Chisinau to Constanta

I had to get new pages in my passport. This is a milestone in the life of a professional traveler. Moldova put me just on the line, one more stamp and the passport would be invalid. With my previous hold-ups by UK Immigration, I wanted to have my passport in order before I got back to Luton. I made an appointment at the US Embassy in Chisinau, for Friday.

A Moldovan seeking the fast track to US Citizenship informed me that as of June 2010 the cost of adding new pages had jumped up to $82. Payable by Visa or Mastercard. Frustrated, I did not complain. I was hungover from a night at BoozClub and didn’t want to commit a potential felony by puking in the waiting room of the American embassy.

“Joshua Heller to Window 3.” On the other side an American handed me the passport. He showed me that the pages sewn into the middle of the book were slightly smaller than the passport itself. “If you want to avoid the fee, ask them for an extra-large passport when this one expires.”

“How long have you been in this country?”
“3 years, before that I was in Nigeria.”
“Wow that must be a change, how’s working here different?”
“Well, Moldova has a functional government, and Nigeria is a failed-state.”

In a hungover haze I thought I might want to work for the United States Foreign Service. I asked how he did it. He went to a website and turned the monitor towards me. “Go here. Take the test. Join the service.” “Could be fun.” I thanked him, and meandered towards downtown.

------

Chisinau’s natural history museum has neolithic pottery and the busts of neanderthals on the top floor, the bottom floor is a furniture store. The museum docent yelled “that’s not part of the museum!” In the food court at “MallDova” I told my sister a kid with a mullet looked like a sperm. She continued laughing down the escalator passed the “Forever 18.” Outside a gas station girls in spandex smoked cigarettes, while an old man pushed a wheelchair full of supplies as he walked his goats. We thought it was funny that there was a veterinary pharmacy at the bus station on the edge of town.

5 kilometers from Romania, the overalled gas station attendant stared at me. He looked confused as I perused their wide selection of patés. Each tin featured a photograph of a different animal who was reconstituted into the container. Across from the canned meat aisle, the Lukoil offered many different varieties of motor oil.

A woman in peasant garb asks me for change I reach through my pockets and sorted out the correct coinage. Transnistrian rubles or Romanian lei are of no use to her. I find something Moldovan and hand it over. I practice calisthenics, by pulling myself up on the bus’s handle bar. My sister says that if I break it, the driver will leave me here.
I tell her I’m not concerned. If I’m left here I'll make the peasant woman my wife. My sister tells me to blow the woman a kiss. I do. The old woman waves back. It’s on.


At the border there is a sign for a “buffet”. The politia de frontiera board our bus. This is the friendliest border official I have ever met. I hand over my US Passport.

“Ooh, I haven't seen these documents in a while.”
“You’re about to see two.”
“Barajas, Schiphol, Frankfurt-Hahn you travel a lot.”
“I had to add pages. Her passport is newer. It has chip.”
“This has no chip, its not thick enough.”
“Isn’t this the RDIF chip?”
“No It's just a logo. No chip. Bulgarian, Romanian, Polskie they all have chips. This one doesn’t. I think its no good for persons, it's better not to be tracked.”

---

Outside of Husi, I see some graffiti that says “Basarabia is Romania.” Some Romanians want Moldova back, in the same way that some Moldovans want to get back with Romania. Their love affair is still on hold, because the rest of Moldova want to continue to go out with Russia. In the next decade this love triangle might become a full-on war.

In Tecuci the bus driver bought me an espresso from a machine. I don’t think this was a good will gesture, I think he meant to order a cappucino, but the wrong coffee came out. Inside the bus station a Gene Hackman and Owen film movie was playing on a large television inside a remodeled bar. I caught one seen before we left towards Braila. On the outskirts of town we passed a Cinema City and Carrefour. It looked like anywhere else in the world.

I looked out into the dark horizon, I couldn’t see city lights or anything. There’s nothing out there on the Romanian plains. Then a lightning bolt lit up the water. This was my first glimpse of the Black Sea. Tomorrow I’d be reunited with the water.