Moldovan Eating

We’ve eaten very well in Chisinau, surprisingly so. People enjoy spending their money on good food, which is definitely a change of pace from basically anywhere we’ve been since Belgium. It’s not just about ‘exotic’ food and how many sleek sushi restaurants and American-type steakhouses offer people a chance to get dressed up and sip cocktails in public. In Chisinau, the food was actually executed well (with one huge exception – but more on that later).
When you’ve had your best meal in months at a restaurant, which also has free WIFI, it’s hard not to become a regular. Merlin and I ate and worked at Cactus Café/Saloon/Restaurant (depending on if you read the sign, the menu or the specials board) four times. They refer to themselves as an American restaurant, but it was actually just creative, delicious food with great ingredients, friendly service, big portions and – oh wait, that does sound American. At first, we were embarrassed to keep showing up, but who gives a crap when there’s ripe avocado.
The food there was eclipsed only by Grill House, a restaurant with more imagination than its name would have you think. The food was expertly grilled by these men, standing out on a patio and although their menus said “We turn vegetarians into carnivores,” they served us the best salads of our trip to date.
Even the cafeteria food was great. I pointed to what looked like cooked mushrooms on our first trip to this buffet and bit into something chewy and meat-y that tasted like tongue, but looked like it might be testicle. On our second visit, Merlin got some heaped on his plate. Doesn't it look like mushroom? We’re still not sure what it is, but it- along with everything else we tried – was really good.
Most people walked around with pastries from Fornetti Franchise, a bakery chain that had stands all around the city. This happy customer seemed to endorse the product and the two girls he was with endorsed our taking a photo of him.
While we never bought anything from Fornetti, we did sample some of the oblong pastries everyone seems to carry around at a great, grimy cafeteria. One was cabbage and the other had what looked and tasted exactly like canned pumpkin pie filling. Both were delicious.
And then there was Conus Pizza. Every block in Chisinau had at least one. The first day, we decided that at some point we’d have to get ourselves a pizza cone. You know, research for the blog. The second day, we noticed that they also sold something called an “umbrellina," essentially pizza with a handle, and we revised our plan. From the third day until the eighth, we noticed that we had never seen a single person buy anything but pastries from Conus Pizza. On our final day in Chisinau, we found out why.
After a long wait during which at least three customers purchased and ate items that were not pizza in any shape, we heard the ding of a toaster oven. Out of the window came this. I held the umbrellina by its handle and watched as the gooey mess of cheese, melted onto the plastic bag it was served in and flopped down, covering my entire first. Before it all oozed down my sleeve, we snapped this side by side comparison picture. Then, we ate it. Hey, it’s the poorest country in Europe, it’s not like we’re going to let food go to waste.

A Tale of Two Museums...

We've been to two museums in Moldova whose names might be translated into "National Museum of History." One of them is in Chisinau, the capital. The other is in Tiraspol, which is the capital of Transnistria. Transnistria likes to consider itself a country, but is unrecognized as such by most other nations. The US considers it a "frozen conflict zone" within Moldova. As you might imagine, the two museums had quite dissimilar ideas about national history.

The Chisinau museum - pictured above - was housed in a beautiful former university building on a tree-lined block of the city.
The museum mostly leaves out Transnistria, and focuses on two time periods which have become touchstones for the Moldovan republic. The first is the middle ages, when there was a putative Moldovan principality in the region (often, erroneously, referred to as "Moldavia"). The little nation reached its peak during the 14th century, when the prince Stephan cel Mare ruled. He is still the most important figure in Moldovan history - something like King Arthur. It is an important time for a certain type of national historian because it was the one period (until now) that Moldova can truly say it was its own country.
The second period that the museum focused on was much more recent - a complicated political dance emerged between the USSR and Romania during the 20th century, which saw Moldova pass hands twice before declaring independence. Essentially, the goal of the museum was to prove that Moldova's history was both more Romanian than Russian and more independent than regional. It is a complex, confusing identity, based primarily on being non-slavic. I am reading an excellent book on this subject called The Moldovans by Charles King, and I highly recommend it if you want to know more about this place.

