The breakfast at the archeological site. Irina is second from the left and the Mayor is third from the right.

--Thursday, 22 April 99-- (Continued)
We drove a short distance into the countryside to see an excavation of an ancient archeological site just outside Cucuteni. The site dates from 4000 BC and is very nicely contained in a "shell" structure that preserves the site and allows visitors to see it up close without actually entering the site. The round building with a peaked roof is at the top of a small hill just outside of town. The approach is indirect and so gradual that you hardly realize that the ground is rising.

You enter the building and you see the trenches of an archeological dig. There is an elevated platform that you can mount, a walkway that surrounds the site and projects part way over it. From there you can see the layers of flat stones that make up the walls. Bones, pottery, and some carved items were found.

The mayor was our guide and he told us that the site was for a "Boss Man" who died. He told us that the Boss Man's favorite wife was killed to have the honor of joining him in death.

Afterwards we were treated to an outdoor breakfast (it was before 10 am) of Tswika, wine, radishes, scullions, bread, sheep cheese in a pastry and salt. There was a toast and some pleasant conversation. In the distance, one gentle ridge after the other laid its spine in parallel lines. The last visible one had a row of trees along it's edge, each so small that it seemed a toothpick with a frizzy sprig atop it. The plots followed the contours of the ground resulting in curved rectangles of planted land. Some of the plots were green, some tan, some black, all fading into layers of horizontal haze.

When we got to town for the meeting, we first met with the local mayor, a young, Irish looking man with his right hand in a plaster cast,. He recited the economic statistics of the town and asked about how to pursue economic development. I was asked to write something in the town's "Book of Honor" and Irina wrote in a translation and signed her name as translator.

After our meeting we had the obligatory ceremonial lunch that always seemed populated by faces we didn't see at the meeting. Irina sat between me and the mayor and at his request, I made several suggestions about finding firms to invest in his town. He seemed appreciative.

For the second time I was brought a bottle of dry wine that was delectable -- thanks to Mircea's personal intervention. The tswika was OK too. I was amused by the problem the waiter surmounted in order to fill my glass when he maneuvered his arm under the large bouquet of drooping tulips.

We were back to Iasi at a reasonable time that allowed Irina and I to go to the airport without rushing. We flew to Suceava and then to Bucharest's Baneasa Airport. We took a cab to the city and I was home by 6:45 PM. After three days on the road, it was nice to be in my apartment as gloomy as it was.


--Saturday, 24 April 99--
I forgot to mention that when I was in Iasi I was interviewed by the local media. As we were walking to the meeting room we were suddenly overtaken by three or four people with microphones. They first spoke to the County Council Secretary and then turned on me and asked questions that showed they had no idea why I was there nor why they were there. I answered vapidly, saying as little as possible. Then we went into the room and got on with the meeting. The next day there was an article in a national newspaper titled, "Before NATO, an American Representative in Pascani." So I was now associated with the bombing in the Balkans!

The weather continues to be mostly unfun. It was sunny yesterday but turned cloudy at night and rained -- and this has happened many times this trip. Today it didn't happen that way: it was still gray when I awoke and has stayed that way all day. And it's chilly too. A bummer but it makes it easier to work by removing any temptations.

I have reported many things to my readers but in the end the truth, the complete truth, is veiled from me. I don't speak here of physical things I write about, but about the minds of the people I travel through and beside. The vast majority are walled off from me by the language barrier and even those who speak American and speak to me censor their words since they want to control the impressions they create. I think of the guide in Puerto Vallarta who wouldn't translate a graffito that had the word "puto" (male whore) in it , of the oriental translator who talked but didn't even attempt to interpret a culture bound story an American was telling. Some of the reasons are shame (about poverty, perhaps) or fear of being the messenger of ill tidings.

[A reader wrote to me: ". . . I wanted to let you know that puto, in the context of Mexico, can have different meanings. When I heard the word repeated on a CD by Molotov, a Mexican band, I thought they were just being dirty. But after talking to a native from Mexico City, I learned that this is a slang term used to put down the Mexican government, not relating to a male whore or homosexuals at all. This was a relief to me, as I started to enjoy the CD more. Just wanted to let you know."]

And so I ask the same questions of different people and mull the answers, looking for themes that recur. I particularly seek out people who have educated themselves about their country and its history and I give their opinions more weight. And I read what I can about the country. This last is not as easy as it might seem. I have not found many books about Romania and some of those were war propaganda or other forms of intellectual rubbish. One reads and searches, one asks and listens. One seeks for someone with insight or at least information. You have to keep at it.

Sifting all the inputs, one tries to synthesize information into an accurate picture of the country. Not easy to do. Take Turkmenistan where I resided for five months. All my time was spent in Ashgabat, the capital. From my reading I know that the Turkmen have traditionally avoided cities. Indeed, the country is 55% rural. Thus in Ashgabat, the population does not represent the country as a whole. Even if I dared to say that I knew the city, in what sense could I claim to know the country as a whole?

In the end, how can we hope to understand anything of the interior lives of a people different -- perhaps completely different -- from ourselves?

Joe