Moldova

After four days, I say goodbye to the family who hosted me so warmly. Just before I get on the motorcycle, the mother hands me a bottle of wine. “This is a gift from Moldova,” she says.

I start the bike and ride south, towards the border triangle: Ukraine, Moldova, and Romania. The shorter route to Romania passes exactly through the border crossing where I entered Moldova. I try to avoid retracing my steps, and so I find myself riding through the streets of Chisinau, passing the southern neighborhoods of the city. After about 20 kilometers, the road becomes narrower, the ride lightens, and the scenery shifts, becoming flat. Fields of wheat stretch on both sides of the road. Another 80 kilometers of riding, and again green hills and endless vineyards spread over hundreds of acres. Villages dot the way, and I take a dirt trail, eager to experience life in rural southern Moldova. The path leads me to the center of the village, right to the church. Livestock wander freely in the village streets. I continue riding through the endless vineyards, pass by small lakes, and reconnect with the road leading to the town of Cahul. There, I’ll take a hotel and wander the streets a bit. Tomorrow, I’ll continue to Romania.

10 kilometers, 5 kilometers, I slow down to 40 km/h, rolling into the city. I glance left, straight, and right, but there’s not a soul in sight. All the shops are closed. There’s no one on the street, everything seems closed and deserted. It’s only 5 p.m. I reach the town center, and it’s even more depressing. I don’t have many options, so I’ll take a hotel and leave early in the morning.

“Do you have a room available for the night?” I ask the receptionist. “Yes, 27 euros, if you want breakfast, it’s an extra two euros.” “Thanks,” I reply. “I’ll decide about breakfast in the morning.” She hands me a key for room 510. The hallway is dark, and I turn on my flashlight to find the lock. The room is decent. I change out of my riding clothes. “Alright, I’ll go explore the desolate city. I’ll try to find something to eat.”

“Is there a place to eat?” I ask the receptionist. She looks at me and says, “Sorry, no English.” I try to explain with gestures, and after a moment, she gets it. She starts gesturing with her hands: left, right, and other random motions. I don’t understand anything. Politely, I say, “Spasiba,” and head out to look for food.

Not far from the hotel, I find a cozy restaurant. I have an avocado salad with burrata cheese, grilled chicken breast, fries, and two beers, which send me to bed for a deep sleep.


Seven in the morning, I put on my riding gear, check out, hand the receptionist the key to room 510, pack up the motorcycle, and return to the receptionist. “Can I leave the motorcycle in the parking lot for half an hour? I’m going to have coffee and will be back.” “Okay, no problem,” she says. I step outside, turn left, and wow, what’s this? I can’t believe what I’m seeing. The city is full of people, the gray has turned into color, it’s one big market. Parking lots, cafés, restaurants, food stalls, bakeries. Pleasant Russian or Moldovan music is playing from the shops. Restaurants put tables out on the sidewalk, serving beer and food. Families, couples, and individuals fill the streets. People are shopping, vendors are doing real business. There’s a special atmosphere here. I step into a café, have a coffee, and tell myself, “Wow, this isn’t real.” I return to the hotel, approach the receptionist,
“Is there a room for tonight?”
“Yes, 27 euros for the night. If you want breakfast, it’s another two euros.”
“Okay, no breakfast, please.” She hands me the key again. Room 510. I take my gear off the bike and back to the room. Now the hotel feels much more pleasant and familiar. I change out of my riding gear and head out into the bustling city. The whole city has turned into one big colorful market. People are dressed in the latest fashion, wandering between the stores and stalls, buying everything. No malls, no McDonald’s, no brands, just happy, beautiful, and pleasant. In the parallel street, there’s a colorful flower market. I take out my camera and snap pictures of the atmosphere. I exchange a few words with the owner of a vegetable shop. I speak English, and he responds in French. Not really understanding each other, but we get the point. A woman asks about the camera, and he responds, “Tourist, tourist.” She nods as if she understands, and I continue taking photos. It’s already past three. I go in to have pizza and for dessert, a cheesecake. The best cheesecake I’ve ever eaten in my life.

I’m sitting, reading about Einstein’s theory of time and his friends. Writing, not noticing how time passes. Suddenly, I realize I’m the only one left in the restaurant. It’s already four-thirty, I step outside, and everything is closed and locked up. No shops, no cafés, no stalls, no flower vendors. In my heart, I say, “I already know you, cute little city,” and return to the hotel smiling.

Morning comes, I pack up the motorcycle, put on my riding gear, check out, and ask the receptionist if I can leave the motorcycle by the entrance for half an hour. “Sure, no problem,” she says. I walk into the bustling street towards the familiar café. The two waitresses, who know me from yesterday, greet me and ask, “Coffee without milk and sugar, right?” “Yes, please, and if possible, also a pastry with jam.” It’s nice to return to a familiar place. I sit, drink my coffee, and enjoy every moment.

That’s it, I head back to the motorcycle, and from afar, I see a young woman in a red dress sitting on a bench, drinking coffee right in front of the bike. Being an experienced photographer, I immediately ask, “Can I take a picture?” “Yes,” she replies. “But without the cigarette, please.” She tosses the cigarette, and I think to myself, “What an amazing final shot.” For a city I thought was so dormant, Cahul sure pulled a fast one on me. You’re so special and amazing.

I start the motorcycle and pass through the busy, lively streets, smiling to myself and saying, “Wow, Cahul, you’re really cute, you managed to fool me so well. You’re so unique and incredible.” I ride out of the city, calmly reflecting on everything that happened. I remember Einstein’s theory and Galian Barbour’s that time doesn’t actually exist, and it’s just an illusion. I connect this with the philosophical saying in physics that time is actually a result of material reality, and I think to myself: “Maybe in Moldova, time really doesn’t exist, and here, time is just an illusion?” A long line of trucks pulls me away from my thoughts, signaling I’ve reached the border crossing…

 

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