A Shift in Dreams

To anyone but me, it surely seems the silliest of dreams. I walk into the room, warm and full of the smells of white glue and chalk dust, crayon wax and pencil shavings. I brush snow off my coat and hang it into a crowded closet besides boxes and boxes of patterns, posters, pictures, glitter, pipe cleaners, and sticky tack in reserve. The room is dark until I flip the switch that livens the buzzing of fluorescent lights, and I set to work readying a chalkboard with the things we need to know for the day and setting the desktop computer a-whir, ready to check emails. I sit in the big chair behind the big desk, and I peer out at all the little ones, tops wiped clear the evening before, ready for another fresh start.

When I try to consider my favorite season, I often hang up on the notion that really, what I like is the very beginning of each, probably none more or less than the next. These days are much the same, while no two are alike, each offers its own beginning and its own promise. A blackboard wiped free of white clouds, coat hooks empty but for the stray hat and boot or two. I sip black coffee in the dream, and when a bell rings, the clamor of little children that had been confined to the cafeteria moments before gradually floods into the hall, then the buzz makes its way to my room where I greet with smiles and squeezes, hearing one story after another and directing the energy of the morning to readying ourselves for the day.

I don’t just dream of this scenario, but long for it. I think I have for as long as I can recall having even the faintest idea that someday I would grow up and be able to be the one seated in the rocking chair, picture book balanced on a knee, making words spring to life. From second grade, when I’d bound down the hall to the first grade room, math flashcards in hand, ready to spend recess quizzing and helping the younger students. From third grade, when my teacher always participated in our writing activities, words pouring onto paper to create poems and songs and stories that we listened to as intently as if she’d composed the works of Shakespeare himself. From middle school, when my teachers told me what a good teacher they knew I would be. From high school when I struggled with a project where we were instructed to research three careers that may interest us, because, truly, I never had anything else in mind.

I like to think I was just made for this—somehow, I want to consider that God put me together, and pulled a mind off the shelf, clearly stamped with the phrase “passionate teacher,” perhaps a heart marked “nurturer,” and hands marked “will only write legibly in washable marker.” When he polished me up, maybe he handed me off to some angel and said, “Put her some place where she can learn for all her life and share every bit of it with those around her—it’s all she will ever want to do.”

Funny, then, twenty-three years, a shining school record, two degrees, and countless jobs working with children later, I’m not greeted every morning by those fluorescent lights or the coat closet packed with my supplies hoard. I wake up each morning, and without a shower or a cup of coffee, I bundle into as many layers as the day demands, trek through the cornfield, then the park, and then town, and enter the halls of the noisiest building I’ve ever known. Children bump and bustle, shout, push, and crash into one another, bound over anything in their way, and greet each other with smacks and handshakes, and cries in two languages, both of which just hum through my mind as babble when I’m not yet fully awake.

I suppose you could say I took the road less traveled.

The smells of chalk are replaced by the faint remnant reek of shiny oil based paint. The scrape of chairs on floors creaks through the din of noisy children, and when I make my way into the room where I will teach, I set the whole of my possessions in the building, all of which are in one bag, onto the same chair where I hang my coat—except, of course, on days when the heating system just isn’t up to the task of combating the weather, and we all remained bundled up.

I ask the class to stand up, as is customary at the start of every class—the only show of respect teachers will receive in the forty-five minute period more often than not—and my students’ singsong voices chant together:

“Good morning, dear teacher.”

On a good day, and in the strongest of my classes, this is followed by pupils taking their seats and responding to questions like “How are you?” “What day is it?” “What is the date?” and “Tell me about the weather.”

                A good day doesn’t yet elicit the kind of passion every other school I have inhabited always did, but I keep telling myself that it will. I’m comforted by the occasional spark of it. Sometimes it comes as a student follows me across the street on my walk home, answering my questions that I pose in my language and translate to hers. Some days, it warms me from inside when I get a student who normally isn’t bold enough to speak to give an answer. On the best kinds of days, it wraps itself around me in students hugs, the swish of their puffy jackets against my own calming me and reminding me that even in a strange place, in a foreign language, in a world I sometimes fear I’ll never fully understand, I am still a teacher. It’s in me, and it’s not going anywhere. It gets stronger every day. By the end of two years here, I don’t imagine that anyone—least of all myself—could question it.

                That’s the dream now, and I’m giving all I’ve got to make it real. In a few years, I don't doubt I'll make my way full circle, back to the dream that's lived in me for so long. For the time being, though, I want to live this one to the fullest.

                Wish me luck.

A Week in the City

This week we had training and seminars, both in language and teaching, in Chisinau, from Tuesday through Saturday. I'd love to tell all about them, but it will have to wait, because while there, I also finally visited our medical officer about having fallen and hurt my hand a few weeks ago. She was a bit appalled that I'd waited so long, sent me straight to the hospital (which looked, and smelled, remarkably American) for X-rays.

Turns out it's a little broken, and the brace I've got to wear makes typing kind of a chore. I've really only got full use of the first two fingers on my right hand, and I've been expressly forbidden from writing with it. The bad news is that not writing is a little rough on a teacher, especially with no technology in the classroom. The good news is that it had almost healed itself in the three-ish weeks I waited, so she thinks I'll only need it in the brace for a week. I get to make another trip to Chisinau Friday, bright and early, so I can have it X-rayed again and see if this poor little metacarpal bone is looking healthy again.

I'll be popping calcium and Vitamin D tablets like candy until then, as, evidently, my almost-all-carbs diet at home hasn't done wonders for the strength of my skeleton. Until then, wish me "Noroc!" (Romanian for "luck") and I'll write more when I'm working with ten fingers instead of seven. :-)

A School Party in the Village

Well, I was going to spend this afternoon packing for our mandatory week of training in Chișinău over the fall break, for which I leave tomorrow, but the washing machine melted down with the clothes I planned to pack still sudsy and trapped inside. I'm waiting for my host mom to get home from work so she can help me sort that mess out, and I'll at least get to take them with me clean and wet to dry in my hotel room. Hopefully.

The good news is that this gives me some time to tell about an awesome weekend in the village of Mărăndeni. One of our English Education Volunteers, Kim, lives and teaches there and was planning to hold a Halloween party Friday, so she sent out an invitation for others in the North of Moldova to lend a hand. Looking forward to the prospects of seeing another village and of painting cute kids' faces, I eagerly agreed to make the trip.

