bottle were placed on the kitchen
table; earnest prayers began and
continued, solo, for an hour. Much
was made of bowing from the waist,
a scarf flicked over the shoulders in
penitential rites.
Prayers over, a fresh full glass in
hand, she smiled and said “I’ll just
drink this and we can go to dinner.”
Which we did to a large and
decidedly retro restaurant, chosen
by her for me, mainly constructed
from local timber, tablecloths, clean
glasses and crockery, with Jawa and
Dnieper motorcycles hanging from
the ceiling.
On the balcony, where smoking
was allowed, ten of Alexandra’s
friends stood up to welcome us;
well-built, loose limbed, attractive
young men and women in their late
twenties, bright and optimistic yet
within minutes wishing to discuss
with a Westerner the scandals of the
Russian occupation and separatists
in Transdniestria in the east of their
country.
In Transdniestria, the separatists
evidently believe, with the help of
Russian soldiers, that their country
is a separate nation; which is why
Westerners arriving in or on a vehicle
must pay for, on a sliding scale
related to how wealthy they look, a
vignette in Russian giving permission
to drive on the roads. Although
Transdniestria issues their own
passports you will not get a stamp
in yours; nor is it advisable, when
you leave Moldova, to mention your
explorations to Customs officials or
Border guards. If you wish to travel
there, get a bus or train. No vignette
required to be paid for.
Meantime my welcome party
continued. One of the challenges of
eating local food in Eastern Europe
is that it is invariable disguised as
something else, and then covered
in sour cream. Almost anything can
and will be stuffed into dumplings
or peppers or cabbage. Enough salt
and aforesaid cream and you’ll be
ok. But if, like me, you are given a
jam roly-poly rather than the minced
pork dumpling you were certain you
ordered, eat it with a smile. You’re
from a different country and expected
to be odd.
Here’s a tip... you will be served
“Mămăligă cu brânză și smântână”,
which is obviously polenta with
butterflies and sour cream. It is, er…
fine. And the butterflies are merely
my translation of the accented
letters. However, if you want to eat
something identifiable stick to fried
river fish – usually carp, or pork
kebabs or Zeama, a clear chicken
noodle soup.
Enough food eaten, beer and
wine imbibed, the bill was split
amongst the diners and Alexandra,
her boyfriend and I returned to her
apartment. I bedded down on a
pullout sofa, the boyfriend got into
Alexandra’s bed and she went to the
kitchen, glass in hand, to pray for an
TRAVERSE 49