January 6, 2014
Finally, a Moldova I can get on board with: Taking in the villages
Over breakfast in the morning the subject of Italy came up and I asked Gerry if he had lived in Venice and he said "Yes, for fifteen years." I asked him what he planned to do today and he said "absolutely nothing." Apparantly he had spent the entire previous day in the hostel sat in the same chair talking and it looked like he would be doing it for the full week that he was booked in for. Good luck Anna! I should try not to make too much fun of Gerry though, because I'm 95% certain that I'm going to be exactly the same in 40 years. Except I'll be a Dutch prince kidnapped and smuggled into England as an infant and disguised as an orphan who later went on to direct Katy Perry's music videos.
But my hostel story-telling days are many years away (apart from the story about the hostel that I just told you of course) and the important thing now was that I had to leave Chisinau and never come back. That was easy enough because I just had to follow one road out of town and it even had a yellow line on it pertaining to be some sort of bicycle lane. Wonders will never cease!
Staying at the hostel had lifted my spirits somewhat and I knew that the thing to do was to get away from the main highway. Speaking with the American Peace Corps that were stationed in the little villages made me realise that it was seriously wrong of me to judge this poor country only on a few days cycling along on the highway. I needed to get out there among the people and see a little of what the country was all about. My cause in this regard was helped enormously by a more detailed map of Moldova and Romania given to me by one of the Romanian guys at the hostel. Using this map I could see that there was a small road parallel to the main road that I planned to take and because, miracle of miracles, it ran through a valley, it was flat.
I got onto this small road and it was like being in a different country. Suddenly there were almost no cars, and no hills, and no wind. All the bad stuff was gone. And in its place was the little villages, the little houses, cheaply made from wood, brick, stone, concrete, sometimes all of these, with corrugated roofs and chickens in the yard and always a dog. There were so many dogs, dear me. I've never been barked at and chased so much. And there were people as well of course, not as many out and about as there might have been had it not been Christmas Eve, but still plenty. A man washing his Lada, two others under the hood of a broken down taxi, a young brother and sister going home by bike and roller skates, a babushka raking leaves. This was real life and this was magnificent. Finally, a Moldova I can get on board with.
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There is one story for me to tell of passing through these villages this day, and it was a moment of such heroism on my part (even if I do say so myself) that I believe it may take a prominent scene in the movie. This may be because it is, lets be honest, the first truly heroic thing that I have done so far on this trip, perhaps ever. Anyway, it went like this. I was cycling along and I heard some desperate whimpering and cries from a young puppy. I looked up a driveway towards some garages and saw a white dog carrying a small black puppy in its mouth. The puppy was crying out and trying to get free. Under a garage door other little black puppies were yapping at the unfolding scene of terror. 'White dog' I thought, 'that black puppy does not belong to you!' and I, with not a moments hesitation or a thought for my own safety, turned my bicycle directly up the drive toward the offending puppy-snatcher. I bore down on the fiendish bitch quite slowly (it was uphill) but with a mean scrunching of the eyebrows that showed I meant business. I believe the white dog may have opened its mouth in surprise at this point, because the puppy was released and ran back to the safety of the other puppies underneath the garage door. I had done it! I was the hero! It may have been just my imagination but it seemed like the other little black puppies were cheering and clapping and blowing me kisses. The great puppy rescue of Moldova had been completed. And in the movie, the scene will cut here. In real life, I turned to leave and the mean white dog (who we shall call Madonna), recovering its composure and no doubt a bit miffed not to have got itself a black baby, bared its teeth and started chasing me with actual genuine ferocity. Naturally I very bravely cycled away as fast as I could in a blind heroic panic.
Today's ride: 37 km (23 miles)
Total: 11,871 km (7,372 miles)
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