Halloween isn't traditionally celebrated in Moldova, but the kids do all learn a bit about it in their English classes, since it's a pretty big deal in America. My host brother was informed that Americans carve heads from vegetables for the holiday, so he and I, because we didn't have a pumpkin around, had carved a family of apple people the week before for him to take to school. Beyond that, not much happens here at the end of October unless someone (usually a PCV) is ambitious enough to organize festivities. I'm hoping to try my own hand at it next year. While I'm not usually all that into Halloween, I miss the pumpkin carving element, and the kids think it's such a cool novelty to be part of a foreign celebration.

My attempts at getting from Point A to Point B in Moldova have yet to work out simply and as-expected, but that's par for the course with a sense of direction like mine, so I wasn't too worked up over the fact that it took me ages to find the bus station in my own town. I knew it was at the edge of town, but I hadn't been to the edge of town on foot before and had no conception of just how long a hike that would be, plus I took a few wrong turns that added to the trip more still. I did get there just in time to catch the last bus that could potentially get me to Bălți, the nearest raion center, on time to catch the last bud out to Mărăndeni, and a friendly man who spoke a little bit of English led me to the window where I could buy my ticket. He was pretty interested in what I was doing there when I said I'm not visiting but living here for two years. People often are, it's a nice reaction to have-- Moldovans are notoriously welcoming.

When I finally made my way to the Bălți bus station, I had unfortunately just missed the last bus of the day out to the village, so I ended up making countless phone calls to Kim and asking almost every driver, ticket-seller, and friendly-looking stranger in the area what the best way would be to get myself to Mărăndeni. After a few wrong answers from a few people, I finally figured out what would get me nearest to the village so I could walk in. The driver had been one of the people to provide me faulty information (that there would be another bus directly out to the village at the same time as his own would leave), so he was confused when I was all set to hop on his rutiera after all. I explained, though, and after first trying to convince me to marry either his son or nephew, let me on without a ticket and got me just where I needed to be.

Just seeing the village was great, because it's so quiet and the leaves are all the most incredible golden color right now, so I was enjoying the walk, but since I was running a bit late by this point, it was a relief when someone offered me a ride into the center. She correctly guessed me to be an English teacher and guessed that I was headed into town to see Domnişoară Kim, then got me just where I needed to be. While there are some inconveniences associated with living in these tiny villages, the helpful nature of their inhabitants certainly makes up for a lot of them.

We headed to the school and after some complications with getting the doors unlocked and a brief moment of uncertainty about whether we'd have electricity with which to play music, we got things rolling. Kim's democracy club (a handful or so of fifth- and sixth-graders, if my age estimation is right) showed up to help us with the decorations. I made a pretty impressive mess mixing up homemade face paint to use (since I'd had no luck finding it for sale even in the capital last time I was there), and things got rolling.

Admission for the celebration was five lei (about fifty cents) per student, which will go toward the creation of a world map mural somewhere in the school in the near future (part of a worldwide Peace Corps project I think is particularly cool). Kids were initially surprised when I told them they needn't spend additional money to have their faces painted, and once word of that got around, the line grew way faster than expected. I took one break for a bit while someone relieved me, but mostly, I was sole painter, so I took a lot of pride in seeing everybody running around with bats, pumpkin, ghosts, and spiders on their cheeks and foreheads.

There was also lots of loud music for dancing (played using a microphone laid near a computer speaker), bobbing for apples (which the kids also ate, a bonus when we're used to American kids who prefer the candy element of Halloween over healthy treats), an attempt at a Soul Train style costume dance off (it didn't work as planned, but the kids had a great time anyhow), a face cut out board (well, paper) with a witch and Frankenstein where students could have their pictures taken, a ping pong ball tossing game, and prizes. Overall, the night was a huge success. Students, teachers, and volunteers alike had an awesome time and we estimated that between 50 and 70 kids were there.

Afterward, the school director (like a principal) invited the volunteers (five of us in all) to hang around for tea and cookies in her office. We visited, talked about what we do and how we like Moldova, then headed back to Kim's place where we made ourselves a nice dinner and sat up talking and visiting entirely too late. The next day we headed into the city in the morning, spent the day hanging out and taking a long walk in the beautiful fall sunshine before I caught my rutiera home in the evening and made my way back to the house just in time for dinner with the host family.

A lot of my weekends here are pretty uneventful, and I'm all right with that. I think at heart I'm mostly a homebody, and the more time I spend getting to know my family here, the more I enjoy just being here and being a part of everyday life. Still, though, a little excitement sure can be nice, and when it happens to involve a fun night of music and dancing with school kids followed by a relaxing day with friends who speak English, it makes for a great change of pace. It's also really cool to see how someone is making great things happen at their site after a year of service here-- makes me look forward to the things in store for me the more capable I become here and the more connections I make. I'm so grateful to have been a part of the fun!

Seven Billion and Moldova

I spent some time this evening exploring an interesting tool provided by the British Broadcasting Corporation, based on a variety of sources of research on population growth and sustainability of resources. It highlights the fact that within the coming few weeks, Earth's population is anticipated to break the 7 billion mark. That's about 2 billion more than existed on the planet when I was born, which was about 2 billion more than had been here when my mom was. In the past 50 years, the population of our planet has more than doubled, and while research has advanced to make great strides toward the development of sustainable resources, we're still using entirely more than an expansion as we're currently seeing can accomodate.

I suppose the (kind of) good news is that the countries sucking up the large majority of these resources (America being a great contributor to this use) are not the ones with the most rapidly expanding population. For the most part, countries where people use the least are the developing nations in which people have learned to make do and are now experiencing great advances in known medicine, sustaining life longer, while birth control has not yet caught on sufficiently to allow populations to remain stagnant.

There are exceptions, though. There are countries in our world, where, despite an impressive ability to conserve resources, use what is available, and live comfortably with little money to spend and minimal natural resources at their disposal, population is declining rapidly. Moldova tops this particular list.*

With the most rapidly shrinking population of any country in the world today, the population of the Republic of Moldova becomes smaller by just over a hundred people per day. It seems a peculiar phenomenon, I'm sure, from a distance, but up close, it's more bizarre still.

Had someone asked me before seeing this website how rapidly the population here is diminishing, I'd have had no idea, other than that it's assuredly a noticeable change, and it is most certainly not growing. Putting a number in correlation with the things I see every day, though, gives a bit of clarity to a somber picture.

In the school where I teach, more students live apart from their parents than with them. While many scenarios consist of children who reside with grandparents, aunts and uncles, or close family friends, a sizable number of them live without an adult in the household, generally leaving teenage siblings, mostly sisters, to care for the younger members of their families. Needless to say, it's a scenario not conducive to the well-being of any of those involved.

I attribute circumstances like these to much of the negativity I see in the attitudes of young people within my school. Most will tell you they are unlikely ever to be able to leave Moldova, more will express that they desire to do so, very few seem confident that changes could take place here to improve the country they've been born and raised in. Poverty is commonplace, education is lacking efficacy and certifications in viability in the world, opportunities are few, and a stunning proportion of people work their entire lives never saving enough to afford their own homes or to survive someday upon a pension.

