The United States of Slovenia

Typically there is a week delay on most of my posts.  For example, when I wrote about Croatia I was already well into Bosnia.  You may have been keen enough to see through my masterful illusions, but I think it warrants mention since I am belated in wishing the United States of America a very happy birthday.  

When I studied abroad in Italy in 2005, Ljubljana, Slovenia, was a big hot spot to visit on the weekends.  It's close proximity to Italy, it's charming character and probably what was most attractive to me when I was 21, the 5-star night life.  I'd been boasting about Ljubljana to all of my friends for years now and was excited to get a chance to show her off as a city and a country that doesn't necessarily get a lot of attention from US travelers.  Then I got really nervous that it wouldn't live up to my hype.  Good god, I was only a 21 year old drunkard.  Did I even do anything else besides sample that famous night life?  

It was a huge sigh of relief when we got to Ljubljana and found that the city had improved since I'd been here (with the slight exception that they have converted to the Euro since my last visit and the used-to-be cheap prices have been Euro-fied).  The adorable city has a new bike share program where you can rent cute, basket equipped cruisers by the hour.  There are genius bike "parking lots" all over the city where you can acquire a bike through an automated machine similar to, but less frustrating than the automated parking meter.  Bike rental is even free if you use it for under an hour!  For years I lived in Portland, Oregon; the mecca of biking.  A town that is so bikable and full of earth conscious hippies that it is becoming uncool to even look at a car.  Frankly, Ljubljana is kicking Portland's cycling ass.  Needless to say, our group of five spent many afternoons singing the entire score from the Sound of Music while riding along the cobblestone streets on our family bike ride.  I'm sure the locals thought it was just as adorable as I am describing it.  

Ljubljana, of course, also proved to be the perfect location for Independence Day.  My friend, Kyle, has thrown an annual 4th of July 4Beer-4K for the past 11 years and being in another country was not going to stop her from celebrating our freedom properly.  Kyle's god given talent for creating elaborate scavenger hunts is rivaled by no one else.  No one.  In one morning, and in an unfamiliar city no less, she threw together an elaborate four hour adventure that would put Toby Keith's patriotism to shame.  Donning our best American flag attire we unscrambled clues, found important American landmarks (yes, even in Slovenia) and sang patriotic songs in front of the embassy.  It is measure of my commitment to a costume when I tell you that I found and have been carrying my 4 of July outfit since Thailand.  No, I didn't use that precious space in my backpack for a useful pair of underwear or a practical pair of pants.  No, no, my friends, a sequined American flag mini dress took obvious priority.  The biggest surprise was that many of the locals not only knew it was our independence day, but also were overly excited about our choice of attire (the one exception being a angsty teenager who made loud, animated barfing noises at us).  We ended the escapade at the hilltop castle overlooking the city where the waiter was so elated he brought us free wine, free shots AND free dessert.  Who says freedom ain't free?

Kelly and I, feeling like hot garbage juice after the hearty celebrating, decided we were overdue for some proper exercise.  We went to the local gym to sweat off the booze in a Zumba class.  Zumba is probably the most ridiculous form of exercise (don't get me wrong, I love this shit) as it is just dancing, or flailing about in my case, to awesome pop and hip-hop music.  There are definitely legitimate aerobic advantages to this class, but no one is trying to claim that this is any sort of Olympic lifting program here.  Our instructor was a freakishly fit, energetic and down right hot lady who preceded to kick my ass.  She did compliment(?) Kelly and I though by telling us that we danced like ho-bags.  Only after the class do we find out that Miss Fitness holds the coveted designation as Slovenia's Playmate of the Year.  A playmate calling us hos?  If mom's not proud of that, well I at least know several friends who will be jealous.  Especially now that I'm about to mention that we also saw her naked in the showers and didn't even have to pay the $4.95 for the magazine.  God bless Slovenia, let freedom ring!  

