had a front seat view of the speedy passes the driver made around other cars through the curtain of rain on the windshield, the turns he raced around blindly while driving on the opposite side of the road. Forget the fact that our side of the road looked dryer and flatter… Knowing perfectly well that he’s not the only driver that drives this aggressively made the threat of blind corners even more insane. And this, remember, is a two-and-a-half hour drive. The lightning shot down in solid bolts straight to the ground around us and the thunder mirrored my sick stomach. I don’t remember ever being scared to the point of sickness. I didn’t throw up, I was too mesmerized. I didn’t have a heart attack, either, though fainting would have eliminated the eye-witness view. The driver was anxious and stressed, rolling his shoulders every few minutes as he pressed them towards his ears during his evasive steering. And it got to the point where I was so sure that I would watch helplessly as we collided with another car that my body relaxed and I went numb. I realized that if this were to happen, I would be looking at it spot on. “I’d rather see my death coming,” he said as we walked across the country by foot, “so I walk on this side.” But I didn’t have a choice as I sat in this seatbelt-less seat, flinching at the sight of every oncoming headlight. And I prayed. “When you’re tense, you’re more likely to get injured during an accident,” she told me, “so the girls were fine in the backseat because they never saw it coming.” Well I let my muscles go, and I prayed…slowly but continuously. But as we were ten minutes from our destination, the storm lightened and our surroundings looked greener, a little less gray. And as I got out, umbrella-less, I thanked God for my life. As I reread this entry, it sounds unintentionally serious. I want to shift slightly to talk about something ridiculous – stretch marks. To me, the name implies that they should come when something stretches, so why then are they popping up by the hordes as I have been shrinking? I expected them to come…like, you know…during the winter…when I stretched. I’ve done enough up-and-down ridiculousness to my body to know that they were bound to make their appearance. It’s the timing I don’t get. But yes, so summer and some larger sense of serenity have brought a natural (and unintentional) return back to normalness – productively and in weight. But it seems like every week there are more little red lines that join the crowd. “Hello to the summer season of shorts and swimsuits,” they say. Lovely and illogical. And today I was back in Soroca and I saw how much the river has risen in the last few days – it’s incredible! It’s only about a meter from the top of the wall. We used to see cattle grazing on the river bank, but now we see only half of corn fields and the topmost leaves of trees. The river is speeding more steadily, but the rumor is that the storm has been the worst in 100 years! (No wonder I was scared for my life!) The other “word on the street” is that it will flood. And we have no drainage system. Already the bus station in Soroca is blocked by a street’s worth of water. But summer has also been filled with multiple BBQ’s – the majority of which involve getting rained on. Last summer was a drought, this summer a swimming pool. It’s also involved seminar series and more time reminding myself that I like being in that educational setting. Business plans busted out in too short a period of time, but business plans nonetheless. Less time was spent writing, but I think I made up for it with the length of this entry. And now that I have my new shoes (thank you!) I’m running again, I’m active, I’m outside. I’m punching-bag-less but I’m burning adrenaline, I’m doing something productive with my emotional antsiness. Hallelujah! Another way of relieving stress: cutting your hair…yourself. Three-to-four inches of dry hair chopped off with loose scissors and my own hands. The process is just as refreshing as the fresher and “bouncier” result. A lot of time has been spent thinking about post-Peace Corps endeavors, but I can’t spend the endless amount of time internet-searching grad programs because I don’t have an endless amount of internet time to do so. But I think about it. A lot. I think a lot. Maybe too much. But now it’s time to listen.

I don't know what it was about today. It was a while in the making, but perhaps the cool lazy breeze on this rainless summer day was the catalyst. Perhaps it was the lack of desire to get on a bus and realizing instead that what I wanted more than anything...what I couldn't stop picturing in my head...was that California back yard on a summer afternoon, with my easle set up under the shade of the walnut tree and a cool glass of water in my hand, a paintbrush in the other. I wanted to be painting. I wanted to be outside. And I wanted to be in a comfortable, home-like setting - someplace I knew where all I would think of was the canvas in front of me, the stroke of the brush, the mood, the world I was painting. It wasn't so much that I didn't want to be in Moldova. It had nothing to do with wanting to leave. I just wanted to have that same feeling with me - and I didn't. It was the strength of that wanting and the subsequent disappointment that surprised me. I know that I can't paint on my bedroom wall anymore, but I wanted to. I wanted a big, limitless canvas. And I wanted it immediately. I bought some paints instead, plus a handful of brushes and some paper. And I will paint soon and I will love it.

May 26, 2008 I came back to the village last evening since leaving for the States 18 days earlier. I noticed that the roads were bordered by lush green trees and vines overflowing into the roads and I smiled at the semi-rainforest-like appearance. But the biggest excitement was seeing my house, surrounded by natural, fresh greenery. Walkways are smaller as the plant-life reaches out in all directions. Our front door is almost blocked from street-view and when I look to the East I can no longer look directly at the primaria because natural curtains have sprung up animatedly. It’s the speed of this lush development that surprises me, but it’s the natural aesthetics that excite me. I’m living in my own little rain-sprung forest in the middle of Eastern Europe. I haven’t unpacked yet. It’s almost noon. I slept around fourteen hours last night, trying to catch up from a month of evaporated sleep time. June 10, 2008 I just picked fresh red strawberries from the garden, washed them and ate them. That was after walking forty-five minutes from the main road where the minibus dropped me off. Which I can do now because it’s still light at 6 p.m.! In fact, it’s light until ten. Which is just lovely. I love Spring! The stress of traveling is reduced considerably by the extended presence of daylight. The ability, as well, to stay over night somewhere (rather than being on “lockdown” as in for the first three months) also makes travel less stressful. But those are two different, if related points, because one implies being able to travel to and from somewhere within the same day and the other involves being able to take my time and stay longer. And I treasure having a choice between the two. My nails have never grown this quickly and I’ve never had so many split ends – due to the lack of conditioner use probably, considering the less frequent washing makes it unnecessary. “Just condition the tips,” they tell me. Still, the irony: less frequent washing + less frequent hair dryer use = more split ends? This week we’re officially starting the “I’ll lead classes in exchange for your community involvement” stuff. To be specific: an English class and an aerobics class. The benefit? All are welcome because they’ll be helping out and “demonstrating responsibility.” Yes, I am going to lead an English group. Yes, even though I said I was done teaching English. But I am okay with it since it will only run as long as the community activities keep getting done. Example: this week, after the aerobics group, we’re going to clean up outside of the center for twenty minutes or so. One week we’ll clean up the park, the mayor’s office, the elderly center. Another week each participant will bring a piece of clothing or a toy as payment and we’ll distribute the collection to needy families. This was my condition. And so far, it’s being met with great interest – as long as the “bait” classes are catching attention. English classes tend to do that, so there you have it. In addition, I’ll use the English classes as “project-related seminar-like” time, meaning I’ll teach vocabulary that’s necessary for grant proposal writing and tourism and daily communication. Thus, I’ll use this as an outlet to get some other unofficial trainings in the mix. Out of all months that have passed – nine now – June has snuck up the most sneakily. I know that has much to do with my significant absence from the village during May, but that time was still filled with goings on and events…hence the speed, probably. I don’t want to talk about my time in the States, and don’t ask me why because I don’t know. The only possible answer I’ll give you is that I’m tired of talking about it. But I can say wholeheartedly, with neither doubt nor obligation, that I love my family more than ever. And that includes every so-and-so’s wife or cousin or brother. I don’t, however, get tired of saying that the only cultural “shock” was having to remind myself that I could put the paper INTO the toilet…and then subsequently reminding myself NOT to when I got back. That’s what buckets are for. That’s not “shock,” though, just habit-breaking. Life and work are starting to pick up as summer comes a-callin’ – as everyone said they would. But even as I start taking on more responsibility I still enjoy the free time. I don’t want the high-paced 12-hour work days, 7 days per week. It was a hard adjustment to make from busy to slow, but I rather like it now. It’s probably going to make the reverse transition even more frustrating, but I don’t plan on jumping into a working world anytime soon anyway. I want to re-iterate my much abused articulation that I love when things get decided for us, when we stress and worry about decisions that tend to work themselves out. And what I love is that it doesn’t only happen for me (of course it doesn’t), but I LOVE that it is also obvious to others. It is a relief to me; it sustains faith and trust in how things work. It’s not blind faith, it’s visible blessings. I’m not talking about things that go “wrong,” although that has its own process of “rightness,” but I’m talking about when you know deep down in your gut that the right decision was made FOR you (or sometimes in conjunction with your choices). No, not when some peer or boss was trying to decide your life for you; I mean the complete opposite. It’s a gentle nudge in the right direction. We don’t always see how we affect other people, but I believe (and I witness!) that when we make the best, most honest and most true-to-heart decisions, they ripple onto others in the most beautiful of ways. Unfortunately, this weird half-language life we live makes most of us passive aggressive. I don’t like saying “no” to the girls who want me to teach them English. They’ll pay me, they say. They want to work in tourism. They want to find a good, legitimate job. I don’t want to teach them from scratch. First, I don’t really know how. Secondly, I can’t possibly teach everyone that asks (and that’s five now) so how do you say “yes” to some and “no” to others? Slippery slope reasoning tends to come from some rational fear. The trick is having a reaction that’s more rational than the reasoning. Maybe if I teach you English, you can teach me Russian? We also don’t want to offend anyone. But talking to my host mother about some of the interpersonal occurrences that have plagued some volunteers, I see that such things are not “normal” here either, even if they are more frequent. Here I am fully acknowledging that Saying-No-To-Too-Much-Work was a highlighted issue in my American life, too…as it is for many of us. But language and “cultural sensitivity” combined with wanting to feel useful all tend to exacerbate the dilemma. I went back and read some of the letters and emails I’ve written to individuals. I think those, more so than my public journaling, will be quite monumental to read when I look back on this in a few years. They’re not necessarily filled with award-winning philosophy or writing, but with experiences that I catalogued in more detail, with more candid reactions. Blisters, by the way, can eat my feet alive but they’ve got nothing on me! Wearing glasses in the rain, however, is not my favorite thing to do. Although I’ve found that since traveling through rain last summer with broken rolling luggage, I don’t mind being in the rain – as long as I’m not 1) wearing glasses because then I can’t see 2) cold or 3) ruining anything valuable, but seeing as I’m low on that category of belongings… Besides, when you walk for half an hour in a DOWNPOUR you get to enjoy the “stare at the crazy Americans” faces and the warm clothes you change into. Coming home to someone eating the majority of your remaining PRECIOUS dark chocolate covered almonds, however, is NOT one of my favorite things. This season is already starting to test my “I’d rather be hot than cold” theory. See, I could always roll down the windows of my air-conditioning-less car, but in Moldova, I’m not always allowed to do that. (You’ll get sick.) And even if I am, the windows don’t reach the back of the bus. There are only the driver’s window and (sometimes) the front passenger window. Think of the lack of window opening as the still prominent “don’t go outside with your hair wet or you’ll catch a cold” idea. It’s deep rooted and much abided by, but scientifically unfounded. The result is Samantha sitting in a minibus with sweat dripping down the side of her face and landing on her shirt, fogged-up glasses sliding continuously down her face. But I still don’t like being cold. And I don’t mind sweating as long as I’m not in fancy clothes. I’ll just keep my hair off my neck, where my contacts, and dress in less clothing. And I have a camera again! Hoorah and thank you! So hopefully I will be able to share more visuals-that-aren’t-displayed-through-figurative-writing. Here’s to extended daylight, fresh fruit, and being able to go outside in shorts!

April 28, 2008

I had a punching bag at home. I didn’t always use it. But I could’ve. I would like to. Very much. And not particularly because I’d like to hit anyone. If I wanted to hit someone, I would say: I want to hit someone. Instead, I want to hit the punching bag. I want to hit it because it’s possible to hit a punching bag in the winter when you’re tired of doing sit ups in your room but when you can’t go outside because it’s…you know…cold.

