Craig

I'm officially no longer a Peace Corps volunteer.I'm on my way home and I'm eating scrambled eggs and bacon in the Frankfurt International Airport. The eggs aren't that great, but man, I missed bacon. And the coffee is great.And I'm tired.A woman just ran past yelling "I am Florida. I AM Florida."OK. That's all for now.

Yesterday, Maria, who is a graduating university student, had a review session for one of her finals. In the course of the review, her professor announced that those who wanted to receive a grade of 9 or 10 for the semester, they would have to give her 100 euro. Maria explained that even if she had 100 euro for the bribe, she wouldn't do it. That's great, but what is really upsetting is that regarless of how well she does on the final, she won't receive any higher than an 8.5 because the professor needs to spreadthe grades out. This a practice that is common here - ingrained really, even in the high schools. It's not possible to turn a professor in because nearly all of them do it, and the deans and administrators know and condone the practice. One of the main causes of this problem is that they professors are payed a paltry salary and they depend on the bribes to supplement their incomes. I don't know the percentage of students that end up paying the bribes, but it is a significant number. In a perfect world, if so many students are able to pay off all their professors, the school should just raise the tuition, which is only a few hundred dollars a year, and use that money to pay the teachers salaries and abolish the practice of bribing. A student that has three or four classes and pays a 100 euro bribe for each class could easily double what is payed in tuition. Perhaps a way to force the change would be for students to organize a group that refuses to pay the bribes and "outs" students and professors who do, but I don't really think there are enough students who care to do such a thing. Too many are happy to just pay the bribe and get good grades. The ones that can't pay and want to continue their education just hope that all their 8.5s are enough to get them into a graduate program.

Recently, Maria and I visited her friend Diana. The bus ride took about 2 hours and cost 30 lei (about $2.40). Upon arrival, we immediately met Diana and her mother on the road and walked back to her house, where we were then immediately met by Diana’s boyfriend Ion. It was decided that I was to accompany Ion on an unnamed mission while the girls chatted and prepared food. I causally strolled through the gate when Ion told me to hurry up – he left the car running, but was low on fuel. I picked up my pace, got in the car and we made it about 3 feet before the car stalled and refused to restart due to said lack of fuel. Fortunately, we were heading in a downhill direction and were able to coast to the main street whereby Ion would find a container to get some gas and then hitch a ride to a gas station within sight. I was instructed to wait in the car to watch over it – I guess in the infinitesimally small chance that a fuel totting car thief were to happen upon the vehicle unsupervised. Fortunately, my supervising skills proved to be unnecessary and Ion returned quickly with enough fuel to carry us to the gas station to add some more. On the ride to the gas station, Ion made me privy to some information that I would have liked to have known before starting off on this adventure – the car had no brakes. The method he employed to slow and stop the car consisted of not ever going very fast, making use of inclines when possibly, down shifting, and throwing on the emergency brake when it was necessary to come to a complete stop. Fortunately it turned out the mission was just to get some gas, so it didn’t last long. The rest of the night consisted of going to two other houses and then back to Diana – each of which served food and drinks. Unfortunately, my ability to apply the brakes to the dizzying array of shots of cognac, raciu, and wine were only marginally better than the brakes of Ion’s car. Though I was able to miss out on the last three or four rounds, which would have proved disastrous. Waiting for the bus to go home, we saw and interesting site. A funeral procession was coming down the street. The processions typically consist of a few children in the front carrying a wreath and banner of some sort. A few people carrying crosses follow them. Then there is the majority of family members and friends usually joined by a priest or two. The deceased, being carried by pallbearers, follows them and then usually a few people trailing behind. The procession stops periodically, the deceased is set down, the priest starts a chant or a song of some sort and a round loaf of bread with a candle in it is set on the ground. This procession was odd in two ways. The first is that the deceased wasn’t being carried, but was getting a ride on the back of a huge, industrial-type flatbed truck. The second being that when the stopped in front of us, the singing/chanted was delayed as the priest answered his cell phone and chatted for a bit. After the phone conversation, it looked like he then checked some messages and then when satisfied with his phone business, he then started his singing and chanting. It was pretty awesome.

