Lindsay in Moldova

Tonight was filled with some bizzare moments.

For dinner, we ate pumpkin oatmeal covered in tomato sauce accompanied by a salad: mushrooms, grated boiled egg, carrots, onion, chicken and sour cream. And potatoes. Well, I thought they were potatoes. Midway through the meal, Catalina told me they were actually…pineapples. Ew.

Catalina spent the day in the county capitol since she hasn’t been feeling well. The doctor told her she caught a cold in her ovaries, so she can’t pet the cat, bite her nails or sit on cold surfaces. She also has to drink a cup of fresh cream every night before bed.

Moldova has a way of making me feel like I have no idea what is going on…

TIM & TINA.

I taught first aid last week, but before starting, I asked my kids what they’d do in an emergency situation. Here is what my 5^th, 6^th and 9^th graders suggest:

For 2^nd degree burns:

• Cover in egg whites
• Cover in flour
• Cover in sunflower-seed oil

For bleeding/hemorrhage:

• Cover with bread
• Put salt in the wound

For a heart attack:

• Give the person a massage
• Take a walk in fresh air
• Tell them a joke

And my favorite: After a car crash, get everyone out of the car and put a pillow under their heads.

My grandmother send me all sorts of goodies for Christmas, including brighly-colored duct tape. My kids went crazy over it. They’ve never seen anything like it in their lives, and they begged me to put bits on their hands and mouths.

It was a much quieter classroom today…

During my mini-vaca in Florești this week, my friend Becca said I could watch one of her English classes. I was curious to see how teaching English is different than what I do every week, so I shadowed her 2^nd period lesson for 12^th graders, who are reviewing a/an/the for their end-of-year exam.

Senior boys, ready for class

At first glance, Becca’s classroom is very typically Moldovan — big brown chalkboard, freshly-painted brown and blue walls, whitewashed chairs and tables. But after looking around a bit, I started to notice the subtle Moldovan absurdities.

For example, two inspirational signs hang over the chalkboard: “To become something you should begin to be nothing,” and “Intelligence, education, honesty – three virtues that makes a man rich.” Now maybe my English isn’t great because even when I overlook the little gramatical errors, I can’t say I completely understand what these mean.

The room is decorated in red, white and blue — reminders that, even if few Moldovans speak English, students may live or travel in the U.S. or U.K. On the back wall hang paintings of Old Glory and the Union Jack next to pictures of the Statue of Liberty and Big Ben. But my favorite bit was on the teacher’s desk, where a little red double-decker bus sat holding two American flags. I began to wonder if America had really won the Revolutionary War or if we were still just a British province.

Old Glory and the Statue of Liberty in Becca's classroom

Moldovan textbooks are written in British English, which I guess accounts for sentences like these: “John was out of a job and his position was becoming acute,” and “We’ve had one piece of a rather curious information.” I can’t wait to hear a Moldovan ask me if my job in journalism is acute.

The seniors split their classtime between gossiping in rapid Romanian with one eye on their cell phones and labouriously sounding out English sentances with the occasional correction from Becca. “Come on, you can do this,” Becca tells them when they get stuck. “You know this.” The kids smile slyly back at her, respectful but drunk on newfound adulthood.

After the lesson, Becca seemed concerned that something as fundamental as articles could still trip up students who’ve been studying English for years. She motioned toward the chalkboard at the remains of a lesson on future progressive tense, on which her students will be tested.

“This is what worries me,” she said. Years of work, and the sentence I will be going is still a challenge.

It’s no one’s fault. With only two or three hours of classtime a week, just learning the basics can be tough. And for the school, the priority lies in getting kids to pass the state-wide test, not necessarily in preparing them for jobs abroad or in the capital.

So Becca shakes it off and prepares for her next class, 5^th graders, whom she will guide — with patience, smiling eyes and donated hours of after-school tutoring — into the the ever-expanding world only the the English language can open.