Two Names, Two Faces

It's been hard to muster up the energy to write these last few posts when half (most?) of the readers have been in my actual company these last few weeks.  Plus, I'll type up a post and then they just want me to read it to them!  I just spent hours, hours I tell you, typing this up and now I have to be the kindergarden librarian too?  These guys were all there, they know the stories already, but being the generous person that I am, I'll go ahead and put this in writing for the few others of you.

Our massive group of vagabonds had the opportunity move to yet another gorgeous city in Croatia since the country is teeming with blue seas, relaxing cafes and sun.  But all that fun, sun and water comes with a beach front price.  We'd been hearing about many other wonderful little Eastern Europe countries.  The group consensus landed us in a country that I had never initially considered, but along the road I've heard that it was amazing, warm and fun.  I also heard it was cheap.  So when the decision was made, we changed course for Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Bosnia and Herzegovina is indeed cheap, but also amazingly cute...the parts amid the abandoned bombed buildings.  We hit Mostar and Sarajevo this last week and you can still see the fresh wreckage of bullet ridden buildings in-between all of the newly constructed hotels and cafes.  It is completely bazar to meet people my age and younger, who grew up in Bosnia and Herzegovina  during the fairly recent war.  A time I vaguely remember watching on TV, my peers remember spending their childhood scrambling across the streets avoiding gunfire.  A lot of them lost their parents or siblings or both.  It's easy to be on this no-rules, no-responsibility trip and forget about just how ravaged many of these countries are from very recent and very real times of violence.  

I'm glad to say, however, it seems that Bosnia and Herzegovina is bouncing back.  I realize the conflicting gramalitical "is" when combined with the deul names, Bosnia and Herzegovina, but afterall it is just the one country with aparent naming conflicts.  Plus, I'm no english major and don't pretend to know the proper way to handle this situation; I can barely spell my own name as it is.  The good news is that the shopping districts are bustling, there is an abundance of new construction and there are thriving ice-cream stands on every single corner.  Ice-cream to my outsider's perspective is a staple in Bosnia and Herzegovina for breakfast, lunch, dinner and where I commonly associate it- dessert.  No judgement.  Hell, after all those years of war you deserve to have ice-cream as one of your major food groups.

We were also lucky enough to be in Sarajevo during a major cultural event.  You guessed it, the annual Streetdancing Competition.  It was a real life breakdancing battle with professional judges in the city center.  Talk about age innapropriate events, we were surrounded by hordes of teenagers who were almost as excited as we were to be there.  I wasn't expecting much, but the break dancers were phenominal.  I should mention that it is no longer cool to be called a "break dancer" and you should refer to them as "b-boys" and "b-girls"; yet another distinction that shows our age in this event.  It is somewhat inspirational in that it made me want to take classes so I could throw my body around in a way that makes it look amazingly agile and awesome.  And mostly because I'd just like to have a solid party trick.  Then I realized that I'm almost 30, have had two knee surgeries and am simply not that cool.  My short lived dreams of being a b-girl have been crushed.  At least the music was good and none of the local teenagers could tell how much we were dorking out since they didn't speak english.  My cool facade is intact for now.  

As we reached the end of our time in Bosnia and Herzegovina our gang of loud Americans continued to decline.  We went from nine down to six this week; a flock to a mere six-pack.  I know I previously referenced traveling with that many people as a complete shit show, but now that the group is dwindling, it's pretty sad.  This must be what it feels like to be on a season of Survivor.  With the exception that I actually like these people, nobody has to eat bugs in order to stay on the island and my only alliances are based on who wants to go get ice-cream now or later.    

Adorable!

And ravaged.

Croatia You Crazy

I previously alluded to my plans to meet up with a gaggle of my friends this month.  Well, it all came to a big festering head when eight of my closest friends and myself met up in Croatia this week.  The mass reunion took place on Vis Island in one of the most darling villas I've ever seen (not that I've actually stayed in a proper villa before, especially on this hobo trip).  The house is literally five steps away from the turquoise Adriatic Sea, which happens to be extremely convenient when you go late night skinny dipping and you have the kind of friends that will steal your towel.