The man who invented ramen noodles in 1954 has passed away. A moment of silence please.(SILENCE)Thank you. You can read about it here.I have a few blog posts in the works, but we have been without power for a few days and I'm rushing to finish up a grant proposal. There should be a few new posts next week.

Recently, I've been doing more work in the community and less work directly with my mayor's office. I've got a great mayor because he is dedicated, smart and active. That also means that he's not around much because he's busy doing work he needs to do. And that suits me fine. I've found a group of kids that want to work on different projects here in the village and I'm working with another village to set up a small company that will employ trafficked or trafficking-vulnerable girls and women and will teach them how to repair donated computers and then sell those computers at a low cost to villages and schools in Moldova. My village will be one of the first customers and we'll set up an internet cafe with the computers we receive.The problem I have now however is that the mayor's office only asks me for help of any sort when they want to use my camera or to show off the American. I've been trying to teach them how to use Excel on the computer USAID donated to them, but they'd rather use their abacuses (I wish I was exaggeration and joking). I try to help them with the internet and email, which kind of works, except they just use the internet to download their horoscopes. Baby steps. But typically, they just need me for my camera lately. I've been "contracted" to photograph a driving class, the blessing of bridges on two occasions, the opening of a road, a gas stove installed at the day care center, the main system of gas distribution, the heater at the school and other various events in the village. Recently I attended my village's Hram festival. Hram is celebrated every year in Moldovan villages and can generally be described as a harvest festival. There is song and dance, art, feats of strength, food and wine and vodka and cognac, and then an all night disco. I attended this year's festival for the first time and brought my camera so that I could take some pictures. One of the mayor's office employees saw me and said, "oh good, you brought your camera. Give it to me, I need to take some pictures." I told her that I brought it because I wanted to take some pictures for myself and I'll give them the pictures I take. She responded with "I have to take specific pictures, so give it to me because I need it more than you do." I responded with "uh, no. It's my camera." And really, I don't mind taking pictures for them, I just hate that I'm never asked to take pictures, I'm told. And when I'm at events taking pictures, one employee in particular always thinks I'm not taking the pictures I'm supposed to be taking and, quite literally, demands the camera from me. "Give it to me!" Man, I hate it when that happens. I kind of feel like a four year old who wouldn't share his toys, but at the same time, I'm not going to be bullied into sharing.So, they called me Thursday night and said "Craig, there's a big meeting tomorrow and you need to be there. Make sure you bring your camera." Dammit. I wanted to tell them it was broken. Or another volunteer is borrowing it. Or that I'm not here as volunteer photographer, but I agreed to go. The thing is, I wasn't needed at the meeting, my camera was (and in the end it wasn't as there were two other people there with cameras). The meeting turned out to be for mayors and secretaries in villages in my state and they were going over new policies about how to fill out certain documents. It was three hours of "stamp the lower right-hand corner of document AF-34 twice, once in red with a round stamp and once in blue or black with a square, but not rectangle stamp. But do not stamp the back of the document in any way or it will be forfeit." (As a side note, this country LOVES stamps. They stamp EVERYTHING to make it "official.") My actual ability to participate in this meeting was nil except for photographic participation.Afterwards, a large lunch was held with delicious food. Also replete with wine and cognac. Moving on to my second pet peeve about live in Moldova - hostile hospitality. I recognize sharing a drink is a major part of the culture here and am prepared to drink a shot of vodka or cognac when it's called for. But I hate cognac and vodka. People don't popularly opt for mixed drinks or beer for reasons having to do with fashionability (typically), it's because sprits consumed on their own tastes like poison. But I really hate being guilted into drinking more that what I want. Sometimes, I might want another drink, but because it's being forced, I absolutely refuse, making my incredulous host angry. Here in Moldova, to refuse to an offer with no means yes. It's just polite to say no and then take what you offered. Unfortunately, there isn't a word that clearly conveys no. Which is fine unless you don't actually want what is offered, in which case you have to start employing a myriad of different tactics, often simultaneously: I'm taking medication, it's against my religion, I might be pregnant (never works!), I'm allergic, I just don't like it, I'm too drunk already, I'm genetically predisposed to alcoholism (that gets a confused look, but then further insistence), and I'm sick (the drink is then offered as a cure, typically with the addition of black pepper). I spent a lot of energy trying to dodge shots as co-workers reminisced about my past tactics in avoiding drinks. One man fondly told of the time that I responded to him with "pauză" - I'm taking a break, when he confronted me with a large glass of wine as it was my turn in the drinking circle.In addition to having to refuse drinks on this occation, I also found myself refusing to make a toast. People love making toasts here. This meal had about 50 attendants and I would estimate that 41 of them made toasts. The first few toasts, all attendants are, well, reasonably attentive. After that, it's just someone standing up talking loudly while everyone else sits and talks loudly. I didn't want to make a toast for a few different reasons. One, I hate being the center of attention, which is pretty difficult here as I'm almost always the only American. Standing up, making a toast in a foreign language, completely lacking any sentiment or desire will only highten the sense of being the center of attention. Second, I have a particular distaste for public speaking. Third, I firmly believe in a rule that I've concocted since being here that there should never be any more than two toasts at any event. There are two reasons for this rule: People run out of original things to say after two toasts and they just become a rehashed version of the first two toasts glued together with clichésEveryone in the room knows that after two toasts, the toasts will be rehashed versions of the first two toasts glued together with clichés and they stop paying attentionAnd finally, I didn't want to make a toast because they were trying to force me into making a toast and I hate it when anyone tries to force me to do anything I don't' want to do. So I didn't make a toast. In hindsight, it probably would have been better if I just stood up and croaked a few words and sat back down. But I've got principals to uphold. Or something like that. In the end, they were a little t.o.'ed that I didn't give a toast, but still requested that I bring my camera to work on Monday. They want to take some group pictures of everyone at the mayor's office. Maybe I could get a job with National Geographic after all this experience I'm getting in photography.