One room was dominated by this huge diorama depicting Romanian forces defending the Moldovan hills during WWII.
The Tiraspol museum was much smaller and had an altogether different take on history. A quick primer: the Transnistrian breakaway state's primary objection to Moldova as a whole (and a country) is that the Russian language and the cyrillic alphabet were replaced by Romanian and latinate letters. Essentially, Transnistria is a majority slavic region that remains committed to Soviet-style communism (and corruption) and is opposed to the idea of a Romanian nation on what they consider "Russian" soil.
The museum was, largely, a travel brochure for the region. Pictures of the president, Igor Smirnov, shaking hands with athletes, farmers, nurses and businessmen filled a few glass cases. A large display of Kvint "cognac" - the country's pride and joy - occupied a prominent space in the middle of one of the main rooms.
It was a small place, but there was an English language guide on hand. She spoke excellently, but was a little biased. She was very interested in showing us pictures of Transnistrian soldiers fighting the Moldovans during the civil war of 1991-1992. Also, pictures of the soldiers feeding children and holding flowers. This is still, as I said, a frozen conflict zone, and the Military holds complete power.
There were a few displays of Transnistrian products from before the war - all somewhat dated. The state has very limited exports because of a nearly universal, worldwide embargo on goods produced here. Not that it's hard to find Kvint liquor everywhere in Moldova, or to go to Tiraspol to pick up illegal weapons or women.
There was a small, sweet exhibition depicting old-style handicrafts, which was pretty. The guides seemed genuinely happy that a pair of Americans had dropped in on them, though the soldier stationed out front was less cordial.

Chisinau Aboveground

We've spent nine nights in Chisinau, the longest we've spent in one location since leaving New York. Despite that fact or maybe because of it, we still haven't been able to come up with our impressions of the place. Maybe having a more fleeting look at a city helps give it a perspective, maybe it's just a hard place to really pinpoint. It's not really a pretty city, having been destroyed during The Patriotic War and rebuilt in Soviet style. It doesn't feel particularly inviting, unless you're into casinos and nightclubs. Very simply, Chisinau has been 'home.'
On our second day here, Merlin's mac went kaput. So, we brought it into a service center and spent the next three days walking there to check on it and walking back home. (In the end, it was repaired and all charges were covered by his warranty - which was shocking). About a ten minute walk from the service place, we ran into this church being constructed and a gaggle of children in a playground, further was a lake with a beach and a man rocking his boat back and forth to break up ice around the dock. As we walked around some more, we heard the roar of a crowd, which we followed to find a soccer game in process. Our first futbol match the trip.
That particular day was perfect for rambling and we made our way through the awninged tunnel of this flower shop. As we approached, woman after woman would pop out from behind a door and welcome us inside. There were Valentine's Day bouquets on sale and some really beautiful roses. Their windows were opaque with condensation and they all wore some version of a furry wool vest over their outfits. I wondered if all the unsold flowers would wind up in nearby cemeteries.
On the main strip, there are more currency exchange places and banks than either of us ever thought possible in a single place, let alone on a single avenue. There's shopping galore, but only one of the stores had a name we recognized- Hugo Boss - though Mall Dova is filled with them: Swatch, Ecco, a shut down IStore and a Forever 18 (not 21, which is sort of suspect). Dotting the sidewalks are adds for 'beauty salons' which list cosmetic surgery procedures as opposed to the normal mani, pedi, highlights, etc. Our favorite one (not pictured) featured about ten allusions to a stripclub, including a pole, fluorescent lighting and even the "spotlight" of the operating table's overhead light.
Every time we've passed this government building, there's been a small protest. This was one of the livelier groupings. Usually, it was just a small cluster of fairly old people holding signs that read 'death to' something or someone we couldn't quite understand. A police officer always stood nearby looking somewhat bored. If we had spent two days in Chisinau, we probably would have inquired about the protest, but passing it every day made it just another part of the scenery.
Something we got used to in Ukraine was turning a corner and almost smacking into a bust jutting out of the side of a building. This skill came in handy on Tolstoy Street, which we turned onto every day on our way to the city center. We were usually running at a pretty high speed across toward Leo. Pedestrian walkways are marked with white lines in Chisinau, but it's still up to you to just start walking across and trust that the oncoming traffic will stop. It took us a few days to get good at this and neither of us can say we enjoy the thrill too much
Many of the streets here are named after dates (for example,31 August 1989 Street) and buildings often have a year prominently displayed in tribute to some event in Moldovan history. A lot of this is due to the fact that there was a massive wave of remaining things after the country's independence from the Soviet Union. I was going to use this picture as an example, citing the "1430" that was printed over and over again along this wall, but when I looked at it more closely, I realized that 1430 wasn't a date, it was a phone number, just like TaxiBus 1414 and Taxi 1406. But, hey, there's a kid in it. So, I posted anyway.