It has certainly been different traveling with nine people when compared to our meager duo.  It's something akin to herding a bunch of drunk, ferrel cats.  Also, nine loud American girls shockingly draws even more attention than Kelly and I are used to.  After a few days of the villa and convenience beach lifestyle we finally managed to get the whole group out of the house for drinks one night (again, see above cat herding reference).  We were caught off guard when an even larger and louder english speaking group sidled up to the tables adjacent to us.  How dare they out-tourist us.  The group of hooligans turned out to be a cricket team from England who were on the island for a game.  I wouldn't have imagined the tiny island of Vis having a cricket team, but there you go.  Not to be outdone, we were quick to tell them that we all played rugby, a far superior sport.  Nevertheless they invited us to watch the could-be all day long game the next day.  Despite our feelings of sport superiority, we accepted the invite with the stipulation that it did not interfere with our packed schedule of beach time.   

The next day on the way to a beach on the other side of the island, we ran into the cricket field by sheer chance.  They were already hours into the match and were about to stop for tea (this sport is excruciating long like baseball, but with added boringness of being a gentlemen's sport).  They humored us enough to let the rowdy rugby ladies play with their equipment during their tea break.  When they took the field again, we heckled and harassed the other team like good old sport-loving Americans (though I'm not sure who we were yelling at half the time since both teams wear white).  To be culturally sensitive though, we yelled things like "wanker" and "parky".  We stayed for as much cricket as we could handle before we finally "had" to leave for our original destination.  The beach wasn't going to wait all day for us.  

We ended up at an adorable remote beach in a small inlet.  We lucked out in that one of the residences ran a restaurant out of their cliff side house.  This was not the kind of restaurant with menus or timetables or pants.  In fact, the chef was lounging in his speedo out front when we first arrived.  This was explained as a "slow-dining" experience and the crazy-eyed, bearded chef simply told us he would cook us something that was caught fresh and would just bring out dishes as they were ready.  How could we say no to a traditional sea-side dining experience?  Awesome homemade cheeses, olives, smoked fishes and capers...for starters.  And the food just kept coming in-between the bottles of wine.  At one point there was time for a mid-dinner swim and then back to eating once again.  This was simultaneously the fanciest and most casual dinner I've ever been apart of.  After dinner the chef and owner insisted we have some of their homemade brandy followed by some of their homemade grappa and then another round of some other homemade liquor.  At one point during our after dinner swim (if there's a mid-dinner swim, surely there has to be an after dinner swim) they sent shots of grappa out on a floating tray to the swimmers.  I kept having to remind our generous hosts that I was the driver.  Their solution was to give me a "driver" size shot instead.  Croatians, the booze pushers of Europe.

And if there weren't enough reasons to booze on this trip...my birthday was this week.  Like we just learned, the Croatians are booze pushers and the locals were more than willing to buy celebratory drinks.  Come to find out the Czechs are also part of the enable ring category.  A group of guys from the Czech Republic had sailed into Vis Island that day and happened upon the same bar.  After Maggie broke the ice by commandeering one of the guy's wheelchairs and showing off her mad wheelchair skills (no joke, Maggie is actually a pro in a wheelchair and can dance, spin and pop wheelies, much to the crowd's enjoyment).  Like all good birthdays, we closed the bar down and promptly continued the party on the Czech sailboat.  So at 3:00 am we found ourselves drinking boxed wine and listening to a bunch of drunk sailors singing "Happy Birthday" about 527 times in their Czech accent.  The first few hundred times it came out as, "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear I-don't-remember-your-naaaaaaammme, happy birthday to you".  Eventually (and impressively considering the level of inebriation on everyones' part) they got my name right in the end.  I'm sure I can safely say that will be my only birthday I spend on a Croatian island cocktailing on a sailboat with a group of rowdy Czechs.  Now I can die happy.  Coincidentally that is exactly what I felt like doing the next day.  The extra year was acutely evident as I was too hungover to even make it the five steps to the beach the next day.  O.U.C.H.