So the other night, I was waiting for the mini-bus in Chisinau to take me home. There were about 4 of us waiting when a group of three younger guys showed up, all quite inebriated. I knew one of them. I don’t know his name, but he thinks he knows mine. When he says it, it sounds something like Krang. I wasn’t looking forward to riding with them because he and his cohorts usually ask me for money or to give them a cd player or just ask stupid questions like “do you like to have sex?” They also like to talk to me in Russian sometimes so that it’s funny when I don’t understand what they’re saying. But tonight, they had a different focus. One of the four people waiting with me was a younger girl, around 20 years old. One of them put his arm around her while the other two pestered her with questions. When our mini-bus arrived, she got on first and they surrounded her, one next to her, the other two in the seats behind her. The mini-bus was entirely full with weary villagers heading home from a long day in the big city on the last mini-bus of the day. The mini-bus completely full of people but that didn’t stop these kids from feeling completely comfortable harass the girl. It started out verbal, but then they started grabbing at her from behind. She fought back, slapped them, asked them to stop it and leave her alone on multiple occasions without success. I wasn’t really sure what to do. While my language is decent after a year here my vocabulary works better suited for talking about projects at work and talking about my day or what I’d like to do. I need to work on vocabulary that would help me tell three drunk kids to “keep your hands to yourself and leave her the fuck alone or I’m going to call the US Embassy and have you taken to one of Bush’s secret detention torture centers.” I would have been able to say “Please leave her in peace” which would most likely have not left me in peace. I probably would have gotten myself jumped. And then made fun of for not conjugating the word “to leave” correctly. And, it left me entirely frustrated that I didn’t know how to help. What frustrated me the most however was that an entire bus full of people didn’t say a thing. Everyone knew what was going on, the kids were the only ones talking. There were seven people within one seat from her and no one said anything except for one girl who giggled a little when the girl being attacked landed a bruising slap after one of the guys tried to grab at her boobs. I need to come up with some sort of seminar that will address this problem, but I’m not sure what kind of seminar that would be. Any ideas?

