Sachertorte, Scotch and Mamaliga

I recently had the treat of returning to Moldova. My firm has won a contract to support creating a local television network in the country, in part based on my previous work experience in the country. Who would have ever have guessed Romanian language skills and experience living in Moldova would yield again?

Moldova is one of those few countries left where the government is still run by freely elected post-Soviet Communists (think Cuba and Belrus). It also still has a cold combat zone where the ex-Soviet cum Russian-speaking 14th Army sits on one side of the Dniester river and rejects the authority of the Romanian-speaking Moldovan government based on the other. All this in a country the size of Maryland.

When I lived there 12 years ago, the capital was a provincial center of concrete-built Soviet architecure. There were few street lights. The heat didn't work in the winter. Black outs were common. You bought gasoline from petrol truck parked on the side of the road and rode the bus next to a chicken. The village was right out of the 16th century, except for eletricity and television, complete with a common well.

Today, Moldova is in the midst of the free-wheeling capitalization changes Moscow experienced 5-10 years ago. The streets of Chisinau are brightly lit and lined by high-end storefronts. Hotels with Western amenities are available. Grocery stores and casinos abound. Underneath it all however is the old Moldova; streets thronged with fashionably-dressed people chatting with neighbors, small shops and restaurants selling the basics for almost nothing, and the atmosphere of a small, French provicial capital made of concrete.

I had several excellent meals with the growing family of an old friend from my previous days in Moldova. Placenta (pla-chen-ta), mamaliga and the ever excellent Moldovan wines were laid out on the lace-covered table. It is a diplomatic family now, last living in Berlin. I enjoyed chatting with the son in German and Romanian and the grown ups in English. The placenta were excellent, coming from the Opera House where I used to spend my Saturday evenings many years ago. My old comrade and I also shared a lunch in an excellent ethnic Moldovan restaurant under the image of the Moldovan icon Saint Stephen the Great.

As frosting on the experience, I transited through the airport in Vienna to and from the country. You can't get to Moldova direct from anywhere. Though the time was short, it was a joy to use my German on some natives along the way. Of course, some Sachertorte, apple strudel and soft pretzels were obligatory.

I thoroughly enjoyed speaking with the people around me from Washington to Chisinau and back. On each leg of the journey were combinations of German, English, Romanian and Russian speakers. It is a completely different experience when you know the languages of the people on every step of your journey. I don't get that opportunity very often. The Austrian was quaint.

The Scotchman was the exception.

For the first time in my many travels, I was seated next to the proverbial passenger who won't stop talking. It was the brief flight from Vienna to Chisinau, which was fortunate. Though he was speaking English, I could not understand a word he was saying. And he wouldn't stop.

He also kept showing up. Chisinau is a small place, even smaller for those who don't speak the languages. I ran into him in the hotel elevator. As soon appeared, he would start talking incomprehensibly. I passed him a breakfast and he stood by table, or sat down at it uninvited, and started talking. I quickly learned to avoid public spaces at the hotel.

I look forward to going back soon. Perhaps I will return to the largest wine cellar in the world on my next trip; Milestii Mici. I'll just pray my airplane seatmates speak a language I understand, or don't speak at all.