asking for directions

I will never complain about Michigan roads again. Driving in Moldova, particularly once you get outside of Chisinau, is like playing Moon Patrol on the Atari 2600. Zach actually had a blister on his hand just from clutching the steering wheel so tightly as we made our way to Saharna, a small city in the northeast corner of Moldova.

Needless to say, as the navigator, I was of little help. In my defense, there are no road signs. I don’t mean the road signs are in bad positions, set back from the road and hard to see; I mean that road name signs do not exist here. Occasionally a street name will be on a building in the city – but when you are in the countryside, good luck.

At one point, we turned on a little road that seemed to match the lines on our fold-out treasure map. Five miles later, we reached a dead end.  With nothing else to do we turned around and asked directions from some people in a cart being drawn by a donkey. It was difficult to discern meaning in their thick rural accents. Still, they were able to understand where we wanted to go and a little pantomime goes a long way when asking for directions.

They were fascinated with the idea of us as foreigners and asked where we were from. The grandmother told us of her visit to Paris in her youth and how she has always wanted to go back. Their donkey was dressed up with red bows and so I asked for a picture. Zach joked that it must have been the donkey’s wedding day. They were happy to have their picture taken and placed their daughter on their donkey for a better shot.

The grandmother sang a song for us and her breath hinted of an early morning happy hour. The children gobbled up the bag of chocolates we gave them. This made me wonder if not wanting to ration an indulgent treat like chocolate (which is hard to get when you are very far from any stores) is related to living off the land. When fruits and vegetables are in season (they only try for one growing season here) you must enjoy “while the pickin’ is good”, so to speak. Things that cannot be pickled are seldom enjoyed beyond the growing season.

These kind-hearted folks invited us to enjoy a meal and drink with them. We politely declined as we were on our way to somewhere else. They have left a lasting impression on us. After knowing them for a mere twenty minutes, there were hugs and cheek kisses goodbye. We waved to each other until they were out of sight. They seemed truly happy. Theirs is a simple, yet difficult life full of small joys.

Random interactions with native Moldovans can feel like meeting distant relatives for the first time.