The perfume man came the other day. You’d think he was giving the stuff away, what with how excited all the teachers got. We practically cancelled 5^th period so all of us could flood into the tiny room where a smooth talkin’ man about my age pulled out all the stops. My mom compared it to that scene in Oklahoma! The Music Man (thanks, Ellen!) when the Wells Fargo wagon comes in and the whole town breaks out in song over it, even the kid with a lisp.

Each perfume had its own personality and traits, he said as he listed them for us and sprayed a sample on our wrists. The gaggle of women would quickly bring their wrists up to their noses, smell deeply and then nod excitedly to their neighbor.

I stuck my arm out for the samples, but I couldn’t help but laugh. Each time he made a pass around the room, he sprayed us on the same spot on the arm – meaning each new perfume mingled with the ones before it. Not surprising, no one liked the last samples, which just smelled to us like we’d bathed in perfume. Which we had.

Dorina, my partner teacher, bought one called Blue and sprayed it continusouly throughout the day, despite the fact that we reaked of sweet floral goodness. No one seemed to mind, though. It was a nice change from the smell of unbrushed teeth and clothes washed in rainwater.

"Te iubesc" means I love you.

Over dinner, my family and I started talking about gifts that men buy for women in the States – jewelry, flowers, chocolate. My host mother Valentina asked if there was a special day for giving gifts to the one you love.

“Actually, it’s today!” I said. “Today is Valentine’s Day.”

Catalina, my 7^th grade host sister, nodded furiously in agreement. Apparantly, Valentine’s Day is celebrated more in Western Europe than here, so the kids think it’s all modern and hip to have a valentine.

After dinner, I chatted with my real mom back in the States. She sent perfume/cologne to my brothers and sister for Valentines Day but said Moldova was just too far to send anything.

“But watch,” she joked, “not one of them will call me today. Not one will call or text or email or Facebook me. But you called. I’m so glad I got to talk to you today.”

After we hung up, I told this story to my host mother and joked about how my dad tends to think kitchen appliances make a romantic gift.

“Talking to you was her gift,” she told me. “Seeing you happy and healthy is the best thing you can give her today.”

So, in the spirit of Valentina the Valentines Day expert, I wish you all a chance to talk with the ones you love.

Happy Valentina Day.

The view out my classroom window

When Peace Corps first assigned me to be a health teacher in this tiny northern village, I found a report from the volunteer who served here just before me. To succeed here, he wrote, I’d need to be confident, a motivated self-starter and — I couldn’t believe this one — able to withstand isolation.

That took my by surprise. Isolation? Where was I moving, the Sahara? What makes my village isolating? And, most important, what makes my bosses think that I of all the volunteers am best suited for this lonely spot?!

Now I know.

I spent the last month at site. Usually I leave at least once a month for meetings, trainings or even grocery shopping. (Imagine feeding your family with only two 7-11-style stores and a backyard garden.) But since I had nowhere to go this month, I stayed in.

Winters in Moldova can be lonely. The sun sets at 4, and no one wants to wade through unlit slush puddles (a.k.a. village roads) after dark. Plus, there are no veggies to pick, no fruits to prepare, no eggs to gather. Besides feeding the animals, there’s not a lot that brings people outside.

And inside, a wood/coal-burning stove heats the house, meaning anyone standing near the fire is burning up and anyone standing by the window is freezing. In these temperatures, we don’t get a lot of guests coming over just for fun.

But my village is a little lonlier than most. We’re nearly surrounded by rolling hills covered in dense forest, so just getting here is a tough. And the only people who pass through are trying to get to the camping grounds in Napadova or the Soviet separatists region of Transnistria – neither of which are huge winter hot spots.

So I ended up staying in my room for much of this month, talking to the same three people about the same handful of topics, venturing outside only to go to the bathroom.

Last week, the Peace Corps doctor and the safety guy came out to do an annual check-up. I expected them to give me tips on eating healthy or staying warm, but by the end of their visit, my doctor had two words of advice: get out. Go in to Floresti, the nearest city, she told me. This place is tiny, and you can’t stay all winter. Go. Meet with friends. Eat new foods.