I want to hit the punching bag because I have two things: frustration and energy. I’ve realized what my challenge will be while I’m here. And that is invigorating but displeasing.

The time has come, the walrus said,

To get up off your tush.

And though I’m leaving to the States

I feel an angry rush,

To get more done that others see,

To show them what I do.

And not pretend I’ve done enough

Because it isn’t true.

The time has passed, the seasons say,

when language-learning reigns

When I can take my time to act

Because of snowy days.

So now they want to know my cause

The reason that I’m here.

Hope that I, as well, will know,

Before we end the year.

The time is up, my conscience says,

For waiting for my cue.

No more doing this half-way

Or waiting around on you.

Let’s jump into some bigger goals

Let’s start them right away

But, of course, I’m leaving soon,

Thus goes another May.

We can find a middle road. We can all be satisfied – at least you and I can be. Except when I mentioned one of my ideas today, I heard: Great idea, but let’s wait until summer. Ok, so I’ll play it your way until then. But I’m going to bring it up every week until you agree. And if you don’t, I’ll change things around. It’s the balance between “waiting you out” and “getting it done” that we volunteers struggle with.

On a happier note, I really enjoyed Romania. I lived the vacation, without letting the worries destroy the adventure. And I hope to do the same in the States. I enjoyed the stress-free company, the mountain air, the gothic architecture, the small-town feel of Old Town, the rich Italian food and the Scottish pub. I enjoyed being legally away from my village. I enjoyed the eagerness with which I returned, the tulips flaunting their bright red vastness. “Do you have these flowers where you are?” I don’t like this question. I feel ignorant when I don’t know. No, I wanted to say. “But I guess there must be,” is my normal sort-of answer, “because the country is so big.” Regardless, I’ve never seen so many, so bright, so magnificent. I tried sketching them but they deserve the richness of paint.

When in Romania, I was told that my accent is more Moldovan than American. “You’re learning, then,” they tell me. I didn’t take it as an insult; I think it’s amusing. In Moldova, I’m Dutch, Finnish, Romanian…and sometimes American. People either immediately guess I’m American or it’s completely confused. Fine by me. I’m never this ambiguous in the States. It’s kind of fun. And if they know I speak English, I’m American, not English.

We were actually only in Romania for two full days. The other two were dedicated to travel. But I thought it would rain the entire time we were there (or even snow). It only rained momentarily and we were inside at that point anyway. It was such a wonderful weekend. It was a blessing. We were going to go two weekends earlier, when it would’ve been gray and rainy anyway. You can’t always plan these things. In fact, you’ve probably read a million time that I don’t think they are planned. They’ve been happening for me. And I want to always remember that. To always be grateful for that.

And Easter was lovely. The two days before consisted of leisurely baking – one type of bread after another, and then some more. At four thirty in the morning I went to church (well, outside the church) to bless the special “pasca” bread. The day of Easter was blue and perfectly warm, with a slight breeze. The following day (today) was gray and rainy. It could easily have been reversed. But it wasn’t. And that just makes me calm with excitement. Perfect. The Easter service apparently took place the night before – starting at eleven and ending right before the bread blessing. Not that I could’ve attended (we were still preparing stuffed cabbage leaves, “sarmale” – yum!) but I would’ve like to. Although there are times when women are not allowed in the church. Actually, there’s only one time when they’re not allowed, and it repeats every month. Unless you’re Samantha, in which case…well enough of my bleeding health. It was a beautiful day regardless of what time the service started that I didn’t know about.

And what a perfect day to baptize a baby! Easter Sunday! I’m a godmother! You will come visit me in America, I thought. And then his father brought it up as well, though apparently his first-born, nine-years-old, said it first: he will go visit Samantha. I’m serious, I said. “So am I,” he repeated. Good, we’re agreed. And you, baby boy, will be my reason for never forgetting Romanian.

And then…

I don’t know why it feels that deaths happen around holidays. Of course they happen every day – multiple times a day actually. But in this instance, you can’t possible look at this last week and not feel the purpose behind it, the unbeknownst beauty of it. Exactly one week ago today, this full-headed baby boy was born. And then comes Easter, monument of the cycle of birth and death and rebirth. And then early Tuesday morning brings the mourning of a loss, a death. Exactly one week after this family celebrated a new birth. But she got to see him.

But the day was eye-opening. How many people came to help and support and prepare food and move tables! The holidays normally have family members preparing food in their own houses, but as this was a one-family affair, it seemed as if all flooded into the house – and it was wonderful. Everyone was busy with something that they seemed made for. You cut this and I’ll chop that. I’ll set up the candles and you can clear the wine. And it kept moving and kept rotating. And there was no stopping. Even as I walked out of my room at nine, there was evidence of emptied glasses, eaten food, and the whole Easter set-up had been turned into a traditional wake. In fact, it’s almost midnight and there’s still been no pause – although all are inside now. I’ve also never seen so much bread in my life. And this is after announcing the pre-Easter bake fest.

The service was hardest for me because that’s when the reality set it. It’s also when the homesickness-that-didn’t-exist decided to exist. “I don’t need to go to the States,” I said, “so it’s a good time to go.” Well during that service, I wanted my family. I came home, cried for thirty seconds, and felt better. Long day, and here is May.

It's been about a month since I've last updated. I've been postponing another entry until I got back from Romania, maybe after Orthodox Easter, and then after D.C. Maybe I would just put it off for another couple of months, eh? No. I'll tell you now.

I'm going out of town at a time when: 1) Things are blooming in my village - the trees, the youth, the sun, our motivation; 2) I was getting so tired of hearing myself complaining about rain, uncertainty, and spending too much time in the capital. I was just about overdosed on laying in my bed and catching up on movie watching. I was tired of writing, believe it or not, because it had so consumed my time - which I'm glad for because I love it and it was a great comfort...but it's time for other things. Let me rephrase. I wasn't tired of writing, I was tired of writing about the same things.

I had been whining. That's what it comes down to. And now everything is ripe and I'm going to enjoy myself in Romania and then prance around America. I'll give my family some heartfelt hugs and then I will come back to Moldova and will be propelled into action. That happens. Sometimes you get so disgusted, angry, excited, or nervous that when the door opens, you sprint forward at unstoppable speeds. Reverse motivation. The last sling-shot propelled me a good twenty months or so. It's gotten me to Moldova for goodness sakes. So the next one should carry me through.

I feel...liberated. And quite grateful to those who heard me complaining for the last few months.

When it comes down to the faith of the matter: I have unquestionable faith that you end up where you're supposed to end up (even if you spend "too much" time here or there). The random decisions I've been making within this little country have brought spontaneous and beautiful surprises. There are things that we will never know. But when it's time for you to know, you'll know. And knowing THAT is a comfort. Of course I mean this in the first person. I forgot that. I ha been so built up on defining my theory that I didn't trust it or live it.

And there's a difference between guilt and shame. No shame. No, sir. You can take responsibility without being a cynic. Optimism still reigns!

I burned my tongue on tea (twice). I can't wait until I can bathe in the summer shower. I love natural honey (who knew there were so many colors?).

I am capable. I don't want my service here to be filled with fabricated exaggerations about my community successes. Most importantly, I will be honest with myself and I will be surprised.

And, yes, I am frequently thinking about what I want to do next. Not that there's a rush to decide. I won't even pretend to decide. And even if I did, it would change. It's just an example of my excitement.

I wanted to write on Wednesday the 12th to mark my six months in Moldova. I didn’t. But the day was monumental. At least, the change was – I have noticed an anxiety, only evident in its lessening. While I wouldn’t have said I was anxious then, I can say I am less anxious now – at least where other people are concerned. As productive as my language learning might be, it definitely led to a lingering uncertainty and separation from those around me who speak a language I only newly understand. Fact is, if I’m not focusing on your every Romanian word, I’m likely daydreaming. Sorry. As our six months came along, I found myself both more comfortable in my village and more eager to get away for the weekend – not, as theory goes, to party hardy all the time…but to be around peers who speak English and don’t yet have children. I get along well with the people in my community, but there’s still that absence, that connection, that friend that doesn’t quite exist yet. But it’s quite lovely to just be away from the village, to rest and hide from the still ridiculously uncertain role I have in my village. Ah, yes, uncertainty. Like all dirty mistresses, its attraction also brings my disgust. “Moldova is like my husband,” she told me. “The same things that intrigued me in the beginning now drive me crazy, but I love it, because it’s my husband.” While I am not in the same place to talk about my love affair with Moldova, that is exactly how I feel about uncertainty. I’m not married to it, but it’s my dirty lover. As sick and frustrated, annoyed and impatient it makes me, as wrong as it feels, it’s exciting and invigorating to be courting uncertainty – in all aspects. The noncommittal abundance of opportunity breeds ideas and passion, but it also flirts with insecurity and stomach aches. And I have enough stomach problems as it is for anxiety to be taking its turn as well. But to have too many options – what a wonderful dilemma this is! I’m talking about every form of uncertainty – my future, my role in my village, the Eggs Benedict quest. Yes, about that…I suppose one of my frustrations with “uncertainty” is that the Eggs Benedict Quest seeks certainty and not having it seems to undermine the process – even though it is a necessity in the journey. So to end at least some of this vagueness, point is I don’t know what I want. And that’s ok. Yes, I know, you really do not need to convince me. I’m merely expressing the multitude of categories that fill the Uncertainty Box. It makes decision making exciting when all options are intriguing, like when all doors lead to a different foreign adventure. But when you actually have to make a decision, well I don’t like that. I tend to procrastinate until the choice is clear and necessary. In the past it was easier to act when I knew something was NOT for me. But now it’s the opposite. I need to find out what IS for me. What do I miss? What passion did I previous take for granted? Where’s that “trust your gut” and “listen to your daydreams” feeling? It’s here. I’ve just been too preoccupied with worry that I haven’t been listening. Ok, so now an hour into this letter let me get to the worry-free part. I miss theatre. Quite painfully. There’s that heart-swelling feeling that makes me want to burst into song when I come out of a performance. Not that bursting into song is all that rare (it’s pretty darn common), but normally it’s spontaneous and subconscious. This post-theatre performance feeling is powerful and uncontainable, it builds up ravenously until I explode, or dance, or smile so wide that you’d think I’d just fallen in love. I probably did. I have a tendency of falling for at least one actor per performance. So what does that mean? Does that mean I go back to school for theatre? For writing? Maybe. We’ll see. And it’s totally possible that I just need to find a way to bring more theatre into my life, to attend performances in Moldova, or to bring a love for theatre to the youth in my village. It doesn’t necessarily mean I need to ignore everything else and leave the Peace Corps to pursue theatre. I’m just excited to miss something this much. To have a feeling so strong for something. I have also woken up wanting to open a school. Not to teach. To open the school. I think I would enjoy that process, the ability to use my creativity in the development of a school. In fact, I see myself being quite giddy during that adventure. And then there’s the language love. Even on frustrating days, the “you think you know more about America than I do because I can’t express myself in your language” days, or the “please stop saying ‘you don’t know, you don’t know’ because I do know, it just doesn’t make sense in Romanian” days. Repeating what I said in the last post: learning languages makes me happy. In fact, I’m glad I didn’t end up in a French-speaking country because I love learning this NEW language, adding one to the list! I’m not trying to define life. I’m not even pretending to assume that I will be a master of universal knowledge by the time I head stateside. Or that I want to be. But how exciting is this so far?!?! All my written worries are only mental ponderings. And they are normally the firings that result in great discoveries and adventures. On a non-thought-involved note, I’ve never snored so much in my life. My apologies to those I’ve woken up, to those who I’ve scared because I sounded like I was drowning. I’m going to have a cold until summer, so I will probably snore at least until June. Buy earplugs.Bathing is much more efficient. “You learned how to have a Moldovan bath.” Indeed. I can heat the water, get something accomplished, and then bathe in five minutes as opposed to the twenty it took before. That might have something to do with the weather heating up a bit; the tile in the bath room is less biting. And one of my favorite games is Let’s Talk About How Wonderful So-And-So Is. And what’s better is when that person comes around the corner at just that moment. Man…really…I love when that happens. But I also love that I’m surrounded by people who like to play this game as well. It sure beats the Let’s Talk About the Bad Things game. I don’t like that game. And I don’t like being around the people that like that game. This is where I am: balancing being somewhere that got decided for me, doing work that other people have requested, simultaneously discovering what it is that I’d rather be doing instead. It’s quite lovely. “You’re a capable girl; tell them if you don’t like it.” I’m not bothered, I said, just curious. And I smiled. And then she laughed this spontaneous laugh, not from her belly, but honest, more than a chuckle. And I didn’t think I was being funny, just trying to explain my story. But her lightheartedness mirrored my own and that’s when you know that nothing is as serious as we make it seem.