Cave Driving

A few days ago, we drove through the largest wine caves in the world - the passages that they occupy travel some two hundred kilometers underground. What's more, the vineyard has the largest collection of wine in Europe, at over two million bottles. The name of this place is Milestii-Mici, and it was perhaps more amusing than it was impressive.
Before we went underground, we wandered around the vines themselves. They are supported by wires strung between concrete poles, which is common practice here. It isn't so much pretty as somewhat mesmerizing - the lines of poles arrange and rearrange themselves into grey patterns as you pass by. We were alone, killing time before our tour began, enjoying the stillness of the air and relatively mild temperature. As you can see, it was another cloudy day, which is perfect for taking pictures below ground.
Our tour guide, Lilly, got into our car and gave us directions through the passageways. Another group of four people followed in a separate car. The cellars began life as a limestone mine, and the vineyard only uses a small percentage of them - even two million bottles isn't enough to fill two hundred kilometers. We drove past huge metal and wood barrels first, where the wine is aged before bottling, then parked and walked through the deeper, bottle-aging section. The "streets" are convoluted and are named for different grapes and wines. Lilly would tell us to "turn left on Sauvignon Blanc," or "continue on Pinot." It's really kind of tacky - the vineyard website actually refers to the caves as "the biggest underground wine town."
As we drove, our headlights occasionally swept across shadowy figures in the tunnels - mostly older women with headscarves and blue aprons. Hundreds of people work in these caves, mostly people from the nearby town. One wonders if they have exceptional night vision. We could hear them clinking bottles against one another as we walked, too, and sometimes caught sight of somebody down a side passage.
The tasting was accompanied by a fiddler and accordionist - but not by any commentary on the wines. In fact, we were given no more information than "red, white, dessert." The white wasn't very good, the red was palatable and the dessert was fine. Quality isn't really the goal at Milestii-Mici. Actually, the goal - according to the tour guide and the president of Moldova - is to sell "one bottle for every Chineses [sic]".
There are two reasons why Milestii-Mici has so many bottles. The first: it is really a wine collective, with only some of the bottles stored there produced in the town's vineyards. The rest come from other producers in Moldova who can't or don't want to maintain their own caves. The second reason: there is currently a Russian embargo on Moldovan wine, and Russia used to account for nearly all of their alcohol sales. Many of the bottle in the caves are there because nobody wants to buy them.
Partly because of this - and partly because many things are very cheap in Moldova - the wine is very cheap. Especially in the vineyard store, where bottles such as this one - a 1986 Traminer in their "collector" series - sell for 98 lei. That's about $8.25. We bought two very good bottles of sparkling wine for $5. That's $2.50 each.

Urban Spelunking

When we're not on the road in this country, we always seem to be underground. Cave monasteries, underground wine cities, it's really the perfect sight-seeing when the weather is awful. Our hostel in Chisinau is outside the city center, which means that a lot of our walk in and/or out involves crossing highways via underground walkways.
We like these walkways, not only because they are wonderfully logical and safe, but because they let us dip into something that feels a little more 'real' in this splashy capital. That's not to say that the shopping center directly behind our hostel named "Mall Dova" isn't absolutely and totally real. It's not to say that the uber stylish people and cappuccino cafes and congestion of cars isn't an integral part of the Moldovan capital's modern identity.

However, when you're in the poorest country in Europe, where 38% of the GDP comes from citizens working in other countries and sending money home, passing swank store after store feels particularly off-putting. When a huge amount of a country's economy goes unrecorded because of corruption, there's an overwhelming desire to get to the bottom of it. We just take that a little more literally than others.
Most undergrounds are lined with store fronts. There will be a sign for shoe repair, offering a phone number if you'd like to call for the person to come in to the 'office,' there will be a MoldCell shop, there will be a beggar on the stairs walking down and on the stairs walking up and there will be decorative art, either commissioned or organic on the concrete walls.
Other walkways are packed to the brim with counterfeit DVDs, shoddy underwear, hair accessories and the like. These mall caves are some of our favorite places in the city with their barbershops and shoeshines and cafeneas that serve men beer at 9am. (Still better than the vodka breakfasts in Belarus). We've stopped in for lunch, for use of the public restroom, for a head shave.
The food stands may look like they offer hamburgers, hotdogs and tortilla wraps, but they really only have pastries. When I emerge from underground, I never have to worry about my hair smelling like meat or cigarettes, just dough.
I think this potato-ccentric cart is a holdover from Soviet time. It, blissfully, sells not a single potato. In fact, unlike the 'snack shop,' it actually does sell hot dogs. Wrapped in dough.
This is the sort of spelunking that makes me feel at home. It makes me think of the stores under Port Authority and walking under Times Square to avoid walking through it. It gives me that old familiar feeling of disorientation, emerging and immediately thinking, "where the hell am I and which way is north?" Mostly, though, it makes me feel at home because I feel like I'm where the locals are, where other people feel at home, where there's a heart that's not blinking in neon outside some 'poker club' called Nevada.