Interestingly enough, though, Moldova and its neighbors, the "transition countries of Eastern Europe" are grouped not among the developing or least developed, but among developed nations such as the United States and the nations of western Europe. To me, this sounds promising. The growth that has occurred here in a very short period. (Moldova, after all, just celebrated the twentieth anniversary of its independence at the end of this summer.)

It pains me to wonder what people think when they feel so defeated that they believe their children's only hope for a quality life is to leave their children behind in search of work that pays enough to raise children on. I can help wonder exactly what a Moldovan teen raising her siblings with parents working abroad sees, looking ahead to the future.

If I had my say, I'd put visions ahead of these children.

The first I'd place would be the vision of people working together to create opportunities. Opportunity, after all, comes to those who seek it, not to those who wait for it to arise. I believe that if the people in this country who are just now at the start of their lives made it a priority and a goal to form connections and relationships with organizations and businesses outside the country, those who have the resources Moldova, in many ways, lacks, great things could be brought into the country. Jobs could be created, money could be drawn into the country rather than sent from abroad, and possibilities would expand.

The next I'd want to place is a view of the future in light of what is available at present. I've seen incredible creativity among my students, ingenuity the likes of which I've never dreamed among my elders, and among my peers, an ability to bear great deals of adult responsibility with dignity, grace, and unparalleled capability. Moldovan soil grows grapes that snap in your teeth, and the people know how to turn it into wine of every imaginable, delicious variety. Moldovan fields are vast, fertile, and have been worked carefully for years by families who, if they were to develop cooperatives or collaborate with larger organizations, I don't doubt could find much greater revenue than they do in the street markets in Moldovan towns.

Most important of the treasures of this tiny country, though, are the people, who are strong in ways I never knew were possible. The children wear their coats in the unheated schoolrooms. Elderly women reap corn stalks from the fields bent over small, dull tools. Communities come together to help one another in whatever ways they can. Then, at the end of the day, the end of the season, the end of the week, or on any imaginable occasion, they join each other in celebrations with vast spreads of traditional food, dancing, song, laughter, stories, and (needless to say) a fair helping of home-brewed wine. Happiness and the joy of family and community underlie the culture, allowing a warm glow to shine through all the adversity visible at Moldova's surface.

Finally, I'd want to offer these young people a view of Moldova's potential for the future in light of its past. While Moldova has a long way to come in many respects, it is a country that has seen great adversity but has still made very impressive strides and advancements since its inception and, more recently, since its break from communist rule. The country has been governed by dictators and plagued by class war as a part of the Soviet Union. It has struggled to gain economic footing as an independent state. It sees to this day the remnants of Communist rule and the corruption which still impedes many of its greatest efforts.

The Moldovan ground, however, that has yielded great deals of adversity and pain has yielded a people who, while a bit battle-worn, are little worse for the wear. Technology has advanced by extraordinary lengths**. Schools are making evident progress in the gradual incorporation of more modern methods and the training of more progressive new teachers. Help from outside resources such as the Peace Corps is being accepted, often with open arms by organizations ranging from local government to schools and hospitals to small farms and NGOs. Many of these groups are working to improve the way of life of minorities, women and children who have suffered domestic violence, and those involved or at risk of human trafficking. Progress may not always be as fast as what we'd hope to see, but it is, all the same, undeniably taking place.

While it can't be ignored that I routinely walk past buildings no longer inhabited or cared for, standing like concrete skeletons of a population no longer bold enough to risk the struggles of a challenging way of life; while I, doubtless, see students in my classroom who know nothing of basic discipline because they are being raised without the guidance of parents; I can't help but see a community that, in its roots, holds incredible and indelible strength. This strength has brought Moldova forward from a difficult past, and I know that it has the power, so long as those who possess it can recognize it (perhaps with a bit of help) to carry this culture into a bright future.

I like to think that some day, I'll look at Moldova a bit the way a mother does of her grown child. I want to see the progress its made, in time, and know, however small my influence may have been, that I helped. I'll take great pride, someday, in knowing that the children whose lives I was a part of knew at least one person who believed they could make changes that would allow them to raise families for generations to come on the same rich soil that has supported countless generations before them.

It's a pleasant thought-- makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside without even a sip of that wine I mentioned.


*Incidentally, another list Moldova tops is per capita alcohol consumption (about ten times America's). Perhaps there's some correlation...

**Well, at least these folks are near the top of one list for something positive-- internet access speed.

Toughest Job You'll Ever Love

I've been awfully neglectful of the blog lately-- it's not for lack of things to write, but usually because by the time I get home with a good idea in my head to write about, I'm on the brink of exhaustion. It isn't as though I do especially a lot here; truth be told, I can't recall ever feeling like I'm doing so little. My work week is a shameful 12 hours (I'm working on finding more for next semester), I no longer have even an apartment to upkeep, I'm not yet involved in much outside of school, but still it seems everything I do here is work.

Carrying on a conversation is no longer thinking, speaking, and listening, but thinking then translating, speaking and translating, listening, translating some more, occasionally identifying words that pop up that aren't in the language I learned upon arrival (Russian is much more common here than my Romanian) and trying to do it all without looking like it's work because when I start to seem confused, people feel bad for making me work so hard and conversations end. Eating dinner is often a matter of carrying on conversation, or sometimes of trying to understand what is on the news that the family is watching at the table, while also identifying foods, beverages, and manners that are still not all familiar. Remarkably few of the table manners I've known all my life still constitute good table manners here, others have taken their place, and if I slip into the laziness of not working to be part of conversations around the table, people become concerned.

The funny thing about living with a host family in a place so different from what's always been home before is never quite turning off. While I sometimes have what feels a bit like "down time" if I curl up alone in my room with a book, the easy interactions I was always so accustomed to when relaxing among friends and family haven't yet become easy here. I imagine they will-- after all, I've got the better part of two years yet to work on them, but for the time being, just being a part of things is more effort than I'd ever have guessed it could be.

I recently talked to the Country Director of Peace Corps Moldova who stated that he thinks one of Peace Corps's greatest errors was when they stopped referencing Peace Corps as "the toughest job you'll ever love." In a place like Moldova where most homes are equipped with at least some modern amenities-- usually running water and often a shower, sometimes an indoor toilet, always some form of heating in the winter, and for the lucky ones among us, a washing machine or microwave oven-- it's really abstract to conceive of what could be so difficult. When thinking stereotypical Peace Corps Experience, one pictures a grass hut and a machete, a mosquito net, poisonous snakes, freak storms, and a well of murky brown water for cooking and bathing. The thing about those challenges, which are becoming less and less common in the Peace Corps Volunteers' world (though, they do, of course, still exist) is that we can imagine them. I've been camping. I've slept on a cot, been dirty for a few days at a time, and eaten food I don't like. We know what we are capable of in the realm of the physical, and it's not the same kind of difficult to be braced to face physical challenges.