February 27, 2008 I am eggs benedict. More precisely, I am the search for eggs benedict, the effort of the Runaway Bride to find out which type of egg she personally prefers rather than siding along with the will of her fiancé-at-the-time. Not that my taste in eggs has changed drastically based on my fiancés-at-the-time, but this is where I am. Even if it means deciding not to pick a favorite. The choice will be my own. I don’t want to write about all the self-discovering I’ve been enjoying because, frankly, I don’t want to hear “I told you so.” Secondly, it’s still in the process. And while avoiding “I told you so” should not be my motive, I’m enjoying this bit of privacy. Yes, Daddy, if my time here involves learning something significant about myself, it’s time well spent. In that case, it’s already well spent and I’d like to continue spending some more emotional cash. Preferably on something more than eggs. Fortunately, however, there’s also been some international development sprinkled into the mix. While international development of other nations is not the same as my self-development that happens internationally, both matter.

I’m going to start with the basic up-to-do’s because the second portion of this entry will be jumbled and probably quite boring for those who aren’t interested in the most complex of my mental adventures. Work: We just submitted a (quite small) grant proposal so that my partner can start attracting first-time voters to next year’s election. Why do we need money to do this? For a civic participation expert to come run seminars. And for paper. (Hence the “quite small” label.) I say “so my partner can” because I’m not supposed to be related to anything political, even if it’s nonpartisan voter outreach. Peace Corps is one of the only governmental orgs whose representatives are (supposed to be) consciously un-political. But I’m happy to be involved through noninvolved means – helping the people who help inform other people of their voting rights. Teaching: I love it. But I’m not an English teacher. I’m ESPECIALLY not an English-as-a-Foreign-Language teacher. To be honest, I wasn’t actually sure about my inability to teach the language to people who have no previous knowledge of English. It was more the principle of not wanting others to assume that I would do so that kept the “NO” spilling out of my mouth. I am now quite convinced of my current lack of qualifications. I am, though, grateful for the simultaneous confirmation of my enjoyment of being in a classroom. Let’s hope, folks, that next time it is out of my own will and accord. Especially if I’m on my egg quest. Speaking of which, I don’t remember why I haven’t eaten mayonnaise for years. Well, yes I do. Does it really taste better here or am I only ignoring the caloric factor? I do know that French butter tastes better than American butter and Moldovan butter tastes like French butter. I embrace the French-famed “don’t eat anything that doesn’t taste good, even if it’s healthy” philosophy. So yes, I eat butter here. I like the butter more than the oil and the mayonnaise better than the sugar. In moderation, of course. Moderation, said the man with the black hat. As did the prince under the tree. The Middle Road. The Middle Road works in forms of Buddhism, in pacifism, in shortcuts, and in peace treaties. It works for controlling your appetite and relieving yourself of unhealthy indulgences where abstinence isn’t plausible. But it doesn’t work in the find-out-what-I-want-out-of-life process. Gung ho! All aboard! Yada, yada. But while uncertainty continues to bite my heels, the Middle Road is my best friend. People really do learn English from films. Real people have spoken to me with the English they’ve learned from films. This is a subconscious form of language learning that I am jealous of. I’ve also realized that I quite appreciate English. My appreciation for English richness, for the detailed say-exactly-what-I’m-trying-to-say-ness…it’s flourishing. English is born for those who take too long to think of the right word (Sam). It performs for people who don’t like being misunderstood because they’ve put such care into how they phrase themselves. That, by the way, is the main reason for my sometimes paused-filled speech. It is not, contrary to belief, a desire to tip-toe over delicate feelings, but my preference for being understood. What is more important at the moment is my realization that the person who is in most need of understanding is Samantha, herself. Thus the Romanian Frustration becomes almost obsolete. The lack of satisfying brainstorming, even in English, becomes inconsequential. Because, at this point, my articulateness (or lack of) is only as important as the thoughts it conveys. Sorry for the vagueness. I’ll elaborate. I realize that not only do I appreciate this language’s ability for me to express my new discoveries, but I appreciate this language for the discoveries I make about the language. I like languages. I like learning languages. I LOVE learning new languages. For some people, political science is their grasp on reality, their relation to other countries, to an understanding of history. Perhaps science does it for you. Perhaps sports history is your cover-all. I think language is my eggs benedict. I wrote awhile ago (to my own amusement) of the ways in which being bilingual impresses me. I realized that it’s not just the ability to speak multiple languages, but the cultural understanding that comes with it. There truly ARE concepts that do not exist in other languages. (This coming from the “Just tell me what it means!” girl) So a person who has a fluid grasp on more than one language also understands the flexibility of concepts that comes with each. And so, now, I am not only possessed with the almost insane desire to speak 50 languages, but to understand them as well. Slight difference, big change. I don’t need you to read my words; I just need to say them. I don’t need you to understand them; I just need to understand my own motive. Motive. That’s the key. So when I say something in Romanian when trying to say something entirely different, I can live. As long as I didn’t insult anyone when talking on the village “radio” three times in one week, I’m good. There is a reason for all things. There is a reason why God brought me to Moldova and why this is the only place where these eggs benedict adventures will unfold precisely as they will. But it’s a relationship. We are given circumstances and we can indulge ourselves in them or we can put them off. I am here because I don’t want to put them off. I want to hear them when they call me and I want to come to honest and enthusiastic discoveries. So here I am: not writing the emails I should be writing because I’m enjoying watching eggs scramble. And I’m surrounded by a deceptively warm day and a constellation-filled night. And I love it. P.S. I think the once-a-month instead of once-a-week journal entry is a good sign.

written: January 30, 2008 Yesterday I turned in my “First Quarter Progress Report.” Putting aside the “I can’t believe I’m already filling this out” feeling, I was surprised by how much I could write about. Of course, it is all hypothetical at the moment – thing we’d like to look into and programs we’d like to develop…but it’s starting now. My understanding of pessimism is more rounded now, too. Sometimes the pessimists get a lot done – but I still believe that optimism is essential for the “durability factor.” If you don’t want to rely on grant after grant for funding (I don’t), you have to get a little creative and trusty in developing possible sources of continual funding. What if there were no grants? What if there were no international investors or monetary aid programs? I may not know exactly what my role will be here, but it is absolutely not as “indefinite searcher of grants.” But I do like that we will also look for more youth seminar topics/speakers and I like that you are involving me. The hardest part is the communication and that, ironically, is not a language issue. It’s a “you like to go off on quick and distant tangents” issue. But I am starting to feel the benefit of my incredibly flexible and undefined program. I had been prepping myself for uncertainty from the get go: where am I going? Rural or urban? Running water? Not knowing where in Moldova or with what type of organization. And, even now…explaining what I do is ridiculously complicated. (I’m looking for a husband; I got dropped here by accident; I just wanted to learn how to speak Moldovan.) Well, filling out my expected activities for the next quarter (which they call “trimesters” here even though there are four of them), I appreciated the range of areas: from computer software for the youth center to a pregnancy/child development manual with fellow volunteers. It’s all in the “this might die on the floor” planning stages, but it’s the option that thrills me. It was because of the promise of variety that I put myself through such a long process of ambiguity. Even all Americans fill the spectrum between optimist and “realist” (as my favorite pessimists like to refer to themselves). But here, in addition to the range of attitudes, there is also the challenge of missing concepts to battle – such as brainstorming and saving computer documents. On a personal note, January brought a new level of self-dependence and dehydration. To start with the dehydration: I love water. I love how I feel when I drink water. I have not been drinking water. My distiller is leaking so I’m onto system 2: boil and filter. It works just fine if you remember to do it. I know it works because the water out of the teapot is milky but the water I filter is clear. (Foolproof evidence, no?) The trick is you have to remember to do it before you’re thirsty. This past week, it’s been much more habitual. If I boil a teapot in the morning, it’s cool enough to filter by lunchtime. Much like my “If you want clean clothes” rant, I’m realizing what it means to do what you need to do to keep hydrated…not just to make catchy observations. It’s the difference between realizing how simple it is to boil water and actually doing it. Though I suppose the idea of self dependence means you do it even if it’s not simple. On to the self-dependence: it just means I don’t get as upset when I don’t get the emails or calls I’m expecting. Sometimes I forget to expect them altogether. It also means not wanting to be sick. Of course sometimes we really do get painfully ill, but I’d like to keep it as un-mentally-derived as possible. I want to be healthy and active and useful. More importantly, I love that one teabag lasts for three cups of tea!

December 26, 2007 I like to think that I am acclimating myself really quickly. I don’t mind the outside toilet nearly as much, except, I do find myself waiting until I really can’t wait anymore. The cold just exacerbates my excuse; I’m just lazy. “Are you used to our food?” It didn’t take long, it’s delicious! I finally had my first tutoring today since getting to my village. Let me just reemphasize that I think everything happens for a reason. There is a reason why other people are NOT my tutor, because THIS woman is awesome. And then, during the next portion of the day, I was really grateful for the women that I’ve been spending time with (I can’t say “working with because I really haven’t been working – except Peace Corps staff will say that this transition IS work). Today was the birthday of one of the social assistants. In our small, heated room were two desks FILLED with food and about sixteen people sitting around. I realized that I didn’t need a plate. I could have had one. In fact, half way through I ended up with one. But I didn’t need it. I didn’t mind that we all put our forks straight into the dishes. No one had a cold sore. Granted, this will turn around and bite me in the foot when I come down with something. But situations like this are going to keep coming up, so what’s a girl to do? Especially when the food is delicious and she’s hungry. Oh, yes, but about my gratitude. I was grateful because the women took great care of me today. Even the mayor announced to the social worker sitting next to me: Take care of Samantha. (Say-man-ta) You take a shot for every toast and you toast before every shot…and you take the shot. But whenever they would fill my glass up there was always someone to make sure they didn’t put too much in my glass. Normally when you say “that’s enough,” another 50 grams get added. But my glasses could appear practically empty each time – which I was grateful for when I realized there would be seven toasts (at 1 p.m.). January 5, 2008 New Year’s was fabulous. But yesterday was hard. I received two emails that I wasn’t expecting, and neither was good. I don’t know what made me most upset – the news or that fact that I couldn’t get a hold of anybody. I tried telling myself that, even if I were in L.A., there isn’t much I can do anyway. But the fact was that there was a lot I was upset about and this news just made me aware of it. So I went for a run. On my way out of the house: Host dad: Samantha you need to dress warmer! It’s -11°! Samantha: NEGATIVE 11? Host Dad: It’s not California. You can’t wear that. January 8, 2008 I realized that the major source of my emotion was my own expectation. And when your expectations for three different things all turn out to be wrong…well it can either be humorous or annoying. Having a phone and internet made me think that lack of communication wouldn’t be an issue after all. So then when I couldn’t get a hold of the people I was aching to hear from, it made me upset. Actually, it pissed me off. I was agitated and annoyed. I was cranky and pacing. For three days I stared at the cell phone that was making me more upset and then I decided to write in my journal for the first time in too long. It calmed me down. I prayed for health for the one I’m scared for and safety for the other, and patience for myself. I meditated on compassion for a select few. This is my reality here: I am helpless. But of course I’d be helpless in L.A. There wouldn’t be much I could do there either, but being in Moldova makes it that much more obvious.