Shots!

Just a Little Place I Like to Call Croatia

I've been itching to go to Croatia for years and this week my dreams were finally realized.  Maggie, Kelly and I rented a car and zipped (aka made one wrong turn causing the GPS to send us on the most ridiculous two hour detour through the winding, vomit-indusing back roads of Croatia) to the Plitvice Lakes.  We stayed at a super delightful home-stay in the country complete with a small farm, adorable grandparent-like hosts and roaming chickens.  The poor chickens fell victim to our drunk antics one night when we decided to chase them around the yard in attempts to catch them.  I have high hopes that one day in the near future I can tell you a good story that doesn't start with "this one time I was drunk".  This, however, is not one of those days and we did, in fact, get wasted and, to my surprise, successfully catch some of them for an impromptu photo shoot.  

Aside from the chickens, the actual Plitvice Lakes are breathtakingly stunning.  I have seen a lot of amazing and rare and beautiful things on this trip.  After everything, I am going to go on record and say that the Plitvice Lakes are the most beautiful thing I've seen thus far.  Yes, thus far.  It is pristine lake after pristine waterfall after pristine natural pool.  I severely lack the writing skills to paint an impressive enough picture for you here, so just look at the pictures and know that the camera and I also lack the artistic skills to capture just how impressive this place is.  There are literally hundreds of shinning, shimmering waterfalls that pour into the equally impressive lakes and natural pools (If someone can differentiate between a lake and pool then I'd be super impressed.  All I know is that they only categorize 16 of these bodies of water as true lakes and the hundreds of others get the less distinctive categorization as pools though they seem just as impressive to me.  Poor pools.).  The water is so clear, clean and a devastating color of aqua that Croatia actually prevents you from putting your body in the water.  It is incredibly hard to comply with the no-swimming rule after you've been hiking for four hours and the water is refreshingly perfect, clean and kid-free.  I suppose this is ultimately how they keep their national park so beautiful, but that didn't prevent us from scheming ways to get our bodies into that crystal-blue water.  "What if Kelly slipped and fell in, then I had to jump in to rescue her?  They surely would understand that."  Nevermind that Kelly grew up in a beach town and could swim circles around most fish.  

Post the heavenly lakes, we all headed to the coastal town of Zadar, Croatia.  Maggie and I, in our dedication to get to know the city and people, set out to find the local H&M the other day.  It was supposed to be quite a ways outside of the city, although we couldn't seem to pry much more directions than those from all the people we asked.  We felt up to the task since we were armed with a couple of questionable rental bikes for the long haul.  After asking five different people directions and getting five different sets of directions, one reputable and confident sounding woman finally pointed us in the right direction.  We swiftly peddled through the main part of town and then were immediately faced with the hill of death.  It's not that this is the steepest hill in the world, but let me offer some excuses here; 1. Croatia is hot as balls, 2. I am just getting over a lung-rattling cold after Maggie exposed my Moldova ravaged lungs to her American germs, 3. Despite my best efforts to keep fit, somehow drunk dancing is just not cutting it as a proper work out regimen and I am embarrassingly out of shape.  

