Year in Moldova, A Year of Discovery (eBook)

Chapter Four

May

Settling In

The next morning, the phone rang promptly at nine. Ion was announcing his arrival.

I grabbed what I thought I needed for the day, and said to Sir Skit my usual words, “Goodbye. You stay here and take care of the house. I’ll be back.” He gave me the look cat’s give when they’re disgusted with you and went back to staring out the window.

I opened the door to the entry hall, closed it, and used two keys to unlock both of the front door locks. Once outside, I locked those locks, walked across the white tile walkway, and dug through my wad of keys to find the key to the human-sized metal door. I unlocked it and found a smiling Ion holding the car door open.

“Why so many locks and doors,” I asked Ion as we started for the office.

“We want to get away if someone is coming after us,” he said as if such situations arose with regularity. “The series of locked doors are there to give a homeowner time to escape.”

Hmm, a little different from Ann Arbor, Michigan, I thought but didn’t say.

The office was less than a mile away. I planned to walk to work eventually, but this morning I was happy Ion was there to give me a lift. We went down the hill on my street, Drumul Villor, which was barely wide enough for two cars to pass and full of potholes from the hard winter. The sidewalk was a narrow strip of broken concrete smashed tight up against the walls surrounding the houses. We reached the main street.

The street names were on the corners of the buildings that abutted the sidewalks. Strada (Str.) Mateevici was the main thoroughfare three or four lanes wide. The lanes were not marked. Drivers sorted it out for themselves, playing a Moldovan form of chicken. Trolleys attached to wires overhead trundled along. Small fifteen-seat microbuses, called maxi-taxis, scurried through the traffic, making stops as requested by the people standing on the side of the road motioning their arms down.

The maxi-taxis were a form of public transportation. Privately owned but managed by an obscure governmental administrative agency that assigned their routes, they were cheap, only two lei (about 25 cents). I peeked in the windows of one and saw people jammed in like sardines in a can. To an American, coming from a country where our personal space is about two feet around us, that seemed really tight. I was glad I was in the car with Ion.

We turned left on Str. Mateevici, a feat that required a form of bravery seen in the taxi drivers of New York. A few more turns and we were on Str. Kogalniceanu or K Street, the street of the office. We turned into a parking lot next to a pleasant, light, green-tiled building. The usual eight-foot wall surrounded it with a huge metal gate for the cars. The gate was open, so we drove in on the tiled driveway. More tile, it was everywhere, and it was as slippery as the tile in my bathroom when it was wet.

“Ion,” I asked, looking at the sign on the door of the main floor of the building. “What is Infotag?”

“It is a magazine publisher,” said Ion. “There is also a money changer in the building. I think they have good rates.”

Then, I saw a door with a sign saying ABA/CEELI. I opened the door and faced a stairway of green tile steps and no elevator. I counted 35 steps as I climbed up. These step risers, unlike many I encountered in Moldova, were all the same height. I reached the main floor of the office a little out of breath. As time went on, I got better at the steps challenge.

The office had huge windows overlooking the city. Since I love light, I was pleased. The shades were closed. Moldovans didn’t want to take the chance that someone could look in and see what was going on. This was true even if you were on the third floor of a building.

It turned out my office was on the next floor up—another 15 steps. I climbed up the steps and discovered a lovely conference room, two offices, a bathroom, and a terrace off the conference room that overlooked the city. I chose the office with a view of two little houses right next to the building and the Supreme Court. I could see the corner and the University. One house was freshly painted a soft teal with white trim and had a lovely garden coming to life. The other little house needed help.

I did what all women do when they enter a new space: I rearranged the furniture. I wanted to look out the window. As I moved things around, I noticed two Batiks hanging on the walls.

“Where did the art come from?” I asked.

“They are on loan from the artist,” answered Ion as he shoved my desk to the spot where I wanted it. After we moved the electronics and my chair to the new spot, I felt like I had taken some control over my life.