Moldova doesn't present these challenges to the extent that other areas may, but it is, after all, a less developed country in many ways, and Volunteers are here for a reason. We are doing exhausting and strenuous work to help improve the quality of life for those in our communities, beginning with and working through the immense challenge that is integration into a way of life we never knew we could be so unfamiliar with.

To anyone who hasn't tried it, it may sound a bit absurd to consider that hauling water a mile from the well for a bath may not be much more difficult than navigating social situations where women are not regarded with the same status as men and are expected to quiet their brightest ideas, stay close to the stove, and mind the children and guests. Maybe it's easier to conceive, though not by much, that while sleeping on a cot in a grass hut is tough, working in a school where the only known form of discipline is to shout at students and where grades are normally forged so as not to reflect that students are very seldom learning the prescribed material, but teachers want to avoid appearing inept. Still, though, I'd never have understood, no matter how well it was explained to me before I arrived, that even the basic day-to-day activities here, those that were routine and simple tasks once, are strenuous, challenging, and are what make this job so valuable.

The way I consider it is that the people with the strongest character, by and large in life, make the greatest impact, and it must take a person of awfully strong character to overcome challenges in the quantity that bombard Peace Corps Volunteers. Because our hearts are in the right places and our character is strong in just the right ways to keep us here working to achieve goals through the best of intentions, I think we stand a very good chance, just by virtue of being here, being present every day doing the things expected of us, of making a really great impact.

It feels really good to be a part of a thing like that.

Beyond encountering challenges, we encounter successes. I was greeted today by my class of Russian-speaking fourth graders, with whom I share only the very most minimal bits of language, by a flurry of hugs and high-pitched chatter. I have a second-grader who asks me questions almost every day about my life in America and here in Moldova, often trying to use the English she knows within her Romanian. I work side by side with my host family to prepare food, harvest grapes, clean the house, and preserve food for winter. I also celebrate alongside them and share in beautiful and interesting traditions like the "hram" celebration of each and every village and town in the country, and the immense gatherings that are the mark of a Moldovan birthday.

The days when I feel most accomplished-- most at home, most like a teacher, most like myself. Those are the days that make all the challenges, all the nights I fall asleep before dinner is served, all the conversations I've muddled my way through sounding like a toddler, completely and totally worthwhile. They're moments that get better and better the more I learn, and the more of these moments I encounter, the more I look forward to those yet to come.

The Moldova I've Been Hoping For

I know, deep down, that getting one's hopes up can be trouble, especially in the Peace Corps Moldova where unpredictability is as certain as sunflowers in the summer and snow in the winter (which I hear is even more certain than the sunflowers). Still, I can't help but sometimes have a mental picture of what life in this country is supposed to be. I'm trying to get past the part of this tendency where I'm sometimes disappointed when life's not what I'm expecting, but that doesn't mean I ought not be excited when it is...

Yesterday, I went with my family back into the village. Cutting down cornstalks last weekend was great, but this weekend was grape picking, and it was even better. I've eaten plenty of grapes in my life, but I won't deny for a second that fresh off the vine, they're better. They certainly aren't the same as the seedless variety you can find at an American grocery store, in fact, they're not even quite like the seeded ones there. The skin is thick, so they snap between your teeth when you bite in. The juice is bright purple, so they stain your fingertips. The inside is a little tougher than what I'm used to, so if you don't want to eat them seeds and all, you roll them around in your mouth, wiggling the seeds out. Oh, and the taste. They're perfect. They're tart, and fresh, and I suppose subconsciously, there's a certain something added just by the novelty of picking it straight from the vine and throwing it in your mouth.

Peace Corps's medical office would be devastated by the amount of unwashed fruit I ate Sunday. Positively devastated. If the ask, neither the grapes nor the pears ever happened, got it?

We picked grapes at five different homes. One of them was explained to me to be a relative's, but I didn't catch whose. One was a neighbor's, and I didn't know the person, and after those, I pretty well gave up trying to figure out where I was until we'd returned to my host grandparents' house, where we stripped the grapevines beside and behind their home, too. Away from home we dumped our buckets of grapes into plastic lined sacks about 4 feet long and 2 wide, we lugged those home, and there we just dumped our buckets straight into the crusher.

I won't deny I was a tiny bit disappointed that there was no mention of tugging off our shoes and stomping around in a tub of grapes. I think there was a time the grossness of such a thing would have appalled me, but really, it would have been no less sanitary than the mechanism we used. Ever read one of those articles online that tells you how your candy bar probably contains such-and-such a percentage of bugs, because they don't pick them out of the cocoa beans. Well, I can tell you with a fair degree of confidence, now, that you've had some bugs in your wine, too, and that it's fine.

So, our wine making involved a big hand cranked crushing mechanism perched atop a huge plastic barrel. We filled the barrel twice with juice and emptied it into huge plastic jugs, probably 6 gallons each, to ferment. Well, most of it went into those. We sampled some of the fresh juice, too. I never thought I was a huge fan of grape juice, but that was before having tried real grape juice. It's wonderful. It reminded me more of wine than Welch's, to tell the truth. Needless to say, I've got no complaints about that variation from the expected!

Grape-picking and mashing was, of course, followed by a tremendous homemade meal, courtesy of my host grandma. Not all of the PCVs I've talked to are crazy about traditional Moldovan food (which makes up about 95% of what we consume here) but I'm a big fan. I'm an even bigger fan of her Moldovan food in particular, and the company that comes along with a masa (literally "table," but it's used to mean feast) there, whole family joking and smiling and telling stories-- well, it can't be beat.

It was a great end to the weekend, and today was a great start to the week. Because the teachers at the school where I was originally placed in Edinet expressed that they didn't have the time to work with a PCV-- planning lessons (which Moldovan teachers don't typically do), making materials (also an oddity), and the like-- our English Education Program Manager decided that it would be for the best for me to work in one of the other schools in the area. Last week was my first full week at the new school, and one of my two partners was out for the whole week with a cold, so I worked with just one.

The experience, let it suffice to say, made me a bit apprehensive about whether there's going to be anywhere I can happily and comfortably work in the Moldovan educational system. This first partner and I, I think, will have a lot of work to do together before we find common ground in terms of our teaching. She quite literally shouts until she's hoarse through the course of each lesson.