Nevertheless, this is a hill and it is a long-ass hill.  Neither of us wanting to be shown up by the other person (pride is everything among my slightly over-competitive friends), we wheeze all the way to the top.  And since there weren't any witnesses, I'm not going to admit to taking any breaks.  At the top of the K2 of the Croatian hillside, we see no H&M and no shopping centers and, frankly, very few buildings in general.  Actually all we see is a lone bar and deserted church.  I make Maggie go ask the bar owner for further directions while I "watched the bikes" (or secretly gasped for air in-between violently coughing up my lungs).  Wouldn't you know, the directions were precisely the exact opposite of the initial instructions we were given; go all the way back down the hill that almost just took your life.  Luckily biking up hills for no god damn reason is actually my hobby.  Jokes on you.  Now, not only are my lungs tore up, but my tender lady bits are now screaming from being on a bike all day.  The hill down is steep and rocky and bumpy and labia destroying.  The road eventually spits us out right into the parking lot of the huge, commercial shopping center.  Success!  Let the culture rich experience begin!  I spend the next hour perusing the clothing store and profusely sweating.  No matter how much I wiped my face on my shirt it just kept pouring.  Hi, I'd like to try on your new merchandise on my hot, sweaty body, thanks.  I figure it's retribution for the country's (and their GPS systems') complete lack of a sense of direction.  

 





The hunt...




...and the catch

Starving? No, Just Hungary

I've never had a bigger response than on my last post and oddly enough it had nothing to do with our near escape from Moldovan jail time.  Family and friends, no, I have not become a smoker.  I'm highly amused that over the last year I have made various references to drinking, drugs, wild animals and brushes with foreign police, yet I post a brief anecdote regarding cigarettes and so many of you came out of the woodwork to voice your concerns.  Who knew the likes of my acquaintances were so wholesome.  Let me assure you that waking up hungover with my mouth tasting like ten day-old smoked mackerel has deterred me from taking up a permanent habit, but it's nice to know you've been reading.

Moving on from the unhealthy life Moldova brings, I'm a bit worried that anything I write this week will severely pale in comparison to our detainment by the police and Moldovan shenanigans in general (my mom wrote me a note letting me know she'd at least had enough excitement for a while).  In attempts to reset your expectations I'm going to write possibly the most boring post of this trip.  Not because this week was not amazingly fun, but I think I need to lower your standards (maybe mine too) so that going forward you will find next week's blog at least slightly more interesting than this dud.  Self sabotage, always a good plan.

Kelly and I are at a strange junction in our journey.  After leaving our friend, Weird Kate, in Moldova we flew into Budapest, Hungary, and immediately met up with our friend Maggie who had just flown in from the good 'ol US of A.  From this point on we will have friends from back home meeting us almost all the way through the remainder of our trip.  Yeah, I'm really that good at peer pressuring.  Though I must admit, convincing your friends to meet you for a Euro-adventure is not that hard of a sale.  What will Kelly and I do now that our dynamic duo has started accepting more applicants?  I'm personally afraid they'll all start making actually participate in tourist activities and go out drinking all the time.  After all, their livers are rested and relaxed from having responsibilities, such as jobs, all these months.  Plus, their vacation stints are going to be much shorter to our trip in comparison, they are liable to want to pack in as much fun in their limited amount of time abroad.  

Most of my fears were confirmed when we saw Maggie.  Of course we have to go out!  I haven't seen her face in almost a year.  Nothing says catching-up like boozing and dancing in a loud Hungarian night club.  After getting "reacquainted" in Budapest for a few days (which we were actually good tourists and took the guided walking tour, but I'll save the uplifting genocide stories for later), Maggie suggests heading to Siofok, Hungary.  I'd never heard of it, but apparently back in the communist era when everyone got their one week of vacation each year they all went to the holiday town of Siofok (note: I'm taking Maggie's complete word for this, I have not actually confirmed that Siofok is the communist era Hamptons, but she's usually fairly trust worthy, so I think my integrity is solid as usual here).  Siofok sits on Europe's largest fresh water lake, Lake Balaton.  Admittedly Maggie didn't initially know a lot about this vacation hot spot either, but said, "I imagine it being just like the movie Dirty Dancing".  Sold.  