The Monastary at Orheiul Vechi

We found ourselves in a very remote part of the world the other day, walking along the spine of this long ridge above the Raut tributary to the Dnistr. To say that we found ourselves there, actually, is a little misleading; we drove there to see the cave monastery at Orheiul Vechi. We weren't entirely sure how to reach the caves, though we had been able to see a few window-like openings in the cliff as we drove into the valley. There were few footprints ahead of us in the snow, and a church building in the distance, which we headed towards.

The door to the church was closed and locked, though we could hear people on the other side. After we knocked, a young monk came and opened the door. He didn't say anything to us, and let us walk around for a while, unhindered. The church was sort of interesting, but it wasn't in a cave, and we weren't sure what to do. Before we left, we offered to help the monk unload a van that was parked in the churchyard - he smiled, declined our offer and took pity on us. He pointed us down to a belltower that we'd passed earlier, and made a motion that seemed to indicate going down.
This is the belltower and the door to the monastery. The wood was difficult to move, and it protested quite loudly when we did get it to budge. Inside: a long stairway carved into the rock, descending into blackness. As we stood there, unsure of what to do, we heard an angry voice from below. An old, short, broad-shouldered monk came running up the stairs. He moved much more quickly than I would have thought he could, and he was much angrier than I hoped he might be. We were keeping the door open too long, it seems. He shut the door behind us, throwing the stairway into near-complete darkness.
There was some light below us. It was strange to see sunlight buried deep within the hillside - it gave me a kind of vertigo. The faint glow was completely insufficient for navigating the irregular steps. The monk barked at us to move, only grudgingly cracking the door when he realized that we couldn't see. We stumbled and shuffled down into the rock and found ourselves in an otherworldly place.

The monastery was cut out of limestone between the ninth and twelfth centuries by early Christians who were drawn to the valley, believing that it was a sacred place. There were some caves here which were enlarged, and others that were created entirely by man. The complex isn't all open to the public - only a few rooms. One of which is this spare "sleeping chamber," which was barely four feet high and divided into eleven small alcoves. The light is entirely natural, coming from a few windows cut into the cliff face.

It's difficult to describe the light in the caves - it is very thick, as though the air was swirling with humidity and dust, which it isn't. It has a golden tint, and feels ancient. Water dripped slowly into a jar set on a stool, castling rippling shadows around the room. A woman mopped the wooden floor with a rag that she held in her hand, and the monk sold candles to place in front of icons. A small nook was piled with thick, red cloth - a little sleeping nest, it's nightly occupant unclear. To the right, an altar adorned with a good amount of gold.
We were shown out through a door onto the "balcony," where the monks hid from the Ottoman army in the middle-ages. It is said that they were perfectly concealed there, able to hear the voices of the Turks above their heads, searching for them. It was almost perfectly still, and the valley felt vast and timeless.

Getting into our car was strange - the engine and the heater seemed so new and different suddenly. As we drove off, the sun began to come out behind the mountains skirting the monastery, which was quite pretty.

Castle Hunting: Soroca

Sometimes, this is what castle hunting is. We drove three hours north of Chisinau and found an old cement-block hotel to stay the night in. The woman who ran the hotel walked us (in her slippers, through the falling snow) to a "cafenea" nearby for dinner - the waitress made us "pelmini" dumplings and cabbage salad, which seemed to be the only things she had in the kitchen. We woke up to heavier snow, grey skies - and a castle that is closed until May.

Soroca is a border town, sitting on the edge of the Dnistr across the water from Ukraine. The castle sits right on the water, and is hemmed in by trees and buildings, making it very difficult to photograph. We considered crossing the border to shoot from the opposite bank, but thought better of it. It isn't all that spectacular, though we've heard that the interior is worth seeing. The walls form a perfect circle, which is unusual, and are bolstered by five bastions. It was rebuilt in stone during the same period as Khotyn, which is not that far to the west, during the expansion of medieval Moldova's fortification system.
Today, the town of Soroca is a little run down. The park around the fortress was littered with garbage. Stray dogs prowled around and fought with one another. Nearby, the main street was crowded with maxi-taxi's (private minibuses) and sunday pedestrians. We had coffee and a slice of cake - the only option in this particular cafe, it seemed - nearby, before getting back in our car and heading south.
I wish I had been able to take a few good pictures here, but it didn't seem possible. It's sad because this isn't a country with a multitude of castle options. This little fortress is one of their primary landmarks - it even appears on the back of the 20 Lei bill. Driving back towards the capital - through bleak, wintery vineyards - it was hard not to feel a twinge of guilt, as though I was doing the country a disservice.

Why Don't They Have This In America?

Sometimes, something seems so simple that you wonder why it isn't commonplace. Take, for example, the Moldovan beer cap (or beer top?). It has a very functional pull-ring attached, for easy popping.
It really is simple, and it makes bottle openers seem clumsy. Why not have this in America? A patent issue? A matter of taste?