And I don’t mean to sound pessimistic. When I say I’m helpless, I mean it in the “let go and let God” sense. There are certain things we can do and certain things that would be ridiculous to take responsibility for. I’m not going to change Moldovan foreign policy. I’m not going to change medical results. I’m not going to change racial attitudes. But I am in NO WAY underestimating the power of the human spirit, of human interaction, and, ultimately, of love. Feeling “helpless” means that I am trying to accept that I have less control over results and more control over how we deal with them, how we enjoy them regardless. Moldovans are helping me realize that. Friends and family are helping me realize that, too. And, actually, so is Tom Brokaw’s “The Greatest Generation.” Not every American would be shocked by the lack of running water here. Not every American would have to “adjust”…just us who take water and rain for granted. This book is the perfect compliment to my experiences right now.

On Sunday, my tutor and I got to talking about the summer drought. For some reason I didn’t realize it had affected the wells. I knew that the lack of rain affected the crops, that it affected the price, amount, and quality of food, as well as the livelihood of those who grow the fruits and vegetables. (It also made the grapes sweeter and, thus, the wine stronger). But I didn’t think that the water in the ground was related to the water that fell from the sky. Who knows why I didn’t make the connection.. I’m lying. I know why - because I’ve never had to think about it, it never affected ME. She told me that people would get to the wells with their horse drawn carts in the morning and fill buckets of water from the well, so if she didn’t get there early enough, there was no water for the day…or the week. Let alone no RUNNING water…there was no water AT ALL. So much for worrying about boiling it, bathing in a bucket, or brushing my teeth. No water for soup or laundry. None. What’s even crazier…is that could very well happen again next summer…and I live here.

December 15, 2007

THE SLIP-N-SLIDE WEEK

I have bathed IN the bathtub! Tuesday night, we put the space heater/radiator in the room for an hour or so to heat the room up a bit, which of course I unplugged before bathing. There’s no door, just a curtain, so the tile floor was still like ice. A wood board was placed over the middle of the tub in order to hold the bucket of hot water, metal basin, and my toiletries. I think the idea was that I could wash my hair OVER the metal bowl on the plank and then easily dump it in the tub, but that big white bathtub was so tempting, so I stripped down and stepped in. It was cold, but what a natural joy it was to pour warm water over my head and have it pour over my entire body. No louffah, no wood floor – the top of my head, my shoulders and neck and back all had water rushing over them!

I stood up to soap myself down, and I don’t remember when it happened but somehow I slipped and slid noisily down the bathtub, clanging the water cup behind me and knocking the bucket’s lid with my feet, ending up with my feet up in the air and my chest under the wood plank! It didn’t hurt; it was funny. I was actually just embarrassed at the noise and hoped my host mama wouldn’t coming running in to see what happened. Though, of course, it’s lovely that she’d care! So I sat from then on. I could pour water over my face without it getting on the floor. I could wash my hair with my head right-side-up! Sometime during my bath, someone phoned for me. “Are you taking a bath? I’ll tell them to call back in half an hour.” I love that she did not only tell them they should call back in half an hour, but also that I was in the bath tub.

It’s been snowing relatively every day since Tuesday evening. The cold wind comes everyday around lunch time. Apparently February is the worst month if the winter is particularly harsh. But in winter of 2005, when it was a true cold winter, the thick snow started at the end of November. Winter of 2006 was relatively mild, as was the summer actually – drought. I supposed this winter is started out somewhere in the middle. But, really, who is this L.A. girl to judge snow!?!?

But, yesterday and Thursday the sun was so bright on the snow I could’ve used sunglasses! I couldn’t stop smiling, and “Winter Wonderland” played on my lips. The streets were frozen and kids were sliding by the soles of their shoes! I can see why people would call winter their favorite season!

Quick update on the English group: Let me just say that I think this village is amazing. The people are so supportive and seem so willing to work for their community. I’ve just felt so welcomed here. The school director joked about how quickly she talks and says she will try to speak more slowly for me. The English teacher’s input was much appreciated. She didn’t seem to be insulted at all at the idea of an English group and I’m excited to work together on it. The younger kids don’t get English at all and it seems like the older ones rarely get a chance to discuss in English – mostly grammar and class work – the same type of language class that we’ve all taken and forgotten. So there seems to be a better common understand of needing a discussion circle (rather than a lesson) that can develop into something quite creative and exploratory. Also, with her help, it will be easier to separate those who DO have some English already from those who have none and really need more INSTRUCTION, which, actually, I might not mind anymore.

Before coming, I was so adamant about NOT teaching English. But, I think it was the shock of being told I was nominated to an English teaching program in Eastern Europe (instead of a community development program in Africa) that made me more reluctant to be involved with anything English-related. But I’m NOT in the much more structured English-teaching program, so I will still have LOADS of time to work on other types of projects, to explore the community from different levels, and to explore where I fit, as well.

I’ve also had a chance to think about the age group I feel more comfortable working with. There are a few great camps/programs run by volunteers each summer, but each is unique, and you can’t be involved in every one. It was surprisingly difficult for me to decide which one I would most like to participate in. No matter how much I thought about it and analyzed the pros and cons (I’m not that kind of girl) I couldn’t come to any settlement. I went for a run (the day it started snowing – lovely!) and even that didn’t clear my head. The problem is I like to just “follow my gut” but if there is no clear answer, I take forever, and there are deadlines. Of course, I wasn’t paying attention, because what really should’ve mattered is the population of youth I wanted to work with. And that answer kept presenting itself to me in the faces of the girls at the gym. If you or your parents are reading this, I hope you realize how significant that is. Subconsciously, your faces just kept creeping up in my mind, and the way that I have been affected by working with you has carried me all the way to Moldova and it will continue to carry me through the rest of my service.

IF YOU WANT CLEAN CLOTHES, YOU HAVE TO WASH THEM:

I wrote this in an email, but I think the story deserves retelling.

I washed my clothes on Thursday, with a machine that’s probably older than me. We had to get at least four buckets-worth of water from the well, which we then heated on the camping stove. We poured two into the machine and two into a large metal bucket which we used to rinse each load (of 4). So the order was: machine (for five minutes) in soapy water, ring out, put in big bucket, rinse, ring again, fold into drying cylinder (which I think works how we dry lettuce, by spinning) in order to get out the excess water, and then hang outside in the snow. So I still had to ring out every piece of laundry to de-suds it as if I was hand washing, and MAN do my hands/wrists hurt…and yes, we recycled the water for each load (so I now understand why whites NEED to go first)…but it WAS a machine. I didn’t have to scrub each piece between my fists. I didn’t have to spend 4 hours and my host mama showed me how.

I know this is a really simple statement, but standing over that barely thigh-high machine that shook like it was possessed, I realized: if you want clean clothes, you have to clean them…and if you don’t have a machine, you wash them by hand. Now it’s Saturday and we’re still working on drying them. We hung some outside, under a wood canopy where we’ll eat in the summer, but there weren’t enough clothes pins, so we’ve been rotating the clothes outside with the other clean ones – folded and wet in the basin. We brought some in and hung them on the soba. There are now a few toasty and folded and clean, some still hanging outside (it’s hard to tell if their frozen or wet), and some strewn across my room - on my bed near the soba, hanging from a hanger against the soba, over the backs of chairs.

A couple other side notes: Harry Potter in Romanian is a fabulously helpful idea for those of us who practically have the story memorized (thanks for the idea!); exercising is the best way I’ve found to warm up, fresh milk (FROM A COW!) is delicious and tastes like the cream sauce for Goldenrod Eggs.

December 4, 2007

I left my village in November (after not even a full week, mind you) and came back in December. I finally decided that six straight days of painful every-morning diarrhea was too much. So a one-night in TDY (no, nobody knows what it stands for, but it means “sick bay” in limba Samantha) turned into six nights – the exact number of nights I had spent in my village up until that point. Everyday I told my host mom I was leaving the following day. I left on Wednesday. It’s Tuesday, and I just got back.

Fortunately when I first walked into the office last Wednesday, sick and cranky, I saw that I had two packages – a blessing in disguise. So TDY has two showers and a kitchen and fellow-volunteers as company, and heating, and real beds and access to all of Chişinău’s resources, but man, it can drive you crazy. I didn’t even last ONE FULL WEEK in my village before revisiting the capital. And so sitting around made me feel extremely guilty, especially because I wasn’t able to spend my birthday with my host family. Granted, I was pretty darn lucky to have such great company on my birthday. Volunteers that I had just met made sure that it was a special day. And my family! And my friends! I am so overwhelmed! I think the surprise of all of my birthday messages and cards and packages was the biggest joy. Because I wasn’t expecting 1) to receive them and 2) to be sick and, therefore, in the capital to pick them up, they were that much more special. Then I got back to my village to a bottle of champagne and an apple cake that my host mom had made on Sunday (because I thought I was coming home each day), that was actually still moist and DELICIOUS tonight. Again, surprises. But, of course, I wouldn’t have gotten to know some current volunteers if we weren’t all housed in the sick house together.

The trip home was scary, because, like always, I procrastinated from leaving. Granted I did ACTUALLY LEAVE the apartment/sick house/black hole today, which is an accomplishment because I was getting tired of hearing myself say “I’m leaving tomorrow,” but then I went to the Piaţa Agricol to see my training host mom as it was on the way to the bus station. It wouldn’t have taken me that long to find it except it took me ten minutes (honestly) to get up the nerve to cross the busy street (J-walking is not just a national pastime, it’s a way of life, a traveling necessity) and then I walked around the wrong piaţa for ten minutes. Anyway, it took me a while, so when I was finally on the bus and arriving near my village, it was dark and I started repeating “I’m so scared, I’m so scared, I’m so scared” in my head as I couldn’t see where I was and I had too many bags to get to the front to discuss with the driver about where I needed to stop. I was playing all possible scenarios in my head if we had passed my village and I ended up another three hours away, or what I would do if I just decided to get off in the rain. Luckily, another gentleman was getting off at the same spot. I wasn’t sure if I had heard correctly though, but I followed him off the bus hoping it was my stop, saw that it was, but didn’t see my host dad’s car (who had been waiting 30 minutes by that point). He found me, and we went home.

Point? Well everyday in TDY, I took a shower with water that gets as hot as I want, when I want it to, water that comes out of a shower head, in a shower that I can stand up in, or a bath tub that I can actually plug to make a bath, with two heated (indoor!) bathrooms and real towels, without worrying about wasting someone’s bill, or spilling on my wood floor. OH!! Which reminds me: I never wrote about my bucket-bathing attempt!

Ok, well…last Saturday I got to bathe! After dinner I asked about how to go about doing that, and it turned out that the bathtub room (no, not the same as a “bathroom”…it’s a room with a bathtub, hence “bathtub room”) was too cold. My room was much warmer. She pulled back the carpet near the soba (wall fireplace/heater contraption), put a chair on the wood floor, and put a large metal bowl on top, filled with warm water. Asked me if I wanted her to help me wash my hair. “If you would like!” “I do.” Sure! So I took off my sweatshirt and necklace and put my head in the bowl. She poured more warm water over my head and I felt as if I was back at the hairdresser’s getting my hair cut, or maybe leaning forward and dying my hair over my sink. After she washed my hair (teamwork!) she wrapped my hair in my towel and left me to bathe. Well, she did walk in on me bottom-less looking for my louffah (man, how do you spell that?).

