And then Transdniestria Got in the Way... - Part 2

Sure enough, along came a man carrying grapes, vodka, smoked fish, and chocolate. In many of the countries around the world that equals a party. Think about all the things you could do with those ingredients.... But I digress...

He took a look in our direction, looked back in the direction he was going, and then, in a double-take for the ages, realized what was wrong with the the picture he had just looked at. What was normally a serene memorial to those lost, including his father, in the Great Patriotic War, had suddenly been infiltrated by two aliens (although it could be argued that one could potentially be Moldovan. There was something about the hat).

If there is anything we have learned from movies about meeting aliens, it's that we should approach them, speak in English, and then proceed to get vaporized by some space-age weapon not seen on Earth for the next thousand years. Our soon-to-be Moldovan friend had obviously not seen those movies. On his second take, he started to approach us and, in French, ushered a cheerful "Bonjour!"

"Here we go..." I thought instinctively, having been through this before. "Was that vodka in his bag?"

Moldovan is very similar to Romanian which is part of the Romance language family that includes French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese. I suppose it is logical that the man tried French as a first option. After all, it's not as if Russians ever come to these parts. They prefer Odessa and Transdniestria (or so the latter would like to think).

Alas, Russian was determined to be the language of choice. In hindsight, was there a more perfect pairing with the Russian birch leaf vodka the man pulled out of his bag? Would the day have gone differently had we been speaking Moldovan and drinking Croatian plum schnapps?

"Wait, wait. We don't have glasses. Let me go to my house and grab some. I will be back. Please stay here," he urged. So we waited. It was perhaps a bit early for vodka. But then you realize that it's never too early for vodka in the former Soviet Union. It would be an insult not to have a drink or six.

The man returned with clean glasses and a renewed passion for the sport of drinking a clear, potent liquid from a glass as fast as you can. He was decidedly drunk already, but we figured an extra shot or two wasn't going to disrupt the balance.

We raised our glasses to friendship, to his father, to Canada, to Moldova, to the Great Patriotic war; every shot chased with juice, lots of juice. The question was then posed, "Do you guys want to come see my house? We can have coffee."

Admittedly, we had nothing to do other than walk back to the train station. I was also under the impression that the man would not take "No" for an answer.

 

End of Part 2