Lake Balaton did live up to Maggie's predictions in the end, sans Patrick Swayze.  The place is fully equipped with all expected lake holiday activities; water sports, parks galore, lake side markets with the typical carnival games and attractions including huge trampolines (which we tried for free on our way home from dinner after several glasses of wine, but we were quickly found out by the angry Hungarian man who yelled at us for trespassing).  In other non-noteworthy news, we even got adventurous and tried the local delicacies.  Mainly the crow stew is what caught our eye.  Turns out "crow" was just poorly translated from Hungarian on the English menu and what we got was a heaping pile of tripe.  I've still never had crow, but I bet it was better than that steaming bowl of slimy cow intestines.  I choked mine down out of embarrassment and Maggie found some very artistic ways to rearrange the guts into looking like she had consumed more than the actual two bites she managed.  On this trip I'd like to think I've taken the I'm-up-for-trying-anything attitude and have typically come out on top.  Mark this as a day that I came out on bottom.  




Maggie cutting loose on her vacation (yes, those trampolines in the background are the same ones that we abused later that night)




Train time

More Moldova Than I Can Handle

I officially feel a year and a half older after being in Moldova for two weeks.  Somewhere in my fermented mind I had convinced myself that it wasn't actually possible to drink for 15 straight days.  Then Moldova laughed at my naivety, handed me a bottle of wine and promptly stole my remaining dignity (yes, I still had some left besides what you may know of me from my college days).  Before this week I could count on one hand the number of cigarettes I've smoked in my lifetime, but once again, there's just something about this place that makes you need to abuse your body.  So, I also promptly took up chain smoking as a nice accessory to my new drinking problem.  Commitment is my middle name.  

In attempts to have a nice sober day (though you know how this is going to turn out...god damn Moldova) Weird Kate, after feeding the family goat, played tour guide and showed us around her home town Soroca.  There happens to be a rather large Gypsie population on the outskirts of her town, so we went to go see the infamous Gypsy houses.  On a side note, apparently it's no longer politically correct to call them Gypsies, but I'm fairly certain none of you would know what the hell I was talking about if I referred to them by their new (more respectable?) name; the Roma people.  So I will maintain my general asshole status by continuing to refer to them by their mystical name that conjures images of flowing scarf dresses, gold bangles, those little ankle bracelets that jingle when you dance and, of course, the TLC series "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding" (if THE LEARNING CHANNEL doesn't have to be PC, I surely don't see why I should have to either).  I think we can all agree, Gypsies it is.  Anyone who still feels offended can take it up with my editor (kelly.brittan@gmail.com).  

Unlike their caravanning cousins in the UK, the Moldovan Gypsies build these gigantic, gaudy monstrosities that take 50 years and several generations to complete since the family member who commences construction certainly does not have the money to complete the over-the-top mansion.  And if you've ever seen the show, "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding" then you know "over-the-top" should never be taken lightly.  These are people who thrive on outdoing one another and if that means putting a Pantheon sized gold dome on the top of your house, then you better have the shiniest damn dome on the block.  

So while enjoying the sites, one of the local Gypsies noticed us appreciating/snooping around the neighborhood.  When she called out to Weird Kate in Romanian, I thought she'd put a curse on us.  Ok, I'm not that thick, but I thought we were going to get chewed out for our voyeurism for sure.  Instead of a tongue lashing, we got the best surprise I could have hoped for when she asked us if we'd like to see the inside of her house.  Um, yes.  If we thought the outsides of the houses were ridiculous then the inside was even crazier (and this was one of the more "modest" houses on the block).  If RuPaul was a house, this is exactly what her/his insides would look like.  Theatrical window dressings, bright pink formal dinning room, chandeliers bigger than the couch and gold accented everything.  Liberace couldn't have asked for a better.  We thanked the woman profusely and were about to leave when she insisted we stay for a shot of vodka (oh here we go again).  How could we say no when she had graciously satiated our curiosity?  After hydrating us, she insisted that her daughter would heat us up some food and bring us fresh vegetables from their garden.  Then the house wine came out and then more vodka and then there went my sobriety before noon again.  