Ok, so this is what I had as my bathing equipment: chair, red taz (wide, shallow bucket), bucket with warm water, mug to pour with, tea kettle, louffah, empty bucket for dirty water. I started by standing with one foot over the red taz and poured water over my right leg, realized the chair had a purpose, and sat down. Poured water over my leg, soaped up, rinsed, then repeated with the other foot. It got trickier when I wanted to wash the rest of me. I used the louffah for my arms, but leaning over the taz while I poured was a bit messy. Surprisingly washing my face this way was the hardest, because when I poured the water over my face, it ran down my face, chest, and belly and straight onto the floor. There I was squatting naked next to the tax, trying to lean over as much as I could and then I realized it would be way more efficient just to dip my towel in the clean water and wipe my face. “Maybe next week you can get your own taz.” Yes! I’m looking forward to it actually. That way I can wash up every night with just one tea kettle’s worth of water until I want to wash my hair.

When I was done, I surveyed my damage: clean body, wet floor, sore knees from squatting. Maybe this weekend/next time I’ll just try to bathtub room anyway. Although now that I’ve been sick she will probably insist I don’t bathe in a cold room. And she will probably be right again about the comfort of bathing in a warm room, but an intestinal parasite isn’t brought on by cold weather.

So why is the bucket better? Because it’s home now. Because even though I got to take a shower as many times as I wanted at TDY, I wore the same two outfits for six days (but I did get mighty good at washing my underwear in the sink and drying them over the radiator even though we’re not supposed to because it could catch on fire). So my feet might have been cleaner but my socks were dirty.

December 5, 2007

I still get emails from the UCSB College of Creative Studies Literature department. I actually read one of the hundred I have received since last summer alone. I could be learning Arabic right now. Or Portuguese. Either would be awesome. And many of you know that I actually do want to learn Arabic. But I’m in Moldova, learning Romanian. And the intended-to-be-speedy pop account process took over an hour to download with announcements for the classes I could be taking right now.

Ok so I went back to show my face in the community today. Meaning, I sat with the social assistant (Moldovan version of social worker through the mayor’s office) as she distributed funds to the “invalizi” in the community - people specifically listed as “invalid” although it is closer to “physically handicapped.” Depending on their category, they received 60 or 100 lei – for the whole year. (It’s roughly 11 lei to the dollar) Some of the passports they showed still said “CCCP,” leftovers from Soviet rule in the area. Did they ever receive Republica Moldova passports or just prefer to use these? And as one gentleman poked his head in the door, unable to hear or speak, he rubbed his thumb, index, and middle fingers together for “money.” Yes, this is the place to pick up your annual allotment. I don’t know why I was so surprised that the gesture is the same.

December 6, 2007

Apparently I have one of the top ten veceuls (outhouses) in Moldova! It is made out of clay/cement rather than wood. The floor has terra cotta, and I have a wool-covered SEAT for those winter months. Of course the seat is covering a simple hold, but it makes the sick days a tad bit less depressing. And we have a LIGHT inside! For those of you who have never had to squat over a tiny hole, you know that a lack of light at night makes it that much more daunting.

December 9, 2007

The idea was to create an English-speaking discussion group in order to raise money for some of the two hundred needy children in our village. Actually, the first few times she asked if I wanted to do it to raise money to buy myself winter shoes - in addition, of course, to appealing to the kids who would come to discuss with a non-teacher in a more casual atmosphere. “Ok, but I don’t want to teach, it will just be a discussion group.” Later that day we talked to the mayor who was really supportive and offered to come with us to the school the next morning. I asked if we should talk to the English teacher but it was “not necessary.” Well after being shuttled by the elbow from class to class where I was introduced as someone who was going to come in and teach English to PRACTICALLY THE WHOLE SCHOOL, I began to feel a physically sick.

And then when we walked into the English teacher’s room (yes, they have one, so why would I be teaching English behind her back?) we basically hit her in the face when I was introduced as coming to give them something they didn’t have. But, with all of the teachers crammed into the office, I tried to clarify later that “I’m not a teacher and it will just be a discussion. I want to collaborate together for the whole community, if you have any ideas, as well as ideas for areas other than the school, I’d love to hear and work together.” And to the director, I said, “I’m not going to be teaching people who have never learned English.” We’ll see how well that came across. I just don’t want there to be a mob of misinformed kids (and the parents who gave them money). I also arranged to speak with the English teacher next week in order to 1) apologize and 2) get her advice.

Written: November 8, 2007

Yesterday I woke up to find the first frost! My host sister and I cracked the ice puddles on our way to school!

And last night, my carbon monoxide detector went off. I was halfway between running around like I was decapitated when another volunteer rushed over, forgetting his phone, to bring save my life and let me borrow his non-defunct alarm. Well we were going to meet him midway between our houses but of course he went one way, in the dark without phone, and we went the other, in the dark without flashlight. It probably would have been more quick to accept the “it’s malfunctioning” idea if it hadn’t been yelling “WARNING! CARBON MONOXIDE!! WARNING CARBON MONOXIDE!!!” and if another volunteer hadn’t ACTUALLY had a CO problem. “But at least you won’t die if you stay awake.” Today I'm getting a new one.

Written: November 5, 2007

I was on the way to the capital to open up my bank account. It was weeks ago. I was looking out of the green van as we passed through the market area. Raised up, looking down on the passing world. A tanned, sun-wrinkled, work-toughened man was lugging something behind him. He was serious and concentrating, without noticing the other people around him except maybe when he would weave between people. And then he changed. He stopped and shook another man’s hand and he had this smile on his face, this genuine, life-changing smile. That smile was just waiting for someone to provoke it. And we drove passed and I had to turn my head to the left to keep my eye on him and his handshake, his enjoyment. Within a single encounter, his wrinkles slackened and his nails weren’t so tough anymore. His burden wasn’t so heavy and I stopped thinking that Moldovans were cold.

And on the way back from Orhei (one of the few sizeable towns in Moldova) we were in the back of the bus, squished in the left corner with a woman on my right with a eager smile. We were talking over her to our colleagues outside – in English, of course. And she instantly started up conversation – in Romanian, of course – found out I was a twin and gave me a big smoosh of a hug, so tight my glasses were crooked. I wonder what she would have done if she knew we’re both twins?! Given us each a kiss?

Even culture prep can be built from (or lead to) stereotypes. In preparation for not necessarily having running water, we can end with the following situation:

Host mom: How often would you like to shower?

Trainee: I don’t know, once a week?

Host mom: That’s it?!

I don’t want to ask for too much. I don’t want to waste too much money on plumbing, electricity or gas, but I don’t want to assume that people are poorer than they are. Which would most insult you?

And how is “hullabaloo” in the thesaurus but not “humanistic”?

Written: October 18, 2007

In lieu of the pictures I still haven’t put up, here’s some figurative language for ya:

What I normally eat throughout the day, for example, will probably give you a better picture of Moldova than my ranting about identity and emotional gobble-dee-gook.

BREAKFAST:

Normally it’s an egg or two, fried with salam (which is kind of a mix between an Italian salami and pork sausages), and maybe some chicken fried in there too. On a frying pan, not deep fried.

Then of course there’s bread with homemade butter and maybe some brinza (a white, homemade cheese, salty like feta)

And tea…with lemon and lots of sugar unless I pour the sugar myself.

Sometimes some mini cucumbers because they grow in kilos in the garden…always with a small bowl of salt.

And twice we’ve had porridge. But, of course, I had no idea that’s what porridge was and they don’t call it porridge – they call it caşa – so it took me a while to realize I was eating what Oliver wanted more of. Oh, sorry, that was gruel. And caşa tastes better than gruel. But, then again, I never thought that porridge would be something I liked. And I’ve never tried gruel.

I had rice in the morning once. It’s easy on your stomach and it was almost creamy. I loved it. (And bread).

LUNCH:

Normally we have soup for lunch. And, mind you, if it’s chicken soup, you see the chicken feet and the organ meat, if you’re lucky enough to get it. The meat is tender, fresh, and cut in random shapes, not small and bite-sized like in the Campbell’s soup cans. I don’t like the feet though - no meat, just awkward to eat. There are normally potatoes in the soup (and a LOT in my bowl), plus onion, maybe some carrots, and sweet parsley.

And bread.

Often, though, we have barley with meat, which many people eat with mayo (which I have started to like again…in moderation!) because it makes some dry grains not so dry, a little more tasty and more caloric for the winter.

Bread.

And some cucumbers

When I get a packed lunch, it often has a skyscraper-sized pile of bread-brinza-bread-briza-bread-brinza, half a kilo of cucumbers, five medium tomatoes, and a quarter kilo of sweet, saliva-trickling mini tomatoes. Maybe a hardboiled egg or two.

DINNER:

For a main course: Often the same type of soup is served, or noodles with chicken, butter, and parsley. Or livers. I can’t even imagine how many ducks and chickens have died so that I can eat their livers. And I don’t even know if that’s definitely what I’ve been eating, because that really is way too much dead poultry to keep up with the reproduction rate.

Bread, always, in abundance. But I’ve realized that if you always have a piece in your hand and make sure to take little nibbles every so often, they don’t push you to eat so much bread. One is a must, but I love bread, and I love scooping up my remaining soup or rice, or egg with it.

There is always some type of salad for dinner, normally with cabbage, some oil and vinegar, black pepper, and dill. Dill goes in most every salad. I don’t know if this dill just tastes better, if I’m getting used to it, or if I never really gave it a shot, but I like Moldovan dill. Or, at least, I like dill in Moldova.

As fall starts getting chilly (and by “chilly” I mean “almost freezing”) we don’t eat as many bell peppers (only the red kind), but sometimes they are in the salad too. And tomatoes from the garden! At least six twenty-foot rows of tomatoes!

We once had this really yummy mushroom dish of chopped little button mushrooms (store-bought because some forest mushrooms are poisonous and only sometimes does that mean “hallucinogenic”). Well they were cooked with sweet parsley, maybe some butter, and just enough sour cream/egg mixture to coat.

Sometimes we have fish, but I don’t normally eat it. Except when I succumb to the “Eat! Eat!” pressure, and when it was cooked outside on the makeshift fire. It was a shoe-box-sized tin box with coal and corn cobs burning inside. Two fish were on skewers resting on the top of the box. Delicious! Tender, fragrant, and then garnished with fresh dill and scallions from the garden. Actually I can’t say that they were scallions because these “green onions” were the sharpest skinny little supposed-to-be-scallions I have ever bitten into (because you eat them raw). I think that was for my two week anniversary in this village, accidentally.

Which brings me too…

Dancing! After dinner that night we danced Moldovan-style. There are two basic ways we danced: in a circle and in a waltz. The circle is called hora, but it’s not the same as the traditional Jewish hora or other European horas. (And sorry if I spelled either one incorrectly.) You all hold hands and step, step, kick, step, step, kick with the other foot. I think I got the pattern down, but who knows? It was fun, communal. The waltz was dizzying as all waltzes are, but it was quicker and your arm is stiff and father from you, almost straight. It seems a little more hoppity, more flexibility in the direction of spinning. We danced outside on the front porch. I like Moldovan music a lot more now that I’ve had fun dancing to it.

SIGHTS:

And now, for the second verbal picture, the scenery:

Let me describe my future village. It’s an old village. The roads are horrible. HORRIBLE!! Huge crevices along the dirt roads that look like fault-lines down the center make it necessary to be a skilled driver when you take your 1980 van out in the wee morning hours. But riding on that old school bus was really amusing; I was totally impressed with the driver. And I was amused that, as my torso stayed stable, everything below my belly button went boppity-boppity. But I love that, save the main roads, the roads aren’t perpendicular. They turn and twist, and the presence of more dark trees adds a characteristic shadow here and there. The wooden fences match the wooden houses. If the houses aren’t made of wooden and painted blue or green, they’re made of stone. And if they’re painted, they’re blue or green. If the gate is metal, it’s blue or green. But on the outskirts of the village, behind the last curve of houses…space. Backyards blend into the slopes of pastures and hills. Peaks of houses from other villages are visible but not tangible and autumn makes the land look like golden hour.