chicken Originally uploaded by caric. This morning I got up, headed down to the kitchen and opened the fridge to get myself some breakfast. This is what I found. After staring at the decapitated head and thinking that a chicken's sphincter is really weird looking, I decided that I wasn't all that hungry any longer and would just opt for a cup of tea.The big jar of red stuff in the back is my host mom's homemade ketchup. I tastes nothing like ketchup, but it's really good. On the plate is breaded-fried cauliflower. Notice nothing is covered. Ever. And a dead chicken is just chillin' right next to the cauliflower I'll probably have to eat for lunch. Yum.

but I was reading this quote by W today:"I think it’s naïve. I think it’s a mistake for people to believe that going on the offense against people that want to do harm against the American people makes us less safe."I know that there are a few (one or two) that will disagree with me here, but who's naïve? This is what I (and many of a similar mindset) have been preaching since 9/11. Going to Iraq has nothing to do with Terrorism or 9/11. This is all new. There is no front line. This administration is fighting the "war on terrorism" in a way that is akin to fighting Vietnam with the game plan for WWI. The "war on terror" has no front line. Everywhere is a front line. It's not a physical battle where the side with more might and resources can win. Its a battle of ideas and we’re really losing. What backward Republicans call “negotiating with terrorists” or in the case of Rumsfield appeasing Hitler, what we really need to do is appeal to the suicide bombers, the members of jihad, the people that are being turned against us in the war or terrorism. This is a unique paradigm. In the past, we’ve had to work with leaders to end disputes. But in this case, there isn’t a centralized government to work with. What is needed is to work with the actual soldiers. Give them opportunities; give them a reason to not hate us and their leaders fail. Our main problem right now is that our Secretary of Defense is, in his mind, fighting a war against Hitler. But in actuality, he is fighting a war against same people that were Nazi’s because they had nothing else to be. And as long as the President is stupid enough to call the rest of us naïve for not believing in his methods, then we're all in trouble.The next post will be about Moldova, I promise.

Don't hit your head Originally uploaded by caric. I just got back from 10 days in Great Britain visiting my friends Graham and Pete. I think there are only four square miles that we didn't cover. We visited Oxford, Stonehenge, Snowdonia in Wales, around London, then up to Moffat, Edinburgh, and Glasgow in Scotland until I ran out of time and money and head back to Moldova. The return was a little less shocking that I thought it would be, but I'm still adjusting. Everyday on the radio in Britain, they were talking about a new law there where children under 12 or a certain height had to sit in a booster seat of some sort. One of the first things that I saw here in Moldova was someone driving past while holding their baby a la Britney Spears. That's perfectly legal here. Actually, the first time that I rode in a car here, I ceremoniously given the front seat being the American. I got in and reached for the seat belt and was firmly and politely informed that seat belts are NOT worn in Moldova.Actually while I was still in Heathrow on my way home, I already felt like I was back in Moldova. At 6:00 a.m. the airport was in absolute mayhem. Check-in desks A - L were all open, but the line for the self check-in was about 2 miles long. All the other lines were only a mile and a half long. I picked one that was just under that and waited patiently for 25 minutes until I finally arrived at the counter. On the countertop there was a sign posted that read "Group Check-in Only" and the woman behind the check-in counter firmly upheld the rule. I asked her why the sign wasn't somewhere that everyone can see, but she just shrugged me off and asked for the next person. I then chose another line and waited for another 30 minutes. I chose the right line! He gave me my boarding pass and then asked me to take my bag to the "Fast Baggage Check-in." I thought that was a bit odd, but "sweet, Fast Baggage Check-in is exactly what I need. I've got a flight in less that an hour and haven't done anything with customs yet." The directions he gave me for the "Fast Baggage Check-in" were a bit vague. Something like "between check-in B and Costa Coffee." Costa Coffee was in front of check in K. "No worries" I thought, it's going got to be fast with a name like "Fast Baggage Check-in." After some searching, I was at a loss. I asked two British Airways employees and they vaguely pointed in the direction of the doors outside. While wondering about I passed a man in line who said "fast baggage check-in my ass." "Excuse me, is this the line for baggage check-in" I enquired."It is" he replied.He was standing in the 2 mile long line. I followed it to the end and aligned myself behind the last person. Then I received a tap on the shoulder. The woman behind me informs me that I'm not at the end of the line, only where it makes it's first serpentine turn. At this point I said one or two swear words under my breath. Then followed out the rest of the line and piled in. And waited. And waited.And waited.Upon nearing the "Fast Baggage Check-in" I realized that the self-service check in was almost completely free. I had just been looking at the line for the "Fast Baggage Check-in." So did a few other people behind me. A revolt was bubbling up just under the surface behind me and nearly exploded when one of the BA employees ushered a woman who had just served herself with a check-in in front of everyone in line. There was no revolution bubbling under my surface however. Annoyed? You bet. Angry? Maybe a little. But I had been trained well. Compared to the disorder and beuracracy that's in effect in Moldova, this was child's play. Not only that, but everyone suffering the disorder stood in straight lines, giving everyone else a comfortable amount of personal space. In a way, I almost enjoyed it.Not quite. But it wasn't so bad.A quick related story: There is a monthly magazine that is published by volunteers here. Each month a few people contribute a story or anecdote or write up a news story in the vain of The Onion. Recently there was a "story" about a volunteer here in the capital in which he decided to teach some old ladies (babas) to stand in line. He gave them instructions, then put a line on the floor and asked the to form a line. Immediately they all rushed to the line and started elbowing each other out of the way. He had them stopped and repeated the instructions on how to form a line and then asked them to try again. He received the same result. After a half an hour, he threw his arms up in disgust and left the room only saying "There isn't even anything for them to wait in line for!" And, it is just like that here.