You can start to see how this lapse into alcoholism is not my fault, though Weird Kate has her doubts as to our innocence.  While Moldova does tend to have a semi-corrupt police system, Weird Kate luckily has never had a run in with the police in the two years she's been in this country.   Within a week and a half of our visit, we've already been detained...twice.  In both cases it was minor and there were never any official arrests nor did they even check our papers (mostly because we never had them on us, but that's not the point).  It seemed just to be a case of bored cops wanting to talk to the pretty ladies, but then again, I don't speak Romanian, so you'll just have to trust Weird Kate on this one.  

The second run-in with the policia was simply a misunderstanding.  Weird Kate, another Peace Corps volunteer named Raymond, Kelly and myself had all gone out for some afternoon drinks and realized (after several bottles of champagne) that we should probably have had dinner hours ago.  The responsible people that we are, we cut ourselves off and headed out to conquer the drunk munchies.  Out of no where a police wagon screams up to the side walk and four cops pile out like a god damn clown car and demand we get in the car.  Our translator, Weird Kate, advised us to stay the hell away from the vehicle.  No problem.  Knowing how things work in that country, she told them that they were required to give us a reason for picking us up.  The police unconvincingly told her it was because we were being loud and drunk.  Us?  Hardly!  So, while Weird Kate is working her magic, Raymond just jumps into the police car and they take off with him in tow.  Fucking Raymond.  So now we have to go down to the police station just to pick him up.  Sure enough, when we show up, the cops are waiting outside for us.  After some arguing, they are able to convince Weird that it is necessary to come inside the station to collect Raymond.  The police usher us up to an office where it becomes clear that Raymond has already been released and now we are going to be held for questioning.  This would be easier information to swallow if I hadn't just drank two bottles of champagne and if we weren't in a completely foreign, non-english speaking country.  I am not prepared to be a part of Broke Down Palace Part 2.  

The police station is in an old soviet union building.  In the drab room we are taken to, the walls are yellowed from years of smoking indoors and tonight is no exception.  The typical interrogation style lamp dimly illuminates the room through the cigarette smoke coming from all five officers who have accompanied us.  I guess us three girls must have been a huge international threat to ward a 5:3 officer to detainee ratio.  Kelly and I try to keep the giggles in check while Weird Kate argues with our captors in Romanian.  After half an hour of arguing the officer behind the desk finally offers Kate a cigarette and I can't help but feel a swelling pride as my friend continues to go toe to toe with with these police men, yelling in Romanian and jabbing her lit cigarette at them to punctuate each insult.  In the end, Weird Kate's winning line was to shame them by asking them how dare they treat guests this way in their country; a country that might possibly have the lowest tourism rate.  The officers conceded that they only thought we were pretty and were just hoping to talk to us.  By detaining us?  Good fucking move.  I wonder how many of them have found their wives that way.  I can now see that it doesn't matter what country men are from, they all have bad game.  Needless to say we were finally released (more like walked the hell out of there while they continued to protest) and, the worst part of all, we went home without dinner.  










Ok, not a professional smoker yet

The New Blog Drinking Game: Take a Drink Every Time You Read a Version of the Word "Drink"

First off, I'd like to officially thank Ireland and Scotland.  If it weren't for the ample drinking opportunities in those countries I would have been seriously unprepared for the shit show that is Moldova.  "Why Moldova?" you might ask (or more appropriately, "Where the hell is Moldova?").  One of my favorite people, lovingly referred to as Weird Kate, has spent the last two years in the small, former Soviet Union country in Eastern Europe serving in the Peace Corps.  We caught her at the tail end of her stint and were barely able to down the drinks fast enough keep up with her and the other volunteers.  In addition the two years of intense liver conditioning by homemade moonshine, Weird Kate and the others are in serious celebration mode in anticipation of their impending release ("completion of service" if you're being unrealistic).  After being here, I'm not sure how any of the Peace Corps Volunteers will leave without a drinking problem.  If the volunteering pressures and being away from your family for two years isn't enough, Moldova drinks more per capita than any other country, the winters are unbearably harsh (to the point that most of the volunteers keep a pee cup in their bedrooms so they don't have brave the cold just to go to the bathroom) and in a recent survey, Moldovans were rated the most unhappy (unhappiest of) people...in the world.  And let's not forget the fact that vodka is cheaper than water.  I don't think you can afford not to have a drinking problem here.