As far as I know, no one in the village has running water, but maybe that’s just the case for the majority. Perhaps the mayor does. I will be bathing in a bath tub, but the water will be heated on the stove and then poured in the tub or over myself and you can be sure to expect an entry when I do that for the first time. I know some volunteers already do that, or they bathe in a bucket outside. But I’ve yet to have such fun. Soon! I’m wholeheartedly looking forward to it! I’d rather the water be warm than running.

To get back to the capital we got driven the four kilometers to the main road in that 1980 van through the creviced streets, got a minibus to Soroca (fifteen minutes maybe), then got on another unheated minibus for the 3-hour ride to the capital.

The drive to and from my future site is one of the most naturally charming routes I’ve ever taken. I went a little before sunset the way there and a little after sunrise the way back. I’ll take you along the route back. What I’ve seen of Soroca is that it’s a town, but it’s not too big. Its buildings are relatively short and I saw a sign for yoga lessons! The town is right on the Nistru River, the border between Moldova and Ukraine. The bus station in Soroca has one strip of spaces for minibuses (rutiere) to other main cities. It was early morning and very cold. Frosted breath, gloves and hats, couples close and cuddly.

As we first pulled away, we drove parallel to the Ukraine and the flatbed of the river on our left with a row of trees dividing our view. We turned gradually and were into shadow, surrounded by a thicker burst of trees and climbing gradually. I saw white rock cut from the mountain to our right, but I couldn’t see if it was man-cut or natural. Sometimes I wouldn’t be able to see the slope, but I would feel it, or visa versa. Then we emerged from the trees and were traveling through interlocking hills that look like they’d reach a giant’s hip. Like fingers interlocking. And I saw a meadow on my right once we were no longer following the river. A meadow! Farther on was a dense, if small, forest, and closer to the road was a seemingly smooth, grass-green meadow with cows and a random grazing horse.

And then, further on to my left, where two hills crisscrossed, an older man was herding sheep. I hadn’t before seen a herd of sheep in Moldova. (Have I ever seen one?) Every evening in my current village the cows cross the street from the narrow pasture opposite the village, but this herd of sheep was different. It was distant. It didn’t involve the passing minibus. And the cows practically get hit by the passing cars each evening.

It’s not too different from my current village – poop of all kinds on the street, people polish their shoes, older women wear scarves on their heads, people have chickens. More horse-drawn carts in my future village! I can’t wait to ride on one! I saw at least three on my walks throughout the village on my visit last weekend! And even in Soroca, the capital town of the raion (region), people drive the horse-drawn carts on the side of the road. Some of the most dangerous accidents involve mini taxi buses and horse-drawn carts. Along every trip you see crosses on the sides of the road (often blue) where someone was killed in an accident. And no one wears seatbelts. If you put it on, they tell you to take it off. And after I leave I wonder if my host family will start drinking the unfiltered well water again.

written: October 10, 2007

Yesterday we got our site placements. Staff drew a replica outline of Moldova outside with sidewalk chalk. Chairs were placed in the relative locations of our sites, decorated with corn, plants, and signs stating the village and raion (region, pronounced “ray-own”). I’m going to be in the north of Moldova. Three hours or more from the capital and a lifetime away from the volunteers in the south. I’m probably just as inconveniently far from the Kiev airport as I am from the Bucharest airport. No bother. I think I’ll like it. I know I’ll like it. Probably a little over twenty kilometers from the major city, Soroca. I believe the village is larger than my current village, as based on the most accurate of sources: font size of the village on the map. I’d say my current village is at a 6 pt. font and my future village is at about an 8 pt.

But there’s more! The closest other M21 volunteer will be none other than the first person I met at staging in Washington. The one who looked at me like I was a psycho Californian with my dodgers t-shirt and the luggage I could neither carry nor drag by myself. And who is the second closest M21 to me? Why the second person I met, of course!! We are all in the same raion. I won’t mention your names in case you like me less than I like you, but our recent day trip to the south of Moldova (which took 3 hours one way and 2 hours back – mind you this was by car, not airplane, so what was the change in duration, I’ve no idea…) bonded us a little. An intense Rock-Paper-Scissors tournament can do that. (Do you read my blog?) Two years will pass by in a jiffy since I’ve realized I know way more about Star Wars and Star Trek than I ever knew. I have my father and brother to thank, of course.

Ok, but besides the trekkie trivia, I don’t know much about my future village, but the raion (Soroca) is getting mixed reviews so far. Some say it’s beautiful and I’ve “hit the mother load.” Others say it’s “not bad” but not much else. Two things seem undisputed: there is an ancient fortress in the area, and a large number of Romi families, or ţigani. I haven’t investigated the terminology yet, I don’t know if “ţigani” is derogatory or not, but since I know “Romi” isn’t, I’ll use that. You’d probably call them “gypsies” anyway. Yesterday, three representatives from the Romi population came to speak with us. One man who runs an NGO, a mom and her daughter. They wore the traditional dress. Bright colors. Head scarves. Shawl around their waste. They danced for us. They performed a symbolic scene of suffering and being ostracized, of no one wanting to employ them or school their children. But the mother had a beautiful speaking voice, she spoke some English, and her daughter was beautiful and wide-eyed.

It upsets me that I still don't know much about the stereotypes that are prevalent here. It bothers me because I’m still ignorant here. There are a lot of things I don’t know and stereotypes will only perpetuate that. In addition, I will not only likely be working with Romi families, but I am excited about it. There are so many different stories within Moldova, so many separate histories and cultures. There was an older woman who spoke about her experience as a Jewish woman in a country changed from generation to generation, a history that extends past two world wars into regional and local struggle. Even after my service I will probably still not be able to identify the “Moldovan” identity. (I know that there is never one single national identity, but for a country so small, I am interested in the vast difference in cultures and the perpetuation of reciprocal animosity). Interesting tidbit: In one family, the generations of women were perfect representations of Moldovan history via the language they studied and spoke. Pre-1812, Bessarabia was a principality of Romania. Great grandma spoke Russian because she lived here when Bessarabia was annexed by Russia after 1812. Grandma spoke Romanian because she lived here between WWI and WWII when the area was part of Romania again. Mother speaks Romanian and Russian because she lived here when Moldavia was part of the USSR and Russian was taught in schools, but Romanian spoken at home. Daughter speaks Romanian, Russian, and beautiful English.

But bear with me for the obvious: there are stereotypes in America, too. Everywhere. I might be the youngest, I might be idealistic, and I might be from California, but now I’m going to be the American in my village. I am representing my country. I will be the sole source of stereotype in my little village and within my organization. There are people in the past who have ruined the opportunity for other Americans to ever live in a particular village because they have been irresponsible or otherwise inappropriate. Of course there are places where not even the most immaculate of souls would change the perspective of the locals. But first, I’m not going into a “we hate Americans” war zone and, secondly, I know it’s not my job to “change people’s minds” anyway. I’m just saying that I know I’m in a position where the negative results might be easier to conjure than the positive. So what do I do? I pray. I mediate. I thank God for putting me in a place where I can be away from the easy hubbub. I’m in the north, it will probably be colder (though you never know, last winter was dry). I’ll have time to focus more on spirituality and less on volunteer gossip. Yes, we selfless souls can gossip quite a bit.

I’ll find out this weekend. On Saturday we leave to visit our sites. First test in navigating ourselves (what happens when I get to the village? Will someone be there to meet me? What if I can’t find the families’ homes? – There are no addresses in the villages, by the way). I believe once I’ve found my way to a particular intersection, my counterpart will come pick me up, though she suggested I hitchhike. I will be staying with three host families between Saturday and Tuesday. We get to try out each of the outhouses, test the home cooking, and find the house with the biggest garden. The funny part is I’m not even kidding. What I like is that my organization is located in the actual village and the village is small(ish). Considering the nearest bus seems to stop three kilometers from the village, I wouldn’t want to walk that distance in the dark. The safety-against-being-careless-and-getting-raped talks made two things very clear: don’t get wasted and don’t walk alone at night. I don’t want to talk statistics; I just want to be thankful. I’ve been having ugly dreams. I can’t call them nightmares because they only scare me when I wake up and think about them. But none of them are real, and I’m getting hungry. First, sorry it’s taken so long to get out postcards or mail anything at all. Soon! And then let me end by saying: being in Moldova makes me want to read history books.

Sunday Sep. 29th, 2007

OK the blog below was written over a week ago but I have just been able to put it up. A bunch has changed. Number of people gone: 2. Reasons: still unknown. I have had a history lesson on Orthodox Christianity that didn't really tell me anything new but it was interesting to see the 26 year old priest explain his thoughts to us. It is a beautiful country and I am everyday more comfortable with the language. But I get so worn out, plus all of these immunizations make me tired. But I am more convinced everyday that I want to continue to study languages. No more fear that I won't get the chance. Each Romanian lessons increases that desire. And I also relized just how much multilingualism attracts me to a person. I have many more thoughts on this but I have limited time so I'm trying to squeeze as much in as possible.

Apparently this blog is on the peace corps blog site, but I had no clue. News to me.

In 10 days I find out where I'll be going, and those of you who have me figured out could probably have guessed that I am not going to request anything. I will tell them my thoughts and interests and let myself be part of the world instead of a dictator within it.

Meanwhile, the rest of the blog from below is still valid. Enjoy:

September 20, 2007

Warning: This one is as long as the one before it…and I talk about outhouses…in detail

So we found out today that the big all-volunteer Thanksgiving dinner is not going to happen this year. Considering Thanksgiving is my favorite and most-celebrated family holiday, I am quite disappointed. Especially considering so many relatives are planning on being in L.A. for T-Day this year; I’m jealous, but dealing with it. Disappointed, but not dying. (I reread this part and think I sound too lighthearted. I was unhappy enough to glare at the country director…and normally I’m a “ball of sunshine.” So glaring equals “not good.”) Also forgot to note before that I will find out my future organization and location much sooner than I had expected. I will find out on Tuesday October 9th – four weeks earlier than anticipated. In exchange for finding out sooner, I’m worried there will be less opportunity for assuring an appropriate match. Let me rephrase that; most sites seem like they will be appropriate, but you want to make sure your energy is put somewhere that interests you. So when I said “I’ll do whatever you need” I meant “as long as it’s something I like.” It’s totally possible to be an idealist and not be a martyr.

I also want to thank all of you who have written me. The internet connection in my village is turtle slow and is only accessible through the telephone line, which is, of course, foreign to the locals and obviously requires occupying my host family’s telephone line. So I am writing entries in advance and then pasting them quickly when I eventually make it online. So if I haven’t responded, stay with me.

Oh, and I know some people were wondering where to send packages (I love you!!). Here it is again:

Samantha Marangell, PCT

Corpul Pacii

12 Grigore Ureche Street

Chisinau 2001

Republica Moldova

Remember to tape/package it as tightly and securely as possible and not to send letters unless they are IN the package, because plain envelopes get opened and searched for “money coming home.” Anyway, that address will be good the ENTIRE time I am in Moldova. IF it becomes easier to send packages elsewhere, I’ll let you know. But you could ALWAYS send it to the Corpul Pacii address and it will eventually get to me.

It’s not physically difficult to adjust to the slower timeframe of events here (like receiving packages, catching public transport, or showering); it’s difficult reminding myself that I can. Wasn’t that one of the reasons I was okay coming here in the first place? Specifically to slow down and take the longer route? Because three degrees in five years only makes sense if those are the degrees you want. I’ve also had to accept that if I find typos in my previous entries, I’m going to have to deal with it, because there’s no way I’m going to waste my time correcting an old entry when it will take ten minutes to refresh the page.