When I was a kid, I used to have to sit through a syndicated re-run of M*A*S*H* before dinner was served.  Sometimes I'd find something else to do because M*A*S*H* bored me to death, but sometimes it bored me to death at a slower rate than my other options of death-by-boredom and I'd sit through an episode.  Those unfamiliar with the show, it was about a medical hospital during the Korean war.  The stories generally focuses on the doctors.  BJ and Hawkeye were the protagonist and the self-important, somewhat dim Frank Burns.  One of my favorite scenes was when Hawkeye, one of the doctors, was teaching Koreans how to speak English and he had them repeating "Frank Burns Eats Worms." I have, against my better judgment, decided to teach some English classes here in my village and it's not going well at all.  The first problem is that it's painfully obvious I'm not an English teacher.  Actually, it's painfully obvious I'm not a teacher of any kind really.  I don't know how to lesson plan, I don't know how to deal with making sure little Ion keeps up with out making Elena bored to tears. The second problem is materials.  I can't find a text book that isn't in English and Russian instead of English and Romanian.  There is an English language bookstore in Chisinau that sells texts for teaching English, but they are only in English.  I chose that book because I can't read Russian.  Well, it turns out the entire class feels that it's too expensive so I spent 400 lei (about $30) on the text book, teachers manual and workbook and it's not really being used. The third problem is the students.  If the were to all arrive for one lecture, I'd have about 35.  On a good night 10 will show up and usually of that 10, 2 or 3 had been to the previous class, so I have to catch the other 8 up without making the two bored, which is quite difficult. There are a few people that I've worked with one-on-one and that works out much better, so moving forward, I think that's going to be the model I'll use from here on out.  But before my class this class ends, I'm going to have them chanting "George Bush eats worms." Powered by Qumana