From what else I can deduce, Moldova's national holidays, sports and crimes are all derived directly from drinking.  I have spent exactly zero sober days in Moldova and I don't think I'm setting any records here.  Oh sure, there were days I planned on not drinking.  Inevitably her neighbors would wave us over to introduce themselves and three hours later we'd leave their house fed and thoroughly wasted.  Just the other morning we went to the local corner store from her house on the way to the bus and the store owner, delighted to see W. Kate, ushered us in and told us to quickly shut the shop door behind us.  He then set out to pouring us all shots vodka and then sent us on our way with a candy bar and a cookie.  Milky Ways and vodka are apparently the scone and coffee of the on-the-go breakfast in Moldova.   

The volunteers have even developed a little drinking game to keep their spirits up (or to further rationalize their binge drinking).  They have a popular bottled beverage here called Festival (very festive indeed).  It looks, smells and tastes exactly like an orange soda.  So much so that one of the volunteers was actually drinking them at work everyday unaware of the 6% alcohol content.  I can only image what the locals thought of the American teacher drinking cocktails on the way to school everyday.  The aforementioned game is based off the fraternity house shenanigans where someone hides a Smirnof Ice (an equally disgusting sweet bottled beverage) and anyone who unsuspectingly finds it must immediately get on one knee and chug the entire drink.  Kelly and I, being the new victims of this game, were targeted mercilessly the first few days in Moldova.  We'd stumble upon them in our toiletry cases, under our pillows and in bathroom stalls, where our new friends would be waiting just outside to witness our most recent Festivalling.  Little did they know, Kelly and I would end up being such quick learners that people started falling at our hand regularly.  We shoved them in people's sleeping bags for them to find at the end of the night and then placed them in the showers to be found the next morning.  They may have regretted enlisting us in the Great Festival War of 2012 afterall.  

We were also lucky enough to catch a major drinking holiday this past week (by the way, there is a holiday about every other day in this country).  Hrom (spelling to be verified, it is at least pronounced with a big phlegm inducing "H" at the beginning) is a big to-do in the city of Balti.  Hrom kicks off with a big wrestling tournament in the square, the coveted prize being the big brown sheep that is bleating just outside the ring.  After the victor has claimed his sheep the main festivities begin and, from what I can tell, that simply means you start your all-day drinking binge.  We met up with a bunch of volunteers at the celebration, posted up under one of the bar tents and promptly began ordering bottle after bottle of vodka.  The next day we were excited/obligated to help Weird Kate with a local school event where we were supposed to bring 130 ice cream cones to the kids.  We drug our post-Hrom asses out of bed and struggled through the three hour bus ride to the school.  Arriving only 15-20 minutes late, we strolled in to swiftly complete our duty and leave being the awesome Americans who brought everyone ice cream.  Little did we know, the teachers had waited for us so we wouldn't miss the big performance.  Hungover and unshowered, the director ushered us to the front of the auditorium as the esteemed guests where we then had to sit through an hour of children singing/wailing in a language I can't even understand.  In the end, the ice cream was severely melted by the time the performance ended resulting in my least favorite thing (especially after a night of drinking my weight in vodka); sticky children.  That alone was enough to almost cure my Moldovan drinking problem.  Almost.  










If you can guess what we're doing in this picture I'll give you a prize (hint: Kelly and I don't know either)