UR Ung Up

One thing that is not only not a good idea, nor at all feasible, is fording* the Prut.  And if you take the 3pm train from Chișinău to Ungheni, then you’re going to miss the once-a-day Ungheni—Iași Express which crosses the train bridge.  If you’re thinking that this ain’t no thang and you can probably make the connection by running through the door with the “DO NOT ENTER” (purposely suppressing any knowledge of French and denying any plausible connections between the Moldovan “Interdis” with the French “Interdit”) sign on it, up the stairs and into a room full of border guards exclaiming, “PLEASE LET ME OUT OF MOLDOVA!” then you can just stop right there, because I can save you the effort and let you know what the result will be: they will tell you no, you cannot do this.  They will, however, be really nice to you and they will appreciate your can-do, go-getter attitude.  But they will also ask you to please leave their office. 

Anyway, all this sort of left me feeling a bit defeated, but it was still early enough in the day, the weather was getting warmer, and the border guards gave me a hot tip that the only crossing for me was 10km north of town.  No buses or marshrutkas seemed to be around, and I reflected on whether this is my fault or Moldova’s, and began dictating a terse-but-friendly letter in my head**.  I decided to walk to the border, thinking that 10km in Moldovan was, like, 2km in Canadian.  I found the main road and hadn’t gone very far into the countryside when I met a policeman who was standing at the side of the road.  We chatted, talked about hockey (I hadn’t the heart to tell him that the Quebec Nordiques aren’t as “nordique” as they used to be), and he told me to wait.  I assumed he was indicating a bus was coming.  But no, even better: a police car.  Full of more policemen.  As voluntarily getting into unmarked police cars in the former Soviet Union is one of my passions, I assumed absolutely nothing could go wrong and I gladly went along with them.

And thank goodness I did.  They drove me straight to the border and gave me priority boarding.  Pyotr/Pietr, the veteran border guard who I had been speaking with before, put the Soviet general’s hat (given to me as a parting gift from Transnistria) on my head and led me to the front of the long, long line of cars trying to get through the border.  He introduced me to the whole gang, and one of the smokin’ hot border babes*** in charge of interrogation and fear-mongering arranged for me a seat with a Romanian family who lived in Iași.  I bid adieu to the ol’ gang and set off for Romania and was dropped off at the train station by a seriously concerned family (though not serious enough to offer me lodging).

*If you’re not familiar with this word, I suggest you go back to grade 2 and play Oregon Trail on a Mac Classic.  

**On a bus in Chisinau an advertisement caught my eye and while I cannot quite ascertain what it was about, I think it was hinting that public feedback was welcome by posting something like Moldovan.Transport.Ministry@gmail.com at the bottom.  Looks like someone has finally gotten off the Hotmail bandwagon.

***Seriously, these women are unreasonably attractive.  It’s like the market for Moldovan supermodels is flooded so they have to find regular jobs.

Sanislău Side

My first foray into Romania was in 2007 on a little single car commuter train that trundled along (see picture) from Debrecen, Hungary, to Valea Lui Mihai in Romania.  I shared this train with one other woman who began speaking to me in rapid-fire Hungarian, assuming I—like everyone the world over—understood.  Nevertheless, with a bit of English, Russian, German, French and Hungarian, we were able to have a conversation.  I was able to figure out that she was on her way to visit her mother in Romania.  When we arrived at VLM, I caused quite a stir because everyone wanted to figure out why I was here (the border guards took me into their little hut and asked, “Umm, are you OK?  Why are you here?”) and watched my every move, waiting to see what I would do next.  I was a human zoo exhibition to them, and as soon as I approached the ticket window and said the only recognisable city name in Transylvania I had committed to memory, everyone in the station sprung forward and starting screaming their proposed itinerary to get me there.  

If at any point any anthopoligist, linguist, historian, politician, or anyone with a shadow of doubt that Romanians are Latins, I highly recommend a visit to the Valea Lui Mihai train station in the middle of summer.  People were screaming and gesticulating, trying to get my attention and then arguing with each other.  One little old lady, half my height, fought her way through the crowd , grabbed my elbow flab and pulled me towards the Arrivals/Departures board where she then starting shrieking at it with such shrill resolve to—I could only assume—banish it to Hell once and for all.  The station mistress rose and emerged from her window booth and summoned silence with a firm and heavy hand.  Everyone froze in terror and waited with bated breath.  Speaking Romanian with authority and command, she told me exactly what I was going to be doing.  There was no alternative—she was the Margaret Thatcher of my Romanian destiny.  She told me in two hours a train would whisk me away to Cluj; there would be no transfers, no waits, no complex trip planning.  One train, direct.  She returned to her booth and the others came out of hiding and, satisfied with the results, began talking amongst themselves and waiting for the next big thing.  Marta was just getting on her train so she gave me her address in Budapest and told me to visit.

This time, however, I was heading in the opposite direction and going to the village of Sanislau of her mother (also named Marta—Hungarians have about 6 names per gender to choose from).  She was 84 and lived alone in a big house with a garden and orchard.  I arrived in Oradea to the south and assumed that Sanislau would be easy to get to.  The first thing I learned was that not only was it more difficult to get to than I had thought, but no one had any idea where or what Sanislau is.  I assumed that everyone knew exactly where every single village was in the area and could tell me exactly what to do.  It was off the grid for the most part and I was able to get a ride to the nearest village in a Maxi-Taxi and then walked the remaining 4 km into the village in the dark.

I rolled in after dark and Marta had a big pot of stew ready for me with mashed potatoes.  She then led me to the cellar where we got plum preserves and homemade wine from an enormous cask.  We also went and retrieved one bottle of homemade palinka from her ample collection, and then she set about drinking me under the table.  After I conceded defeat, she laughed heartily and showed me to my room.  Her house was a large, square farmhouse with six rooms and no running water.  There was an outhouse in the yard and a well next to the house.  She kept one room heated and did a lot of the cooking on a wood stove.  I chopped some wood for her the next morning and she made me schnitzel sandwiches for the road.  Our conversations primarily consisted of her teaching me the Hungarian and Romanian words for everything, and then giggling when I tried to pronounce them.  We watched the television specials that featured the 161st anniversary of the 1848-9 revolutions (the Ides of March being important for Hungarians as much as Julius Caesar enthusiasts) and then she taught me how to properly make a pörkölt, which is what I suppose us cretins living outside the Lands of the Crown of St. Stephen would refer to foolishly as ‘goulash’:

Pörkölt 

3-4 tbsp oil or lard
1-2 onions, chopped
3-4 tbsp ground sweet paprika
Pork meat, cut into bite sized pieces
Water
Salt n’ Pepa

Heat the oil.
Add the onions and cook until translucent.
Add the paprika and continue frying.
Add the pork, and brown very lightly.
Add a bit of water, salt and pepper, and cover for one hour on low heat.

This is literally all you have to do.  I think it actually helps if you’re an old Hungarian woman.  Apparently just being one of these is the magic secret behind cooking pork because I have no idea how it is possible for them to make it as good as they do.