Day 1?
Jet lagged.
The flight legs were broken down into layovers in Chicago and Vienna.
One great benefit to flying with Javier is his membership to frequent flyer lounges that let him bring in a guest. Chicago had a small lounge with complimentary light snacks and alcohol. To help me sleep on the next leg I had two glasses of wine; Javier had two glasses of scotch. I’m not talking about two normal serving size portions, I’m talking two 8 oz. glasses full of scotch.
Javier got us upgraded to an exit row allowing us to fully stretch our legs. Despite the extra leg room the flight was rough; it’s always hard(er) to travel east it seems. We were both initially perplexed at the seeming shortfall of Austrian Airlines in seating design. With the extra legroom, the dining tray that unfolded from the seat in front of us was a good foot and a half away from us when meal-time came around. We had to lean extremely far forward to eat our food. It was only after a few passes from the flight crew, and I’m sure some laughs at our expense, that we were directed to the trays that folded out from our armrests. The preflight booze didn’t do either of us any good for sleeping.
Vienna should come across as a modern city. It was the forefront of music for centuries and the seat of the Hapsburg Empire. Surely that much accumulation of wealth and cultural would place it in the modern age. Sure, it was the eastern most tip of the western world during the Cold War…but it was in the western world nonetheless.
Their airport pales to standards I would expect from Uzbekistan. The plane stops twenty meters shy of a jet way and we debark to board buses that drives us eighty meters to an entry to the terminal. At least Javier’s lounge membership in Vienna is stylish and has a shower facility for us to refresh in, and we get a pretty rich meal before the next leg.
Next is a short puddle jumper to Chisinau. Javier jokes with the check-in lady, “Is there room in the cockpit for me?” The airplane is apparently some type that I’ve never heard of and that Javier has never flown before. “I’ve never been in the cockpit of a Soviet made Krashignsnweoerlnbk,” (not actual name but close enough) he tells me. “Really? You’re missing out,” I respond.
We land and go to meet Javier’s friend in the terminal that agreed to drive us into the city to our AirBnB. She never shows (we find out later she took an impromptu trip to Paris). Taxis are cheap enough, but our driver speaks no English and our efforts at Romanian amount to no more than speaking English with a Russian accent (“Pleez to be takings us to the city now pleez”). We do have the address written down and the driver is luckily literate and off we go. At one point the taxi driver points to a building and says something. Javier tells me, “He says that’s the university.” I’m not sure at what point during the cab ride he learned Romanian, but I’m mildly amused when the taxi driver pulls up to the same building to let us off. Not the university, but our apartment building.
With no sleep since nine time zones ago we head out to meet another one of Javier’s friend at a bar called 513. Walking through the city after dark is like walking through Chernobyl under urban renewal. There are no street lights, and the ratio of abandoned buildings to livable buildings to nice buildings is 9:3:1. We make it to Stefan cel Mare, the main avenue through town. The sidewalks are under construction, probably since 1991 by the look of things. Roma line the street, begging or selling flowers. There’s a Nike store, and the most bustling restaurant on the avenue is a McDonalds (seriously though, inside it’s the nicest McDonalds I’ve seen, even had a security guard). We walk past the national theater, where people are milling about apparently during intermission of whatever show is going on that night. Javier and I decide to see how far in we can get before someone asks to see tickets. We get all the way in, which is anticlimactic.
The architecture really clashes, some buildings like the theater are very classic Roman style. The state buildings like the Supreme Court on Stefan cel Mare have beautiful marble and columns. Interspersed are clearly Soviet era block buildings, and the occasional style that I can only call “Miami.” Some buildings are pink, and next door will be log cabin exterior. Every sign indicating a bar or restaurant corresponds to a view inside of a New York deli-style interior with large men smoking cigarettes. We pass bar 513 several times before asking directions.
Once we find it, it’s awesome. Borderline speakeasy atmosphere and alcohol is insanely cheap. We meet Javier’s friend but have a side bar conversation on whether his name is “Valentine” like the holiday or “Valentin” not like the holiday. A small crew of Moldovans gradually coalesce around us and we venture out for karaoke a few blocks away. On our way a portly late middle age women joins us with a young well dressed handsome man in tow and the entourage absorbs them. Later that night we learn the woman is the Polish Consular to Moldova. Javier probably knew to meet up with her as well. We pass a few clubs on the way that the Moldovans warn us is full of, “What is the word in America? Sluts, yes?”
Moldovans apparently love American music. They would randomly sing a few bars of a popular song when we were at 513, and I think the karaoke bar is so crowded because they want to learn more lyrics. There is the occasional Russian song as well, but for the most part it’s American tunes and the Russian customers themselves all sing Eminem songs. I bring the house down with “Tiny Dancer” and some Kenny Chesney; Javier does some Buffalo Springfield. A random guy comes up to Javier exclaiming, “It is you! You are actually here!” Apparently his news analysis reports have been closely followed by at least one Moldovan and he’s star struck.
Seven songs after agreeing as a group to “leave after one more song,” we head out to City Club. The music is so loud I quickly go deaf and the strobe lights induce minor epilepsy. The DJ stage is flanked by two girls no less than seven feet tall weighing fifty pounds each and wearing swim suits thinner than my dental floss. We leave after a few songs; the Polish Consular is apparently not impressed. Post club food and drinks at a sushi bar called Mojito is about as depressing as it gets; a restaurant full of people too proud to admit they are partied out but too stupid to know it’s time to go home.
We get back to our AirBnB as the sun is coming up. It’s 2pm in the afternoon when we are woken up by a phone call from Javier’s friend to remind us that at some point last night we set up a visit to a popular winery outside the city. Hungover and jet lagged, we agree that a winery is a great idea for the afternoon.