I rode the public transport today. We had staff with us on the way there, but went “trainees only” on the way back. It is a mini bus that gets filled with people and doesn’t have designated stops but, instead, goes between two major cities and stops along the way as people request. I’ve yet to see it sardine-packed, though, but I think that (as with the 405 at rush hour) if you’re going away from the capital, you’ve got it made. The walls and ceiling are carpeted, but not the floor. The driver was going 130 km/hour and talking on his cell phone. The difference from L.A.?? Cows in the middle of the road and corn on the floor.

And yes, I’ve totally used the outhouse! Apparently I wasn’t supposed to be using the indoor toilet (and indoor toilets don’t flush paper, by the way…you put it in the trash). Outhouses aren’t that bad if you don’t think about it or when it’s light enough to see. When your system’s working on schedule, it’s no problem. It’s when you have…(how to put it lightly)…difficulty…that the outhouse becomes an inconvenience. You can’t exactly “sit it out.” By the end of my two years here, my hip flexors are going to be as strong as when I was doing gymnastics.

On a more serious note, we’re already one trainee down. At first it was just rumor. He wasn’t in my training site, so I couldn’t be sure. I still don’t know how the other trainees found out so quickly. My thoughts and prayers are with him: I hope he left for less threatening reasons rather than family illness, for example. But I can’t help but stay naïve: we’re all going to finish service (even though that’s already impossible). Maybe if I say it outloud and tap my right foot three times it will come true. The norm is that 1/3 will finish. ONE THIRD!!! Imagine coming ALL the way here….to MOLDOVA…and then not staying?!?! I know it happens and it may very well happen to me for any range of reasons, silly or serious. But I hope and pray that it doesn’t, because I am so excited about this. Still. (I guess at this point “so far” is more accurate than “still.)

I realized I was still feeling anxious about not having communicated with some people back home – people I love and miss and want to talk to. I need to take more deep breaths because my pulse has been a little high a little too often. And it’s just fact now: I’m not going to have regular internet access or a cell phone! Though, I might be able to get a cell phone next weekend. Mom? Dad? And, best yet, I believe if you call me, I don’t pay through my cell phone. So if you buy a phone card in the states and call my cell phone, you pay cheaper fees and I don’t pay at all! When I get it, I’ll put the number up and will tell you how to call me.

Weds Sep 19I feel I'm really making progress with Romanian. We can communicate with less charades!! Saturday Sep 16I am sorry it has taken so long for me to update all of you on my new adventures, location, surroundings, faces, language, blah blah. Well, I say “so long” but I don’t actually think it’s been as long as it feels. I checked into PC staging in D.C. one week ago. Left California ten-ish days ago (the “ish” is for the time change). Moldova, by the way, is ten hours ahead of L.A. Thus, seven hours ahead of D.C.

So much has happened, so much has been crammed into this amount of space that, like the trip to Europe, it feels as if I’ve already been gone for ages. In D.C. I spent every night socializing with my brother and his friends – diverse, vibrant, funny, crazy. Staying up walking around the city I should’ve visited along time ago. Got to see the Souleles’ home in Virginia for the first time! Staging in D.C. was incredible – passionate staff, tangible positive energy, dressing up in business clothes, getting some questions answered and getting antsy to leave. I was totally Miss Talkative - jumpy, smiley Samantha.

I absolutely love the people that are in my training group. Which reminds me: I was going to put together an email list for all 40 of us, but I am one email short for now. It’s such an eclectic group and I’ve yet to experience any unease or awkwardness with any other Volunteer. Oklahoma, Nebraska, Washington, Virginia, California, Oregon, Illinois, New Hampshire, Texas – we’ve got it all, baby. And as I’m sure many of you have guessed, I am definitely the youngest. In fact, even when I have my 21st birthday in December, I believe I will still be the only one under 22, but I might be wrong on that one. The majority seem to be 22-24. A couple 25-27. A few older than that. Two 50+. One gentleman’s son is expecting a child. I suppose this helps me accept not being able to make it to Robby and Corinne’s wedding in December. Obviously I’m not going to be the only Volunteer who will miss events that happen in the States. I watched a home video of a Moldovan wedding today with my new host family – who are fabulous, by the way. Similar, but different traditions. Either I didn’t see the ceremony, or it’s almost entirely based around a reception.

We are all spread out in (5?) different towns now that we’ve moved to our training sites. There are eight other volunteers in my village of 3,000 people. I am not going to list names or specifics about locations. But I am so satisfied. No, not satisfied. Not relieved. Grateful? I’m pleased with the home I am staying in for these next ten weeks. That could likely be due to the fact that they have a green house. We’ve had fresh tomatoes during our lunch and our dinner – just like home. I would say that I’ve never seen redder tomatoes, or sweeter red tomatoes, but most of you know how much I love my dad’s tomatoes. It’s a slice of home…in Moldova…and it wasn’t even planned. Dirt roads, but a washing machine. Running water and an inside toilet (but only in the cold – when it’s hot, we use the outside hole). Now heater, but they have a nine-year-old daughter (perfect for me, no?) and a sixteen year old son. Their aunt and 14 year old cousin (female) stay here on the weekends, and live in the city during the week. Three dogs, one small cat who has two kittens.

Ah, the animals. When staying in the capital city of Chişinău (Kee-shi-now), there were small packs of neglected, stray dogs. They have the scruffy, lowered head, wide-eyed look of dogs who have been neglected and beaten and hungry for their entire life. They chase you when you jog (yes I’ve gone twice now with other volunteers). They howl and bark in the middle of the night. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but Chişinău dogs sound different than Los Angeles dogs – more desperate, perhaps.

And now I’m wondering if this is what homesick feels like. I really just want to listen to my music. Taylor Swift. Michael Bublé. The only English language songs I’ve heard so far are Britney Spears “Everytime,” Shakira, Akon, and some soft-rock something. I called home for the first time since I arrived in Moldova three days ago. And it was very nice to hear my parents’ voices. Very needed. Short but sufficient to get me by for a little bit. I have more people I want to call and talk to, but I can’t understand the phone card instructions – they’re in Romanian – and the semi-English-speaking cousin has gone to sleep. I haven’t cried yet. I actually cried at all since the plane ride home from Dublin. I didn’t cry when I left California. Don’t get me wrong, my eyes have welled up multiple times, sometimes multiple times within the same hour…but no tears have fallen. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell the difference between strength and shock.

The closest that I got to letting a drop fall was when I heard that someone had passed away from an illness he had battled for a while, an illness we ran and trained and raise money to cure. This wasn’t anyone I had met personally, but he has subsequently inspired others who have inspired me. I am here in Moldova partly because of the lessons I have learned from those people. Being part of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society’s Team in Training program was more significant than I’ve ever been able to articulate to my coaches, mentor, or fellow runners. There is a lot of self-searching involved in the decision to join, let alone in the service itself. But, being surrounded by people who work tirelessly for an end they might never witness in their lifetime – for people they may never know – is inspiring. It takes a special kind of person. They may not be running in Moldova, but they run through my mind regularly. So, Team in Training and Peace Corps are significantly related.

And thank you to those of you who didn’t want me to leave. I’m not asking you to cry for me, but I can’t deny that it helps me feel as if I actually might belong in some influential place in the world. Thank you to the gymnasts who cried at my departure (and then at my subsequent good-byes). Of course I cannot judge my influence in Moldova by the number of children that cry when I leave, but the idea is that we each have the potential to make an impact. We’ve been told that our impact is not always visible economically or in the structure of the town, but often by the number of people who know our name, ask for our advise, remember what we’ve shown them, and want us to stay. It meant worlds to me that I was able to go to Lauren’s Bat Mitzvah the Saturday before I left. While her parents were intent on making sure I knew how glad they were that I made it, I feel I didn’t adequately express how much it meant to ME to be part of that before I left. It makes it more difficult to separate yourself but it also makes you feel loved, respected, and, most importantly, READY.

And now I’m here. And it’s 1:30 in the morning. Tomorrow the community is celebrating the arrival of the nine of us, along with the two Language and Cross Cultural Facilitators who are staying in the village as well. So, off I go, to cross the cold floor of the house to use the indoor toilet and wash my face in the sink with running water, next to the washing machine (with no dryer, Kat!), and then I will practice a few ukulele chords because I’ve pretty much promised to play SOMETHING, ANYTHING at the Thanksgiving talent show. And, you know….it’s cool. And, no, we don’t get American holidays off. But as a group, all current and new volunteers/staff get together to celebrate Thanksgiving. But Christmas is after the New Year in the Orthodox system.

I was impressed with the emphasis placed on cross cultural exchange in the Peace Corps mission. We are explicitly expected to share cultures simply for the sake of sharing cultures, to help international understanding and respect between Americans and other peoples. It’s fabulous. I knew I liked this organization. The three goals are: to meet the requested needs of other countries for trained men and women (of course), to help other people gain a better understanding of Americans, and for Americans to gain a better understanding of other peoples.

Considering I’ve practically written a novel, I’ll finish this letter. I have a headache, either from wearing my glasses every day, staring at my computer, or (more likely) from trying to understand a language I don’t know.

Noapte Bună! Good night!

I returned last night from 4 weeks leisure in Europe. Well, I suppose it's not quite accurate to say that the entire trip was leisurely. Lugging around your luggage through cobblestone streets, breaking shoes, scars on my feet, and stomach problems are not leisurely, but I wouldn't take a day back if you promised me a lifetime more. And I'm not complaining at all; I loved it.

The reason I wanted to mention my trip was not to boast about it, but because of its significance to my leaving for Moldova. Upon returning, I had ten more days in California. I now have nine. There were times when I thought I should have planned for more time at home between my two excursions, but as my dad said about moving out a long time ago: You're never ready till you do it.

And that's how I feel about the Peace Corps. You see, about half way through our trip, when we were in Barcelona, I had a little episode of cold feet. Hot feet seems more just, because cold feet don't run, and my feet wanted to sprint. Running on coals, chasing a train. That's how I felt. I didn't want to go away for two years. I didn't want to commit to something else. (Many of you know how I feel about any type of commitment at the moment) I did NOT want to go to Moldova. I thought: Maybe I will just try to find a similar one-year program. Maybe I will wait and do a PC project next year, see how I feel then. But we all know what happens when people keep saying "next year." They don't do it. I wanted to take more time to travel around, to see new places and new faces, to travel around spontaneously with no one and nothing keeping me in one particular place, no one else to accommodate.

That feeling got even worse when we were in France, because I've wanted to move to France to expedite my french skills, to write a novel, to eat the food, to travel south of Paris. Paris also made it more difficult because I had to say my first "farewell." Well, actually, when Mike and Angie dropped me off at the Charleston airport in July and I looked after their blue van, I realized I wouldn't see them for a few years. THAT was my first goodbye. But it's different with friends, I suppose, because I'm used to seeing Liz multiple times a year. And now, in Paris, I said goodbye knowing I would likely not see her until I came home from service....in 2009. (I love you Liz, and I am so glad that I was able to spend such a romantic city with you!)

Somewhere in my travels, I settled down. The travelling wore me out - a little, as I will never get tired of travelling - and I was relatively ready to come home. I think part of the problem was that "coming home" meant "facing leaving again." But, in London, Alan reminded me how quickly two years will go by. As simple a statement as that, it was very necessary. It was also wonderful to know that the Scales family will be in London while I'm in Moldova. It's not the same region, but it's definitely Europe. Thank you all, by the way, because your support and love was more appreciated than I can ever express. And thank you Mike and Cindy Gold for all of your effort in connecting me to Moldova and making sure I would be welcomed and accommodated. It's also wonderful to know that Prague is just a short plane flight away. That's not silly complimentary banter; it's truly reassuring.

So, here I am. Nine days left in California, grateful that my two days staging is in Washington D.C. so I can see my brother up until the last possible moment, jumping beans in my stomach, not quite procrastinating but definitely taking my time to "get my stuff together" before I leave.