Vali introduced me to the rest of the staff: Grigore, the translator, and Mihai, the Legal Assistant for the Rule of Law program. Sally was in Chisinau for a week to help me settle in.

“We have meetings scheduled for you every day this week,” said Sally, smiling. “We like to do the meeting thing right away, while you are still jet-lagged and don’t have a clue what is going on.”

“You’re right about that,” I said with a touch of concern. “I don’t have a clue what is going on.”

My First Meeting

My first meeting was with Valerie Sterbeţ, President of the Supreme Court of Justice, for Moldova, the highest court in the land. Sally, Grigore, and I walked to the building, which was right around the corner.

We entered through narrow, tall, wooden double doors. Stepping into a large marble foyer, I saw that neglect and poverty had dimmed its former grandeur. Some marble tiles were missing. The windows hadn’t been washed since the Revolution over ten years ago, and few of the light fixtures worked.

After Grigore told the guard who we were and whom we were to see, he made a phone call. Soon a smiling young woman came to lead the way.

We followed her up the marble stairs and down a long, dark, narrow, carpeted hall. The carpet was well worn, the walls dirty beige. This building, like all buildings in Moldova, was built of cement block or “white bricks,” carved out of the sandstone mines by incarcerated criminals.

I soon learned to step up and over the doorjambs, which were metal, high, and designed to trip the unsuspecting. It would not do to fall into the room. That wouldn’t create a good first impression.

Sterbeţ’s office was a large room with 5-foot-high windows on the street side. Unlike many offices we saw in our time there, these windows were not covered and fairly clean.

The judge, a tall woman in a light-colored suit with hair a shade of red not found in nature, was gracious. She greeted us at the door. When I was introduced, I was standing on one side of the doorway, she on the other. I extended my hand, “Buna Ziua,” I said, good day in Romanian.

She smiled and stepped over the threshold before taking my hand. I learned that Moldovans believe it is bad luck to pass anything, handshakes, items, and particularly money, over the threshold of a doorway.

Ushering us in, I saw her desk, which sat at the end of the room. We sat at a long, narrow black wood table to the right of her desk. High-backed chairs with elaborate brocade seats were tightly placed around the table, a custom I never figured out. The chairs were squeezed together, and once you sat; it was impossible to get up without asking your neighbors to move.

She moved to the head of the table, and we continued the introductions. I quickly learned to say, “Thank you so much for allowing me to visit. It’s a pleasure to meet you, and I look forward to working with you.” All this had to be translated, which caused a lag in the conversation and didn’t allow for emotion. I discovered, however, that I could still read people’s reactions even as they said words I didn’t understand. My years of working with people would come in handy. I also learned to tame down my American enthusiasm. If you were not careful, you could either overwhelm or offend.

Judge Sterbeţ’s staff served what I soon learned was the standard cup of sweet, strong, instant Nescafé coffee and candy. The candies were Moldovan and delicious.

“I have two concerns,” said Judge Sterbeţ. “First, I think our citizens do not have access to the courts. I am hoping you can help us change that. Second, I believe that many of our attorneys were not prepared to represent their clients. Many times, we judges find ourselves acting as lawyers.”

“We will do our best to help with the training of attorneys,” I said, mentioning our interest in improving the quality of legal representation for clients.

Sally explained that we would assess many aspects of the courts in Moldova over the next year. Judge Sterbeţ seemed pleased with the meeting. I had no way to judge, as it was my first such experience.

However, Sally assured me I did well.

At the end of my first day, Ion offered to take me to the grocery store to stock up on some food. He took me to Green Hills, a western-style grocery that was a smaller version of my favorite grocery at home. I entered; I felt the guard watch me closely.

I passed by prepared foods for those I knew. I came to a counter with cheeses, reputedly delicious in Moldova.

“Could I have one half pound of that cheese, please,” I said, pointing to what I thought might be goat cheese.

The clerk smiled and answered, “Da.” Yes, in Romanian.

Suddenly I realized, to my horror, that I was about to get a huge amount of cheese. With much hand waving, I conveyed that that was way...