The way the day began should have been an indicator as to how it would unfold. I arrived at school at 10am, not realizing the day was deemed "Day of Preparations." That meant I was an hour early. I took it upon myself to "prepare" my room, and began moving tables and chairs to fit my desire. Half way through this procedure my classroom door swung open and a dozen children dashed into the room and began running about before resting into seats. All the children's' eyes were fixed on me and my first thought was "this isn't the first day of school is it?" "No," I assured myself, Thursday was the first day of class. Not knowing what the children were in my classroom to do, I put them to work, arranging my class. After the five minutes it took to complete the task, the children once again returned to their seats, as if awaiting instructions. Geesh, it wasn't even the first day of school and I was clueless. As I was going around the room asking each child his or her name, one of the other teachers entered the room and began speaking to the children. She was speaking Russian, so of course I had no idea what was going on. The rest of my time in the classroom was a blur of students and Russian. Leaving the classroom all the students in the school resided outside for a ceremony/meeting of sorts. The director began speaking about the classrooms, cleaning for the day, and the dreaded school uniform. The uniform, white button-up shirt, navy blue blazer and navy blue pants/skirt seemed pretty hip to me. Judging by the students' faces, they didn't share my opinion. Now comes in the point in every volunteer's experience when they are put on the spot and called out in front of hundreds of people. Yep, I too was seized from the crowd and put on display as the new, young, American, volunteer, teacher. My director spoke kind words about me "she is beautiful, sympathetic, smart, and speaks very good Romanian." Luckily, I had been spared from having to speak.
The students once again returned to my classroom, but this time I decided to play dumb. Seeing them in my classroom and not knowing what to do with them I simply left my classroom and returned downstairs where the other English teacher (who only speaks Russian and broken English, Irina) was standing. After a few minutes the teacher who spoke to my students before (Natasha) decided that we should go up to the classroom and have the students "make it pretty." I explained to her that the classroom was already pretty and how I wanted it for the first day of school. Upon reentering the classroom Natasha spoke a few words and in the matter of seconds the children raced out of the classroom. By this point in the day I was ready for anything and nothing came as a shock to me. I have learned to just stand back and wait for things to happen, because trying to guess what will happen never turns out. About three minutes later children began to trickle back into the classroom, carrying brooms. Turns out Natasha told the students to run home and get their brooms in order to clean the school. Good thinking. The children left the room to make the outside presentable for the first day and us teachers hung out in the lobby. I figured this "Day of Preparation" was a way to get free child labor. How smart is that? But if you failed to come to school on this day no one would know and you wouldn't be punished. There was no one at the door checking your name off a list and I am sure no one would prohibit you from coming to school because you were not there to make it pretty. So I suppose the children were there by choice. There would never be this many kids in attendance at a school in America. Students in America have better things to accomplish, television, sleep, video games, shopping, telephone, Internet...
Irina and I checked our class schedule for Thursday (every day thereafter would is TBA and can change halfway through the day) in the teacher's lounge. Deciding there was nothing going on outside, we sat and had a rest in the lounge's extremely comfy chairs. We were sitting there, communicating in broken languages, for another hour before a lady (at this point I am not sure what her role is in the school) told us there would be a meeting in ten minutes. All the teachers convened in the cafeteria (cafeteria/theatre) for a meeting to discuss catalogs, the first day, and other things I did not understand due to my lack of Romanian. Once at that hubble bubble was through the day was over.
I decided after school I would travel with Irina to Ungheni (where she lives) to buy school supplies. We get to the bottom of the hill and are waiting for a rutiera (bus) that will take us to Ungheni when a guy approaches us. He tells us that if we are going to Ungheni he can take us, but he will be leaving in ten minutes. Good deal. Here in Moldova , it is normal to hitchhike. Everyone does it. If you need a ride, you wait by the side of the road, put your hand out, and you wait for someone to stop. Someone always stops. If you are driving, you pass someone on the side of the road with their hand out, and you have room in your car, you pick them up. That is just the way things go here. It is quite nice and gives you a feeling of community and wanting to help the greater man. Right after the man approached us a car stopped in front of us to pick up the man standing beside us trying to hail a car. Immediately we also seize upon the opportunity, and we are on our way to Ungheni. Not a word is spoken by the five inhabitants of the vehicle as it makes its fifteen minute trip to the regional center. Only when the car stops alongside the road does anyone utter a word. I am a little concerned as to why the vehicle has stopped and the idea that they could lead us out into the field and kill us before taking all our money flashes into my head for only a second. Apparently the car had run out of gas and the father daughter team were using the barrel in the trunk to fill the car. After trying several times to restart the car, and the passengers having our doubts as to whether we would ever reach Ungheni, we began moving again.