There is nothing too crazy to do, but a lot of little things. When I was on the plan home, I prayed that I would not stress during these last ten days, that I would appreciate them. Only ten days, Samantha, you have to deal with it. I have accepted that I cannot possibly see everyone that I want to see before I go...

Which reminds me: party...friday...our house. Nothing crazy, but I WOULD like to see as many people as possible before I go. Bring a dish or a drink, and your camera, of course. Everyone is welcome.

I've also really missed some home cooking. And then realized that missing it after one month is nothing compared to missing it after two years. I'm very spoiled with my parents' cooking, and now I have to live without it. Now I will be living with another family and experiencing THEIR home cooking. But we all know it's not the same. This week will be jam-packed with my favorite dishes - very exciting!

It was interesting to live with less for these past four weeks. For Michael and Kat, it was a chance to realize what they will appreciate when they get home (except for Kat, who won't have clothes dryers next Spring). For me, it was an opportunity to practice not having certain amenities. Like private bathrooms. Or air conditioning. Or keyboards with letters in weird places. But I LOVED not having a cell phone. Except of course when I had people who were waiting on me...

Thank you to everyone that shared this summer with me. Thank you for the people who speak other languages for reminding me how much I LOVE languages and how excited I am to learn another one soon. Thank you for those who shared local foods and drinks (and bought me drinks). Thank you to those who offered their homes and their time and their jokes. Thank you for the horrible play with Orlando Bloom for reminding me how much I love theatre. Thank you for those who wrote to me or called me while I was away; your thoughts were very needed, especially when I was in doubt of my decisions.

Back to some responsibility now. I have some calls to make, some things to get in order, some items to pack up (emotionally and literally). "It's grown up time," as Kat and I discussed. Well, considering my favorite character is Peter Pan, I don't think it's every quite grown up time. But something like it, maybe.

I received an invitation to serve in MOLDOVA! The packet got to my parents on Tuesday and they sent it to me in South Carolina. I read it on Thursday...and then I looked up where Moldova is.

On Thursday, I was rather lazy all day. Not exactly morose. Not sad. Not eager either. But when I saw the UPS truck I was instantly giddy. I skipped/hopped back to the car and let out a little giggle. When I opened the three envelopes, there it was - in pink highlighter, nonetheless: MOLDOVA.

The excitement faded as I read the information packet they sent me. Thursday ended as solitary as it had started.

However, Friday and Saturday were much more energized. I read pages upon pages about Moldova, about the people, the culture, the assignment. Likely, I won't have running water and I'll be speaking ROMANIAN! I had only known one person who spoke Romanian, and she was my French teacher. There is a chance that I will speak Russian, as some of the larger (but not large by any definition) towns predominantly speak Russian.

Since then, I've come home from the beach with what felt like fifty pounds of seashells, Grace's new lizard, and an uncontainable excitement about going to Moldova. In two days I'll be in Northern California. In two weeks from today I 'll be on a plane to Dublin. In seven weeks from yesterday, I'll be heading to my two-day staging/orientation somewhere in the US and then heading to Moldova. That is, of course, if I accept the invitation. I don't see any reason why I wouldn't or shouldn't. I told myself that I would accept the invitation unless I felt like it was essentially wrong for me. I put my trust in God and the Placement Office. I would go where I was needed and I would reinvent my understand of human need, break my ignorance of what poverty looks like. My biggest hesitation and, simultaneously, my biggest fascination is that I will have considerable freedom. I will not have a Drill Sargent over my shoulder making sure I get up in the morning or that I do my share. This is, perhaps, my biggest challenge at home and may be a smart lesson to embrace, or it may be personally naive.

Dates are "subject to change," of course, but if all goes as scheduled I will leave September 9, 2007 for staging in the U.S., will start training in Moldova on September 12 to November 16, and will be an official PC Volunteer from November 17, 2007 to November 16, 2009.

Scratch the "if I accept" because I just called the Peace Corps office and accepted! Here we go! On to a country about the size of Maryland with bountiful wine country and bountiful sunshine! (Which is very important because I get depressed when it's gloomy). On to a country where the women wear dress suits and almost everyone uses an outhouse. See! I wanted a hut in the Sahara and now I get a hut in wine country! Well, we'll see how "hut-like" my village is. I could be in a town of 10,000 or a village of 1,000. But onward ho!

But, leaving South Carolina, I realized that as Mike and Angie and the kids were driving away, it was already the beginning of Moldovan life. I was already saying goodbye. As their blue van drove away it, hit me. I'd said it outloud, but I hadn't felt it until then: I will not see you for another two point five, likely three, years. And I cried a little. But people are wonderful and strangers on the plane offered their assisntance. "If you EVER need ANYTHING in Moldova." It was unexpected and totally inspiring that someone would offer, out of the blue, for resources. People have so much to offer eachother if we take the time to talk. I've picked up three email addresses. All from men, ironically. Two of the men gave me the numbers of their ex or their female friend who was either in the Peace Corps or spoke Romanian. So many people are connected to eachother and we don't realize it unless we talk about it. So and so knows someone who went to Moldova. So and so knows someone who is in the Peace Corps. "Will you be able to date the locals?" That's not really my focus right now. Two of my favorite females have already looked up the "gorgeous Moldovan men" and the "lush green" mountains. All I pray for at this point is the freedom from expectations. I want to appreciate EVERYTHING.

Here is the address where you can write to me during training September 12 - Nov 16, 2007:

Samantha Marangell, PCT

Corpul Pacii

Str. Grigore Ureche 12

2001 Chisinau

Republica Moldova

**Make sure you don't use regular envelopes because apparently people are skeptical that money is inside. Use padded envelopes or manila ones.

** AND A BIG GOING AWAY PARTY SCHEDULED FOR FRIDAY AUG. 31st. Everyone's invited. Mom and dad, surprise! More details to come. **

Igor, the Placement Officer, called to discuss a project option with me. While he did not get the message that I had been completely shocked to be sent to his office at all, he was pleased to know that I was very flexible with project assignments. He thought I could be of broader use than teaching English alone. Not that there's anything wrong with teaching English...In fact, many of you know that I've considered actually being an English teacher! Anyway, he had a project in community development that he believed I was perfect for because I have a wider range of experiences and this organization invites pro-active volunteers. Meaning, I will likely be able to establish my own project(s) within the field.

What's the plus/minus of that? I like that I will be able to be more creative with my potential projects and I do like that there is still a little mystery about where I'll be going/what I'll be doing. Well it also means that I won't get a lot of specific information about my location before I leave, because I won't know where specifically they will place me until after my three months training. I may be in a town of 10,000 or in a teensie weensie village. While he could not discuss the specific country, he could tell me that it was in Eastern Europe (not Central Asia). That means I can narrow the countries down a bit more from the list I posted in the last entry. The existing contenders are: Albania, Bulgaria, Macedonia, Moldova, Romania, and Ukraine. There are a couple countries that I believe are Central Asia, but I could be mistaken. Those are: Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan.

So, to make it simple, I'm no longer going to any country that ends in "-STAN." That's actually interesting because I just read The Kite Runner and sparked some hidden interest in that area (which I had no idea was called Central Asia).

If he didn't call back (he didn't) then he would put the Invitation through today before he left for the day and it would be sent out on Monday. So sometime while I'm soaking up the South Carolina lifestyle, sipping a drink, reading a book, or forgetting what day of the week it is, a package will arrive with more details about the specific country and assignment. It will be an official Invitation for placement.

I don't mind that it will come while I'm in South Carolina. I am relieved that it will come before I leave for Europe July 30th and I'm grateful that it will come before Lizzy's wedding. That way I will be able to discuss my plans in better detail when I see everyone at the wedding. It will almost certainly be the last time I see the majority of relatives before I leave. Which reminds me...the specific project he was referring to would leave the second week in September which is PERFECTLY ideal! I didn't want to leave in the earliest September days because that would not give me enough time to see people/get ready/have a going away party/do laundry after I get back from Europe on Aug. 27th.

NOW WHAT?! Now I can relax a bit. I don't feel so rushed to "get my life in order" because there will be time to do that before I leave in September. Now I can look back on all the craziness that was involved in getting me where I am (emotionally and on the Peace Corps track) and I know that I'm still going in the right direction. I might not be very good at recognizing the right path, but God's always been good at making sure I know which way NOT to go.

I believe there was a reason that I called two weeks ago and found out about the change in region and assignment. Oh! I forgot to mention. So after I was shocked to find out that I was being placed in Ea. Eur/Cen. Asia, I called the woman who originally nominated me ready to ask her why she decided to nominated me for a completely different program than she told me she would nominate me for. (It turns out, she nominated me for a project identical to one she did....fishy?) This was my thinking: as long as there was an objective reason, I wouldn't argue it, but if it was subjective or even spontaneous, I would see if I could get sent back to the Africa office. Well I will never know, because Barbara Adams no longer works for Peace Corps. What does that say, eh? Except simply: Samantha, you will never know why you got sent to another office, but that's just what happened. I think perhaps this happened without my knowing so that I couldn't alter it. I wasn't supposed to influence that because I don't ultimately know where I'm most needed. BUT, back to the start of this paragraph, I think there WAS A reason why I called, even if that reason wasn't so I could "fix it." I think it was necessary for me to mention that I was "very flexible" (with emphasis and silent hinting) in projects. That said, Igor was able to place me someplace where I would be trusted to be a pro-active, creative, multi-use volunteer.

Phew, long entry. To sum up: life is great, exciting, and infinitely beautiful. Every choice and decision weaves your life together in ways we will never fully understand. And I will never see the full picture until the end of my days (which, heaven forbid, doesn't happen for ages), but I trust that it will be lovely, complex, and a little imperfect.

After a round-a-bout series of phone calls within the Placement Office, I spoke to a very helpful woman in the region I had been referred to. The shock, however, was that she was in the Europe, Mediterranean, Asia Office (EMA) NOT the African Office. When I expressed my surprise that my file had been sent to the EMA Office when I had been nominated for an African program, she precded to tell me the following:

According to my file, I was actually nominated for an Eastern European English-teaching assignment that left in September. (Total Shock)

I had been thinking this entire time that I had been nominated to an entirely different program, one in community development...in AFRICA. I suppose this is what it means when you say "I will go anywhere and do any job that you need me to do" - that you will actually GO ANYWHERE. I made sure she knew that once the intial shock wore out, I would be ultimately more accepting of any necessary assignment. I had been told yesterday that my file was under review for all sorts of assignments (though, apparently the location of these assignments was coincidentally left out of the convo). The placement assistant told me that programs leaving in September onward tend to go to Eastern Europe/Central Asia, countries such as: Albania, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Bulgaria, Georgia, Macedonia, Moldova, Romania, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, Kyrzygz Republic, and Turkmenistan. There is a high need for "people like me" in these areas and I had a feeling that one of the biggest lessons I would first learn is how to live with surprises and altered plans. Wasn't the Peace Corps supposed to be my way of letting life lead ME for once? This surprise is just the first step in learning that lesson.

I guess this also proves that I should stop assuming I know what God has in store for me either. I was so sure I was supposed to go to Africa, though maybe it just took that desire to get me to apply in the first place. And I can always go another time. The more I got my expectations up, the more I questioned: I will probably end up where I least expect, and how will I handle that?

To tell you the truth, when the assistant asked me "How do you feel about Eastern Europe?" I wanted to say "I'm disappointed," but I didn't want my shock to make me cynical and selfish. When I said "I would not turn down an assignment unless I felt wholeheartedly that it was wrong for me," I really meant it. Now I'm just accepting that it might require a different type of emotional adjustment.

The good thing is that my family might feel a little bit more secure knowing that I'm not likely to end up in Africa.

And for everyone else, it probably means that internet will be slightly more attainable, or more frequently available than if I end up in Africa.

It will undoubtedly be a blessing in disguise, now I'm just preparing myself to be truly and genuinely open to whatever comes my way.