Moldova is a quiet place. Even the capital seems smaller than South Bend. The airport customs control was less strict than a standard domestic trip through TSA. My travels have remained limited in scope, as I am still (many days later) recovering from jet lag, the bane of my existence. I might have perished already from hunger if it were not for the more than generous portion sizes my host mother serves every time I eat with her. The food, while delicious, is in unmanageably voluminous, and it is a battle every meal to clean my plate. It really is a struggle for survival. Of course, I have on a number of occasions attempted to prevent my own accommodation. I say “хватит” or “достачно” to signal that my appetite has been eradicated three-fold. Undaunted and unrelenting, my host mother pulls out another dish, with yet another thousand-calorie delicacy. I simply don’t have the heart to deny red caviar for breakfast (even though it’s one of the only seafoods not to my liking).
It is likely a cultural difference, and my own inability to communicate fluently and politely, preventing me from communicating at all, or rather, with the necessary forcefulness to convince my host family that I really am nearing the end of my ability to make food disappear from the table. For of course, a culture of hospitality seems to be ever present, a palpable sensation in a friendly country. Kindness lurks behind every corner. for instance an “инвалид” stepped onto the bus today, and an outflow of change erupted from the pockets of the bus-goers. I have never seen as much generosity from so many people all at once in the U.S. I’ve learned that prosperity, or a lack thereof, has little bearing on man’s ability to act from kindness, although this theory has yet to be tested to any really substantial degree. My readings this year from the biographies of Russians who served time in the GULAG, note a pattern of hatred and apathy towards one’s fellow man, and there no doubt comes a point where a need for survival precludes generosity, as generosity becomes sacrifice. I therefore resist the temptation to claim that Moldovans are more kind than other ethnic groups.
Likewise, I resist the temptation to say that Moldovan’s are more superficial than other ethnicities or cultures. That being said, it seems as though there is a distinct subset of the population dead-set on mimicking their Western counter-parts in an effort to give the appearance of wealth and grandeur. Three instances come to mind. First, I saw an expensive car with bald tires. This is a litmus test for superficiality, because the replacing the tires costs little in comparison to the car and in comparison to a low-end life-insurance policy, but they are not seen, and therefore not a priority for a superficial person. The car exists to be seen, not used. Second, I was touring the Moldovan National History Museum, and I saw a pair of young women in nice dresses having their own little photo-shoot in the stairwell of the museum. It baffles me why they would pay the entry fee just to not look at the exhibits. Third, imagine for a moment that you are going to a McDonalds, and out of the corner of your eye you spot them, a couple, in a suit and dress, eating a couple big-macs at a table not far from yours. Speechless, you can’t help but stare awhile, perturbed by such a stark juxtaposition. Watching for a moment, you notice that they are not speaking to each other. In silence, they eat. Now I was eating at a local fast food restaurant, and there I see them. No need to imagine it. They are real, and their image will live on in my memory. I asked myself, why would they feel the need to dress up to go to the Moldovan version of McDonalds? These of course, are mere anecdotes, nothing but a tiny glimpse into the cultural trends of a generation of Moldovans, seen through one pair of foreign eyes. Who am I to make sweeping judgements about others as Tocqueville once did? Perhaps I don’t feel entitled to do so because I’m not French.