The shopping excursion was uneventful. I purchased paper, a ruler, paperclips, glue, notebooks, nothing worth elaborating on.
Irina dropped me off at the bus station, where I was waiting for a rutiera to leave Ungheni on its way to Chisinau. On its route is Pirlita, which Irina said the driver would stop. The driver passed me and I asked him if he could stop in Pirlita and he muttered something back, which I did not understand. Oh no, I could be in a tough stop. This was the only rutiera going the direction of my village and if the driver was unwilling to drop me off, how else would I get back home. I could wave down a car on the main street in Ungheni, but that would be the last resort. I am not experienced enough in hitchhiking to take the trip alone. Finally I give the guy money and ask him again and he says “ok (he didn’t actually say the word ‘ok’ but I knew that is what he said).”
I take my seat in the ninety degree rutiera (Moldovans don’t believe in opening windows, they believe the current is what gives you every type of illness there is) next to a mid-forty year old man. I give the man a grin and nod, which he takes it to mean I would like to share a conversation with him. He talks about his job, as a mediocre personal photographer. He whips out his camera for me to admire and I share my approval. The photographer has with him a large picture of a small girl in a park. It is mediocre at best, there are no signs of spontaneity, just an uncomfortable pose and a forced smile. He asks me if I would like to have my picture taken and I tell him “no thank you.” I get a tiny sense that he is a little off his rocker, but feel safe in my surroundings with 20 other passengers. He lets me know that if I want my picture taken he will be more than happy to take it for me. Opening up a large liter of orange soda, he takes a sip before offering me some. In that moment as I stare at the recently gulped upon mouth of the bottle and the expression on the man’s face the only thought racing through my head is “TB, TB, TB.” I decide that drinking after an unknown man would not be a wise thing, and pleasantly decline. He is confused as to why I would not seize upon the opportunity to drink this wonderful beverage and share a moment with my newly made acquaintance. I try to explain to him that I like it, but I just do not want any right now. I guess that appeases him. Throughout the ride he makes attempts, at least I think he does, to touch me. One time he adjusts himself in the seat and his hand grazes my leg. The next time he crosses his arms and his hand lingers a minute on mine. I don’t know what to think of this, but dismiss it as being ok, since he is foreign. People in Moldova do not have a regard for personal space, and are quick to touch others. People in America are reserved and hesitant to lay a hand (even a friendly innocent one) on others, for fear of a lawsuit. Girls/women meet other girls/women with a kiss, and guys/men meet other guys/men with a handshake and even a hug. It is nice to see people here have such a love for their friends and family, eager to express their affection and appreciation of others.
Finally we are approaching Pirlita. Two other people are departing at the same location so I follow their lead. I am not paying attention when I step off the rutiera and as it pulls away I realize this wasn’t where I wanted to be. I saw where I wanted to be (rutiera station in Pirlita) about a mile and a half away. I was on the very edge of Pirlita and it would be a long trip. I decided I had good enough navigating skills that I could cut across the village and make my way toward my house. I convinced myself this would be easier and faster than walking along the road. I began my trek up a paved road and after about five minutes of walking I cut across on another road and made my way down it. It wasn’t the easiest of roads and my shoes made it difficult to walk the rocky path, but I was confident. As I walked along I began to hear the whizzing of passing cars louder and louder. I had made a big U and ended up on the same road I was dropped off on, except about 100 yards closer to my desired destination. So much for my navigational ability, I would now stick to the main road. The tiny paved pathway alongside the road was nice and after about fifteen minutes of fast paced walking I made it to the center of town. I decided my efforts awarded me an ice cream cone, a chocolate one at that, and a Fanta. It wasn’t a hand-dipped cone, only a pre-made one, with no wrapper only a paper covering the top of the cone. That chocolate ice cream cone tasted good and I was glad to know I was close to home.