It may be possible that there are more flies in Moldova, which is about the size of Maryland, than there are in the entire United States. To get rid of the pests, Larisa uses a two-prong system. The first is buying flypaper and hanging it wherever it can be hung. Every third day or so, the paper is covered in flies and replaced. Every other day or so, I inadvertently run into it with my head, shoulder, or arm and have to spend 15 minutes trying to wash off the goop. The second is spending about two hours a day pulverizing flies with a wet, twisted up dishtowel. She’s amazingly accurate and effective with the towel. I witnessed her rack up 7 kills in about 9 and a half minutes the other day. I wish she wore a helmet during the massacres that I could put stickers on each time she made a kill so we could keep a monthly count. After four of five kills, she usually looks over at me as says “Specialist” and indeed she is.The other day, Larisa asked me if we had flies in the US. I replied that we did, but we didn’t have as many as Moldova does. I ventured to give my theory as to why we don’t have as many files. We have less standing water as well as not having outhouses. If there does happen to be something like an outhouse, like at a campground or some sort of outdoor event, the hole is filled with a chemical of some sort that prohibits the setting up of fly cities or it is part of a closed system where it is nearly impossible or at least difficult for a fly to enter and start a family. Here, however, outhouses just have an open hole on the floor inviting flies to move in and start a family or forty. She replied that basically, I was just talking nonsense. She does this often. I asked her if ever noticed the thousand or so maggots squirming about down in the outhouse hole to which she replied that “Those are not flies. Flies come from eggs.” I agreed; flies do come from eggs. But between eggs and flies, they are also larvae and pupae. She looked at me as if I was trying to convince her that the world was, in fact, flat. I tried to think of ways to prove my point, but it was utterly useless. Laughingly, she explained to Colea, my host dad, that I think the little white worms in the outhouse are flies. He just shrugged and turned back to the TV.The next time I hit the internet, I decided that I was going to prove that I was right. Turning to where I always turn to try to prove myself correct, I searched for “fly” on wikipedia.org. I downloaded the article on flies, larvae, and pupa, printed them out and did my best at translating a summary of each article. The next night I presented her with my argument and after a 30-minute question and answer period, she replied that she had learned some “stupid biology” when she was in school. I then tried to convince her that we should try to put something over the outhouse holes to keep the flies out. She answered that it probably didn’t matter, as the neighbors wouldn’t be doing that, so it probably wouldn’t make a difference. She’s probably right on this point, but maybe I can make a side project out of teaching the village why they have so many damn flies and what they might be able to do about it.

Vanessa, the baby that I lived with in my training village had to have an operation on her throat. She was born without a uvula, that little flap of skin hanging down from the back of your throat. I always assumed that it was just that, a flap of skin. Turns out it’s more than that. It helps you speak, especially when making guttural sounds. When swallowing and vomiting it makes sure the substance coming or going stays its proper course and doesn’t make a wrong turn and head out your nose. It’s why I saw her vomit out her nose. Twice. I thought it was either a fluke or a pretty cool trick. It’s also why at 1 ½ she still can’t speak.Because of the operation, I went to visit last weekend and then rode with the family to the hospital on my way home. If you think HMO’s are bad, you should have seen the process it took to get Vanessa admitted into the hospital. The entire process took three weeks. The baby had to visit three doctors to get various test done. Then there were papers to get stamped proving that the tests were done and that she was who they said she was. Then the stamped papers had to be taken to the various doctors for them to sign their names on the stamps. Once this was completed the family finally headed to the hospital. There, the woman registering Vanessa astutely pointed out that the stamp on the back of page 3 is supposed to be on page 2 and she can’t admit her until it’s corrected. There was arguing and a telephone call or three but the woman wouldn’t budge. As they were leaving, looking very frustrated, they ran into Vanessa’s doctor and explained why they were leaving. He looked the papers over and interceded on their behalf and argued with the woman for about 5 minutes. I’m not really sure what was said because it was mostly in Russian, but it was looking pretty heated. After the argument cooled down to more of a simmer, Vanessa was finally admitted. The surgery was on Monday and was completed without complication. I went to visit on Tuesday and while looking very sleepy and moving in slow motion, she was doing well. What was odd, however, was the hospital. There are three beds to a room and the rooms are just large enough for three beds and space to walk in between them. The bathroom was outside, two buildings down, so each of the beds had a chamber pot. Every room had a sink, but none of them worked. The only sink with running water was in a small kitchen that was off-limits to everyone except staff. Not unexpectedly, Vanessa was running a light fever. The nurse suggested that Elena give the baby some aspirin. I walked with Elena two blocks away to purchase some for her. The hospital did not have aspirin, you had to bring it. I thought it was odd when my current host brother needed to bring a shunt to the hospital, but they turned out to be pretty expensive and while still odd to me, well, it never really made sense. But to not have aspirin blew my mind. It’s only 3 lei for a box of 20 which is about 39 cents. Pretty much the only thing the hospital provides is a doctor, a scalpel, a bed (it’s best if you bring your own sheets and a pillow), cotton bandages and some tape to hold them on. You bring everything else.It reminds me of the Monty Pythons movie, The Meaning of Life. There is a skit where they compare child birth in the third world to childbirth in the first world. In the third world, there is a woman cleaning dishes in a large pot. As she’s doing the dishes, a baby falls to the floor between her legs with a thud. She half turns around and yells something and a little girl runs into the room, picks up the baby and then runs back where she came from. In the first world, they are in a bright, clean white hospital room. The woman is on a bed with her legs up on stirrups and has two doctors attending to her. The doctors are discussing what machines they will need to deliver the baby and one doctor says that the need the machine that goes “booooep” and the machine that goes “bada-beep booop, bada-beep booop.” The other doctor agrees wholeheartedly and says, he loves the machine that goes “booooep.” That contrast was ever present at the hospital here. The rooms only had beds. There were no machines, no IVs, no monitors of any sort. There weren’t telephones, televisions, or even a waiting room with magazines. There were no chairs in the rooms for visitors, you had to stand or sit on the bed with the patients. The hospital did provide food, but if you wanted something to drink other than water, you had to bring it. If you wanted hot water for tea or coffee, you had to bring an electric kettle. Being at this hospital make me understand why the average lifespan in the US is in the high 70s and early 80s while it is in the high 50s and early 60s in Moldova.