The yelling is among a few practices I'd never employ for myself in a classroom, but it's surely what bothered me the most. Granted, I don't think it's a real reflection of her character-- it's pretty typical classroom management here, as I understand. Moldovan teachers aren't especially familiar with the idea of positive reinforcement, and Moldovan students aren't used to being held accountable for their actions, so their behavior can get quite out of hand. It's not easy for me to remember but my partner's use of the approach is characteristic of the educational system that she knows, and neither she nor the students regard it as being nearly as aggressive as it seems to me. Shouting isn't uncommon in classrooms here, because, though very temporarily and for all the wrong reasons, it does usually settle the children down a bit.

As anyone who has seen me work with kids may guess, it makes my more than a tad uneasy to listen to.


It wasn't a great week, and I would be lying if I didn't say that when I woke up this morning, I wholly considered using the cold I've had for a month as justification for a week off of my own. Really, though, I want to be at school! I want to teach. It's what I do, and it's what I came here to do. Today was planned to be my first day with the partner who had been absent for my first week at this school, and I decided to extricate myself from under my very cozy down-stuffed quilt and get to school.

I mostly observed the classes my second partner taught, today, helping only a bit with one of the lessons, but it was a very encouraging experience all around. I have determined that while there's still a different kind of relationship and regard between Moldovan teachers and their pupils than I've seen between teachers and students in America, there can still be respect, and a generally pleasant tone to the lessons that take place here. The yelling isn't a necessity, it isn't the only this students respond to, and while it isn't uncommon, it's not a constant. That's a huge deal-- I'm way too big a baby to cope with constant yelling, or anything near it. This partner speaks calmly to the students, and she's got a handle on some teaching practices that aren't especially common in Moldovan classrooms (ideas gleaned, partially, I imagine, from her work with the last volunteer at the school) and that I wholeheartedly approve of.

The students were out of their seats in one class for an interactive game to identify the tenses of verbs, they were asked to work in groups, and they were praised for correct answers. The teacher spoke more English in her explanations of material and instructions than Romanian. Time was given to working with the students who struggle, as well as those who are more advanced. As one may guess (because a class generally stays with the same teacher for each subject for a few years, at least, and were this teacher's class last year) these classes were much more advanced in their use of English than the ones that I saw last week.

Also, no surprise, I felt exponentially more comfortable and confident today in school. So much so, that I think I'm ready to go back tomorrow for a day of lessons entirely with my first partner, and I may even see if I can work up the nerve to politely suggest that perhaps we give a try at a little mellower an approach to classroom management for a while, just to see what happens.

Today was the kind of school experience I have been hoping for.

Maybe tomorrow will be the kind of school experience that it's even more important that I be here for.

I and hopeful that if I keep on showing up, keep on praising right answers and correcting problematic behavior calmly, and generally just keep trying, the kids will pick up on my expectations. Maybe, then, just maybe, if they respond well, my partner will see that there are ways of teaching that she hasn't considered before, and that they do, indeed work.

I won't say I'm not still a little anxious, but I'm feeling more encouraged, and I'm going to keep trying and hoping.

I suppose I wouldn't be much of a Peace Corps Volunteer if I wasn't willing to devote plenty of my energy just to trying and hoping.

Dreaming of Ducks

For tonight, I apologize in advance to those of you (surely in the majority) who are reading this blog because you want to hear awesome things about Moldova and the Peace Corps. This particular post couldn't really be much less about the Peace Corps and still pertain to my life right now. It's just me loving when the continuity of events makes my life here just a little more "normal" (or at least similar to how it was before I came here, if that was "normal") while marveling at the capacity of the unconscious mind.

I've always had a habit of staying up too late, overtiring myself, and sleeping through morning alarms, thereby just incorporating the sound of them into my dreams. I dream I'm at school-- the buzzing becomes the class bell. I dream I'm outside-- the beeping becomes a passing garbage truck. Upon arriving here, and figuring out all the fun features on the new phone I got before I came, I saw that I could play songs as alarm clock tones. I picked one of my favorite utterly absurd tunes, because there's just no way my brain could ignore it. I figured that was for the best, because I know that no family wants to spend the whole morning listening to Cassie's alarm buzzing and beeping away while she dreams of giant bees and the motorized shopping carts at Wal-Mart traveling in reverse.

You should definitely listen to the song to appreciate the degree to which this couldn't possibly be slept through-- it's silly, but the punchline is a good one, and it's a little catchy. (Well, I can only attest that it's catchy if you're a sucker for kids' music... I guess not everybody is.)



Go on. Admit you giggled. It's cute. I won't tell anybody you enjoyed it.

So, I passed a summer without internet, without much language capacity to stay up visiting with my host family, and utterly exhausted at the end of every insanely long training day. I'd fall asleep pretty early, and because I wasn't especially at ease all summer, I never fell into super-deep sleep and I often woke up before my Duck Song even had its chance to play and silenced it in advance. It worked great.

Fast-forward to present-- a host family who I eat dinner with around 9:00 pm every evening, then visit with for a bit, internet access in my own bedroom and family and friends who don't even get home from work to talk to me until midnight my time, and I've finally become sucked into the Harry Potter series (Hooray, for friends who have large digital book collections to share with me, and for my Kindle!), so I read by flashlight (headlamp actually-- my book light died) for a while to relax before turning in.

Clearly, I'm now back to my routine of depriving myself of the sleep I need. This whole schedule's just a little wacky for my body, and after I eat that really late dinner, my body is usually not at all convinced that I should be able to rest for the few hours afterward.

This has me back in the routine of snoozing through alarms. Today was my third in a row of weird dreams just before getting up about ducks trying to buy grapes from lemonade vendors.

One minute, I'm en route to Chisinau via Moldovan minibus, about to pick up a water distiller from PC headquarters, because my family has decided that they're afraid to have me drinking the water here when it starts coming out of the tap brown (a dream of average weirdness, I think). The next minute, there's a giant animated duck boarding the minibus and making a whole-hearted effort to purchase grapes from the old man driving, who, obviously, is insistent that this minibus is a lemonade stand, and lemonade is all he's ever sold.

Ridiculous? Of course.

But, you know, there are worse ways to start a morning than waking up already laughing at yourself and wondering just how it is that your mind can do the absurd things it does.

:-)

I'll be changing my alarm tonight in hopes that I can find something I don't sleep through, and I'll be settling in with my Kindle a little earlier, if I can. Now, everybody, cross your fingers that, for my host family's sake, the alarm wakes me on its first attempt tomorrow (and every day after).

These nice people have already been subjected to three mornings of repeatedly hearing the first 60 seconds of the Duck Song before they're even out of bed, and I think that's a little more than they bargained for when signing on to take in an American.