So I did, and Oh, it was lovely.

I stayed in the county capital with my friend Becca. We ate chicken tacos and fresh vegetables and Hidden Valley ranch and real spaghetti and all sorts of splendid, unbelieveable comfort food I’d forgotten even existed. I haven’t eaten non-pickled veggies since summer! I thought I’d never see a taco again!

Then, we read and watched movies. Oh it was heaven. If I spend a day on my computer at home, my host family gets suspicious. They assume I’m just sleeping the whole time. They have a hard time understanding how a computer can fill up my day, probably because they don’t write lesson plans, post on a blog, Skype their family or edit photos.

I think my doctor’s prescription worked. I got back today, and I feel reenergized and ready for a few weeks of teaching first aid to my little ones, writing for our volunteer magazine and filling out the insanely burecratic from Peace Corps demands from us each year.

So maybe being able to “withstand isolation” means knowing when it is time to get the heck outta dodge and find a friend who can cook a pot of chili just like your momma used to. That’s what I’ve learned.

I don’t care if Taco Bell beef isn’t really beef – I miss American food. It got me thinking…what will I miss about Moldovan food once I leave?

The most common meal we eat here is soup, which Moldovans call Borș.  Filled with vegetables from the garden – carrots, potatoes, onion, parsely – a pot of soup sits on our stove all day, every day. My partner teacher Dorina used soup to teach our 5^th graders how people are different. Whose mother makes soup? she asks. Everyone raised their hands. Do all mothers make soup the same way? No, the kids answer. Does that mean your mother makes soup wrong? No! the kids say. See? says Dorina. All people are different.

We’re also eating a lot of Salata Olivia, a salad with potatoes, ham, peas, onion and hard-boiled egg. My family coats theirs in mayonaise, but I eat mine plain or with a little soy sauce. We get the potatoes, onion and eggs from our farm.

Sometimes, my host mom makes me a sandwich, or a piece of bread with salami and cheese sitting on top. When I see this, I get all excited and go get one of the sauces my family sent me from home, especially Chick-Fil-A sauce or Subway’s Garlic’n’Herbs mayo.

Moldova’s national dish is Mamaliga, like gooey cornbread or thick polenta, which we eat doused in sour cream. In his novel Dracula, Bram Stoker describes Mamaliga as “a porriage of maize flower,” and his hero Jonathan Harker notes in his journal a reminder to get the recipie. My host dad says it’s traditional to eat fish with mamaliga, but since I’m not allowed to eat the fish in Moldova, he eats my share.

My host mother has been making a lot of rice, mixed up with butter, milk, sugar, lemon and grapes. It’s an easy dish to eat in the winter, when fresh fruits and veggies are scarce. She cooks the rice till it’s light and fluffy, and paired with the squirt of citrus and bits of sweet grape, this tastes more like dessert than dinner.

I’ve grown to love buckwheat, which we boil and serve plain. I put a little of the homemade honey a student’s father game me over it to give the bland, mealy dish some sweetness. Next to that is some homegrown chicken with the skin still on.

We pickle and marinate a lot of our vegetables, including cucumbers, peppers and eggplant. We even pickle watermelon, but I haven’t eaten of that lately. We marinate our carrots in Korean seasoning, which they sell at the market in Russian packaging. My host mother once asked if I’d be willing to eat Korean carrots every day, and I stupidly said yes. So, I have.

I have a newfound love for oatmeal, so my host mom made oatmeal with pumpkin covered in tomato and onion sauce. It’s kinda like eating Quaker Oats in Prego’s marinara. I’m not a huge fan.

My favorite food is colțunaș, which I am now an expert in making. We make our own pasta from flour and eggs and stuff it full of homemade cheese, called brinza. Brinza’s texture feels like Feta, but the taste is softer and less sour. Usually, we cover our coltsunash in sour cream, but we ran out so now we shred butter over it.