Yesterday a friend and I decided to make some chocolate chip cookies on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Making food at home is always a bit interesting as my host mother doesn't really trust that I have any idea what I'm doing and generally wants to "help." It's really more like policing, telling me what I'm doing wrong and just doubting any culinary decision that I make.Cookies in particular and baking in general is difficult here because Moldova is a land without precision. They only bake a few things and they are are pretty simple. Not only that, but they're used to the making them, so they just throw a pinch here and a handful there and what not. We don't own any measuring cups or spoons. Another problem is the oven. It's new and nice, but it doesn't have a temperature setting - just 1-7. So, we start working on the cookies and Larissa is already doubting what I'm doing as I start to insist that I need to make fairly accurate measurements and that the oven should be about 190 degrees centigrade. She just walks over to the oven and turns it to 3. She says "I usually just use 3. If it needs to be hotter, put it on 4." I'm a bit skeptical, but move on to figuring out how to measure 225 grams of something and what 5 milliliters of vanilla would be if I only have vanilla powder. In the meantime, she is boiling water for mamaliga (kind of like polenta) and I'm melting butter and chocolate on the oven. 10 minutes pass and while I'm busy worrying about measurements and Larissa is busy doubting and questioning an explosion rocks the oven. The oven door blows open, a fire ball shoots out, burners on the oven rocket skyward, and two windows in the next room blow out. Larissa was directly in front of the oven and hair on the left side of her head singed. I was off to the left of the oven and strip of hair across both of my legs is missing. Megan was sitting in the back and came away with all of her hair. The only real damage ended up being the two shattered windows in the other room.What happened was that you must manually ignite their oven when you turn it on. When she turned the dial to 3, gas began accumulating in the oven and eventually made it to the burners going on the oven and then exploded outward. It was really quite frightening, though I felt a bit better once I figured out what happened. Larissa however blamed it on working on Sunday. And it wasn't just an ordinary Sunday, but Dominica Mare. I'm pretty sure that's the Pentecost, but it's translated literally to Big Sunday.After the explosion, she left the room to calm down and then returned to the kitchen, sat down and says, "I know exactly what happened." She goes on to say that it was God sending us a sign that he disapproves of us working on Sunday. This is an old discussion we've had a few times. She also believes that her son Marin was hit by a car because she had been doing laundry on Sunday for a few years. She sat me down one day a few months ago and told me of this theory and then said "Don't you agree?" I happen to not agree for a few reasons and so I told her that I didn't think it was a sign as much as it was an mistake and an accumulation of gas exploding. Later, my host grandmother came in to concur with Larissa and also asked that we let her do "work" on Sundays from now on as she is old and ready to die.The oven wasn't broken and we ended up making the cookies. They tasted alright, but they spread out more than they rose due to the fact that we were just adding flour, baking soda, and baking powder in random spoonfuls and hopeful guesses.I'll be sure to light as soon as the gas is turned on from now on.