Corn

Yesterday, my host family and I visited the village where my host mom grew up and where her parents still live. I really love village trips-- it's beautiful there; quiet and calm; you exchange friendly greetings with everyone you pass, strangers or not; there are more animals than I can count, grapes right from the vine to munch, and always a good meal; as a bonus, yesterday, there was work to be done. I love when we have work to do, because when everyone's keeping busy, and none of us have a whole lot to say, I'm really not too different from any other adult there. I may have the language capacity of a toddler, but in most other respects, I'm about up to par with the adults.

The task for the morning was to clear the cornfields of dried stalks. Though I've never worked in a cornfield at home (I've played in them, but I hardly think that counts for anything) I imagine that American farmers have some sort of tool that deals with this particular task-- something large, highly mechanical, and motorized. Moldovans have a tool for it, too. It's called a sickle, and it works beautifully, but not without some serious elbow-grease.


When we arrived, my host mother had everything all planned out. She and her brother, my host father, and my host grandfather would work in the field, my 8-year-old host brother and I could go for a walk or watch. I could sunbathe if I pleased.


Now, it's not the I don't enjoy a good walk, and the sun was gorgeous up on the hill, so if I'd had a book with me, I may well have consented to just finding a soft grassy spot and relaxing. Frankly, though, I've done far more relaxing since I arrived at my permanent site than I've ever desired to do. (Most of you probably know that I'm someone who tends to thrive on being too busy, if anything.) We walked out to the field, and when we got there, my host brother grabbed up one of the extra sickles, wanting to try cutting the corn stalks down. He didn't have much success with it, but his attempt meant that I, too, could get away with giving it a shot.

This looks about like what I started with.

I grabbed a sickle with an old wooden handle, and I started in on some corn stalks. This got little more reaction than an "Oh, you'd like to try it?" and I, of course, smiled and said yes, the looks that were passed between my host mom and her brother were no different than the smiles they'd exchanged when the 8-year-old wanted to have a crack at the manual labor, and my first couple swings were, admittedly, a bit embarrassing. The first stalk, I basically sawed off with the clunky blade, and I rapped myself in the shin going after the second a bit more forcefully. My host grandfather stepped in, though, and showed me that the trick is to swing a bit upward (the part I'd been able to observe) and at the space between where two segments of the stalk joined together (the part I'd been missing).

I set to work and was just getting the hang of it when my host father stepped in to help my host mother with a particularly green, thick stalk, borrowing the sickle she'd been using. She, then came over and asked to take mine off my hands, telling me she was more rested now (because she'd been without a tool for all of thirty seconds), and I, of course, agreed and handed it over, then headed back to the edge of the field to see if there were any tools left. Sure enough, there was one laying by the tree, still, and a little sharper than my first with a handle grip and everything-- definitely more comfortable to use than the one I'd just given up, so I lucked out.

A definite improvement, even if that little black grip
did keep sliding right off the handle.

Before long, I was working my way very quickly up a row. Swish, swish, swish, hacking off a few stalks. Fumph, adding them to a heap between the rows. I passed up my host mother and was easily keeping up with the men, much to everyone's surprise. They let me know I didn't have to help, and I said that I liked it. My host mother eventually remarked on the tremendous lead I had on her, marveling at how fast I was at this new job.

"Did you do this at home?"

"No, it's new to me."

"Costel (host brother), get Cassie a pair of gloves."

No one wants to think they're making the American, the guest, do work. On the other hand, no one's stupid enough to turn down enthusiastic help. We plowed through the field in less time than they'd expect, and went home to my host grandmother's delightful cooking, followed by a picnic in the woods in the afternoon, and all day, my family told people about how everyone helped to cut corn in the morning.

It felt pretty great to be included in everyone.

Another little victory.

I Always Love the Little Things

My host parents came home today, I talked for a few minutes with my host mom about what I did all day (went for a walk and washed some clothes-- not a wildly exciting conversation) and then she told me she and my host dad would be outside in the garden. I sat in my room for about five minutes bored after that before I started wondering what they were up to and whether there'd be a job for me in it.

Turns out, there was!

They were cleaning sweet peppers and boiling them in what can only possibly be referred to as a cauldron over a big ol' cornstalk fire in the corner of the garden. They get the stalks from the neighbor's field for free, so they're clearly a better value than the way-too-expensive natural gas (courtesy of Russia) that the stove uses. As an added bonus, the fire looked, smelled, and felt just perfect on a cool autumny evening. I loved it.

I sat on a little stoll wiping dirt off the peppers as my host mother cut off the stems and my host father stirred them in the cauldron of oil and water, then we fished out a little pile of them from the boiling water, peeled them with our hands. (I'm not nearly as tough as a Moldovan lady; I can tell you that for sure-- ouch.) We fed the skins to the dog who lives in the garden (and he was hungry enough to eat them... ew), and went inside where I helped her make them into sauce for dinner, talking all the while about what my university was like, what my family's like-- things I couldn't get wrong. I'd go so far as to say the conversation was easy, even.

After dinner, we went out to finish the last couple batches of peppers, now with my 8-year-old host brother (who had been at soccer earlier) helping out. He mostly played in the fire, and I'm still certain someone needed to be doing that job. It's a good thing he was there. I'm not so sure I'd have gotten away with trying to do it.

After a while of this, my host mother was taking a phone call while my host dad was stirring away, so I just watched my host brother horse around in the garden pretending that the sticks sticking out of the dirt were the controls in... well... something. I guessed a car and he said no, but that's about where my creativity comes to a halt in Romanian non-public means of transit. Anyhow, his dad finally shushed him because his mom could hardly hear the person on the other end of the phone, so he lost interest and whispered to me something that sounded like "psspspsspspss tumshejury pssspsps?" and I gave him my dumb American face (it's like a scrunched eyebrows, head cocked variant of the classic puppy dog face, and I do it so well) and he asked "Vrei sa privesti?" which means "Want to watch?"

Well, it was clear he wasn't going to clarify for me, so I figured that watching whatever this was would be the easiest. I followed him in the house and he offered me his two Tom and Jerry ("Tom si Jerry") DVDs to choose between. The title on the case was in Romanian, but beyond that, these were exactly the same Tom and Jerry cartoons I've known for as long as I can remember. There's not much talking, and when there is, it's in English. I did a little bit of translating, which my host brother thought was very cool, because he'd only guessed what they were saying before tonight, but mostly, the two of us and the cat just chilled out and laughed.

It felt really good.

I didn't need the least bit of any skill that I don't already have to sit back and laugh at goofy cartoons. I occasionally forget here that there are indeed still things I can do with no effort at all, especially when it comes to things that involve more people than just me.