I like to play a game – How many vegetables can Lindsay eat today? Usually, not many. We are more likely to eat things made of egg, flower and butter. And of course, tons of bread, which we use as napkins. This is Eastern Europe after all.

Sorry Snowpocalypse, but it’s 50 and lovely out here…

In my This Week’s Lesson series, I illustrate what my 5^th-11^th graders are learning in health education, and, more importantly, what I’m learning from my students.

When I talk to my kids about the dozens of diseases that affect this small, poor country — tuberculosis, hepatitis, heart disease — I sometimes worry they feel like I’m picking on them, like I’ve hopped off my white horse to save all God’s children from the big, bad preventable diseases. So this week, I did it different.

Diabetes is personal for me. I was nine when my five-year-old brother was diagnosed, and I still remember the shame I felt when my grandmother told me. After all, I was the one who’d read all the Babysitter’s Club books, and didn’t Ann M. Martin explain how Stacey was diagnosed in every single book? I read everything I could about diabetes, picking up every book my mom finished and asking her what words like glucose and ketone meant.

A few years ago, another family member was diagnosed with diabetes and it became clear — this disease runs in my blood. When I came down with pancreatitis last month, I spent a terrifying 24 hours waiting for test results to show if I was the latest diabetic Toler. I am diabetes-free, but I’ve been taking better care of myself from then on.

My goal for this week was to teach the kids how diabetes really works in the body. To start off, I invite them to a party: The president of Moldova heard you guys are studying about diabetes this week, I tell them. The president knows diabetes is a major health concern here, affecting more than 55,000 in his country of 3.6 million, so to reward you for your efforts, he has declared today to be a day of celebration. And you are all invited.

Only one rule: You have to take public transportation. The capital will be flooded with people for the celebration, so to get there, you’ll have to take the bus.

The class divides into three teams, each drawing a golden ticket to see who gets to the party. Team One waits all day at the bus stop, but their ride never shows up. Team Two manages to find a bus, but all the bus stations in the capital are closed, so they have to pack up and turn around. Team Three manages to find a bus and an open station, so I give them a minute to celebrate.

At this point, the kids are looking at me blankly, wondering what all this has to do with diabetes. The body, I tell them, works the same way the bus system works. Blood vessels act as streets, a place for things to travel back and forth. The body is made up of cells the same way Moldova is made up of cities and villages. Without people, a city would be dead, just like how a cell would die without sugars to convert into energy.

So what’s the bus represent? they ask. Insulin, the hormone that brings sugar into the cells. Buses drive people to the bus station, and insulin drives sugar to the cell’s receptor.

But for people with diabetes, something in the bus system goes wrong. Like Team One, a type 1 diabetic doesn’t have the insulin (buses) to deliver sugar to the cell.

Or, like Team Two, sometimes the receptors (bus stations) are closed so there’s no way for insulin and sugar to get in. That’s why diabetics have high blood sugar levels: there’s nowhere for the sugars (people) to go so they stay in the street (blood vessels).

Once the kids got it, I had one of them turn on some music from their phone and we danced to open our cell receptors. For homework, they are drawing their own bus system, labeling how each step corresponds to the body.

By the end of class, the kids felt so smart being able to explain how a complicated disorder functions in the body; you could just see it in the way they carried themselves as they left class – heads high, backs straight. My 11^th grade didn’t even get through the lesson because they had so many questions about insulin dependence.

And whenever the kids got restless, I told them a story about growing up with a diabetic brother, and a soft hush fell over the room like no elementary school teacher has ever heard before, I am sure. I can’t tell if they pitied my family or felt how important the topic was for me or what, but every eye in the room was on me and every mouth hung a little open when I talked about my college-aged brother who takes three or four shots a day. A few kids even shared experiences with their own family.

But then, at the end of my second to last class, my partner teacher told the kids there’s one more way to get diabetes: drinking too much water.

And I remembered all over again why I’m here and how big of a job this really is.