Tonight was a pleasant reminder. :-)

Celebrate little victories, Cassie. The big ones are entirely too rare.

Yes, I will fail! -- Wait, what??

This whole train of thought was sparked by an article linked here  that was passed along to me by the training director of PC Moldova, and may make the most sense in context. It's totally worth reading, anyhow, so, really, go ahead!

I've heard from a number of credible sources, as well as from some not-so-credible ones and even some total strangers, that one of the most important things a person learns in the Peace Corps is how to fail. Encouraging, huh??


I never disputed that distinct possibility before leaving for (and on arrival in) a new place and way of life, speaking a new language and living with a whole country's worth of total strangers-- in fact, I may even have looked forward to it a bit. I though "it'll toughen me up." I know quite well that I've lived a pretty easy life, on the whole, and I figured the challenge would do me good.

Then I got here.

There were little things first, when I was surrounded all day every day by a support team of my peers and some very patient Peace Corps staff in training. I'd get locked out of my house and have to go to someone else's for the night. I'd fail to find the word I needed to communicate with my family and ultimately settle for just telling them that the phrase I'd been looking through a dictionary to translate for the past half hour wasn't important anyhow (and ultimately, it wasn't). I'd get lost on my way from A to B (nothing new for me, really) and make myself late for classes or whatever else I hoped to do with my time (also old news). Ultimately, I'd become frustrated, pick myself up, and (very quietly) congratulate myself for how well I'd recouped from one "failure" after another. This was quality, character-building good stuff!

You're laughing, too, right?

Locked gates, translation troubles, and becoming disoriented, as it turns out, were only the beginning, were immeasurably minor setbacks, and (I have the sneaking suspicion) were absolutely nothing compared to the kinds of failure I'm in for over the next couple years.

This is not to be mistaken for a complaint-- just a realization. For that matter, I'm kind of relieved at the whole notion of it. I think this may be just what I need.. I may need to redefine failing for myself, because it's occurring to me that (likely due to good fortune and a life that's primarily consisted of being a student, something I do pretty well) I've never really had the chance to totally fail.

I've got a family who have always supported me, who, lucky for me, can no longer break my falls here in Moldova. I'm pretty good at expressing myself and being able to explain myself to others who can help to solve my problems, which is clearly not the case in my new Romanian-speaking world. I'm good at school, in American classrooms and from the little desks, rather than the big one, but here, I get to try my hand at the big desk in a whole new realm of an educational system.

All the obstacles I once encountered were, in my defense, "major" within the context of my life at a given time. I've had to pull all-nighters to complete projects. I've stressed myself senseless in social matters. I've even received a very few-- brace yourself-- average or slightly lower grades. I've worked a couple jobs at a time, slept too little, pulled through, and come through unscathed. When I pictured obstacles in the Peace Corps, I won't deny for a second that I expected once again to come in here, barrel through with my head down, work all night, stress myself stupid, pick up the pieces, and be successful.

I read the article above earlier, about how very necessary it must be for people to learn to fall hard, then stand up and move forward. I anticipate that at some point in my coming two years, I'll be overcome, I'll get in the way, I'll be rejected, I'll try really hard at things, and, when it's not meant to be, I won't succeed.

I expect that when that happens, I'm going to cry a lot. I do that. I think I'll sulk a bit. I do that, too. I think when I'm finished with all that, I'll get back up, brush off the dirt, and I'll try really hard again. My successes will count, even if they're not always huge, and maybe, just maybe, if I'm incredibly lucky, I can come away from this experience when all is said and done, able to fail with all the grace expected of a Peace Corps Volunteer-- the kind of grace that let's us laugh off statements like "The most important thing I've learned in these two years is how to fail" and then proceed to move forward just as successfully as ever, or more so.


And in line with my constant excitement at a chance to celebrate a small victory, I'm really pleased that I've embraced the idea of failing. Now, please, all of you, when I actually get around to those real failures, could you kindly remind me of just how valuable I'll have forgotten they are? Thanks a bunch-- knew you would.

Right There All Along

I've spent a whole lot of time since I've been at site praying for the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. I've serenely sat through long conversations that go on around me at the dinner table far faster than what I can comprehend. I've serenely lain in bed at night with the blanket over my head so I don't need to listen to the fly that bounces itself off the walls while I rest. I've serenely (mostly) ignored the staring and occasional pointing when I walk through town looking entirely out of place in a land of pointy high-heels and model-thin Moldovan girls. I've been so dead set on serenity, in fact, that I may well have been forgetting what else I've asked for-- courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I would like to think that this isn't because I didn't possess these two things from the get-go, but because I'd completely forgotten about them. So, today, I put on my most courageous face (well, it probably didn't look all that courageous, but it was a start) and ventured out to make changes.

See, upon arrival at my site, I had three English teaching partners at my school, one of several schools in the town (raion center) in which I live. I had a grand total of four planning sessions. Two were with a partner with whom I ultimately taught one days' lessons before she fell ill and spent a week in the hospital, leaving me as her substitute. One was highly unsuccessful and culminated in one of my potential partners declaring that she would absolutely not work with me, and she called my supervisor the next morning to wash her hands of me. One was with the partner I collaborated with during our practice school period in training, but it was nothing like our previous, highly successful planning. She explained to me that these students are not as good as those who voluntarily attend summer practice school English lessons and that she doesn't have as much time for planning as she had there, so to begin, I'd serve as a replacement for the cassette recordings the school can't afford that are supposed to accompany the textbooks.

That last planning session happened to be on the same day that the director and adjunct directors of the school called me into a meeting to inform me that while the English teacher who was requesting a volunteer at the school last year would surely have had more than enough time to work with me, she's since moved to America and been replaced by the woman who was first to rid herself of the responsibility of me, and the two teachers remaining for me to work with have too many obligations to their families to devote their time to planning for our team taught lessons with me. She suggested three options to me: I could alternate with the teachers, teaching every other lesson and doing away with the time-consuming team teaching that is the very reason Peace Corps Moldova places English Education Volunteers in schools; I could convince the woman who does not desire to teach with me at all to accommodate me so that I take up less of the other teachers' time; or perhaps I could just leave the school and find a place where the teachers wanted me. By the next morning I was too upset to bring myself to even show up (which had no impact on anyone, considering my role as nothing more than a pronouncer) and I've since been to the school only a couple of times, never having the chance again to partner teach.

I have, since then, been at home, making myself stir-crazy and my host mother mortified at the useless American in her spare bedroom. It has really not been pretty.

Today, though, the director of the PC Moldova English Education program made the hours-long journey from her home in the capital to my site to visit the school with me and find a solution. Yes, changes!

We spoke first with my original school, and they confirmed yet again that they simply haven't the means to work with a volunteer right now. They would like me to remain friendly with the school and to consider collaborating on other projects, but team teaching just isn't an option. So, we left there and ventured to another school in the raion center, which our program director had called before to ask if they may consider taking a volunteer. Our visit to that school was very pleasant, and I think I may have found myself a place to finally teach!

We're going to start out slow, with me just observing for the remainder of this week and possibly the beginning of next, so that I don't risk stepping on toes and don't give anyone the impression again that I'm too needy to work with. Because it's a smaller school (only younger grades, instead of the 1-12 spread of the last school) there won't be quite enough classes here for me to fulfill all of my minimum number of hours required by Peace Corps.

The first suggestion was that perhaps to make up these hours I could have an optional class period with a few classes, teaching them alone. As much as I hate to turn down an opportunity to be in a place where I have a whole classroom of students to myself to call my own, the younger grades are really difficult to teach alone since my Romanian is so limited and their English even more so. I haven't ruled it out entirely, because I hope to wait and see if maybe the oldest couple of classes are advanced enough for that to be possible.

Another suggestion was that I could continue to teach just a class or two at my original school placement, working with the woman who I co-taught with in practice school during training. That might make it easier to run extra-curricular activities that involve students from both schools, and I'm considering it, but if I'm a bit leery that I'll be the textbook narrator yet again, and I really don't think that's a valuable use of my time. Again, it's under consideration.

The third option, while least likely to be feasible logistically, sounds awfully appealing to me, so I've got my fingers crossed. Another volunteer in a nearby raion mentioned to me last time that we spoke that she knows a university professor of English there who would be very excited to collaborate with a native English speaker to teach together, and suggested that I ask whether it may be possible to work with that professor once a week. It would mean a bit of extra travel time (and money) every week, but because the teachers with whom I'll work here now have no Friday classes, it would be feasible in terms of my schedule, and I think it could be really rewarding. These would likely be individuals training to be English teachers. I think if I could involve them in some way in the activities I do at my school, or maybe if I could provide them some bit of background about American culture or English language that they may pass along to their future students, it would be really valuable.

So, that was that. I finally mustered up the wisdom to see there are things we can change, and now I've got options to choose from so I can move forward and start doing the rewarding, valuable, teaching things that I've been dying to get involved in since well before I boarded my plane to Moldova.

I suppose I've had that wisdom at my disposal all along. It's about time I put it to use!

One Hundred and Counting

First off, I owe an apology to the people who I promised that I'd keep them posted. So far, I've done little more than send a couple mass emails, and I've become lazy in taking pictures because they're a hassle to upload. I know this overview of what I'm doing is a bit overdue and that most of you know what I'm up to by now, but I had to start somewhere. I'll try to do better from here on out.

Moving on, today is my one-hundredth day living in Moldova as a volunteer in the United States Peace Corps. So far, it's been some kind of ride. We began with a very full summer of training-- I and a handful of strangers who are now my very dear friends lived together in a village not far from the capital of the country and shared in the experience of language (Romanian), technical (English Education), and cross-cultural (How Moldova is Different from America) trainings for around eight hours a day, no less than six days a week. It was exhausting, stressful, challenging in more ways than I can count, and quite possibly the best summer of my life. I wouldn't trade it for anything, but I'm glad it's done.

Now I'm living in the raion center (≈ capital) of the raion (≈ district) called Edineţ. The town is fairly large for Moldova with a population of somewhere around 20,000 (though many work abroad) and a downtown stretch with a lovely public park, two supermarkets, a handful of restaurants and bars, and a fair selection of shops. There are three schools (two for Romanian-speaking students and one for Russian-speakers), the primaria (mayor's office), a police station, and if you walk far enough, a soccer field where people take their sheep to graze. I worried when I arrived that I wouldn't get comfortable in a place that felt so much less rural than I expected, but I'm becoming pretty attached to my site, and I think I'll spend a happy two years here.


The program to which I've been assigned by the Peace Corps is English Education. PC Moldova's setup doesn't fall entirely into the categories typically outlined in the Peace Corps's Education programs, as it has been designed to correspond to the Moldovan Ministry of Education's strict national curriculum. The goal for the program is that volunteers work alongside Moldovan teachers as part of an equal partnership, and the exchange of ideas between the two provides better English language education for students in the schools served while opening the eyes of Moldovan teachers to a variety of new possibilities in teaching. Ultimately, it is hoped that when the volunteer leaves, his or her influence will have impacted the teacher who remains in Moldova so significantly as to impact future years' students.

Realistically, not every teacher wants some younger, less experienced teacher coming into their classroom to try to make changes, so the program's goals aren't always necessarily met. In a perfect world, I'm hoping to ultimately leave some bit of a legacy of teaching ideas with the school in which I work at the end of two years, but since I'm just getting started, I'm willing to set my sites at the hope that my teachers will collaborate with me and allow me a role in their English classes. Those who know me best know that really, what I want most is to get out there and teach. I've encountered a few bumps in that road so far since I've been at site, but I have a meeting planned on Tuesday with me partners and I'm hopeful that we'll get rolling on the right track from there, so that we can develop some sort of healthy partnership.

While I do have (almost) reliable internet access here, I'm still working on figuring out the best way to upload pictures, as my connection is painfully slow. So far, I've uploaded a pile of the earliest ones I took to Facebook in an album that you're certainly welcome to explore. The bad news is that I haven't quite been able to edit the album to get rid of the silly ones I never intended to publish, and I haven't managed to add all the ones I took after that first week just yet. They're a good start, though, and a bit of an idea of what the country looks like, which is fun.

I am able to add a few pictures at a time to this blog even with my slow connection, so I think I'll take the time to tack on a little collection of my favorites so far:

The wildflowers in Moldova are just awesome-- everything that grows here is...

...including the snails...

... and the fruit.

One of our most exciting adventures was a hike to the top of the village's tallest hill to this huge stone cross.

My last day of "practice school" at the end of training, posing with my tenth-graders and my partner, Oxana.

On our last day of language training before swearing in, posing with our instructors Svetlana and Nadia.

It's not a wildly impressive photo-- I just really like all the cypresses I see here. They make me think Starry Night.

Our village happened to have a castle...

... which we later learned sits atop a huge, gorgeous wine cellar. We got a tour and tasting on our last night in the village.

I've seen an absurd number of goats since my arrival. This one had found a particularly unique place to graze.

This baby cow was one of my most important landmarks throughout training.

Okay, adding pictures proved a little more challenging than I thought. I was kind of inserting them blindly because the thumbnails couldn't load. I'll try a better approach next time.