I had begun thinking of this "escape" a few years back, when going to Chișinău in Moldova and then once when traveling by bus between Chernivcy and Kamyanets-Podilski, looking at the impressive Khotin Fortress. As always, time passed by and so I did, going to other places. Formalities also changed, as Romania was trying to break it up with its recent past, jump over its not always straight-forward history of the 1990s and please the West by the convenient and mercantile means of upsetting the East (doing the same with several other countries in the area). A bit of a long and tiring phrase to read, which meant that starting with 2004, the visa free travel between Romania and Ukraine was levied. Moldova would come next in a couple of years. However, as I had discovered when applying for other visas, the tougher and the more difficult getting permission to visit a certain country, the better it really was, as I had to get more information, to study more on the local culture, to read more literature and to interfere more with people from there, even if this was about embassy clerks. And human interference is the best there is to travel for, beyond any scenery, impressive church or fortress that gives one the creeps.

So, when generally talking to a couple of friends about "going to Moldova", they said they would be interested in joining me there. We generally set a time for this trip in June 2005 and then changed the topic. June came and they asked me what, when and how - linked questions, which also included the word "Moldova". Actually only Andreea used to ask these questions, as Cristi (the type of guy which has fallen in an endless and cureless love with Bucharest, one of the few enjoying the heterogenous atmosphere of this city both to the good and to the bad) would hardly leave the city, its terraces and noisy bars and relative measure of things, for any other corner of the world. Eventually Cristi accepted, more for Andreea's sake, but he mentioned: "OK, we can go, but not for long". Oh dear me, he would be far from reality both time and distance-wise...

I started marking places on a map, respectively drawing lines between the marks. Straight lines would have been nice, but this was not always possible because of either the means of transportation or of the frontiers, international crossing points, or visa matters. The points I wanted to join by lines (actually curves, circles, serpentines, what a pity the game did not allow jumps) were Soroca Fortress, Țipova Monastery, Orheiul Vechi Reserve, Dnistrovski Bilhorod Fortress, Khotin Fortress. And this way I was off Moldova proper, going into Ukraine as well, but while reading a book on medieval Moldavian fortresses, I really wanted to see those two fortresses in nowadays Ukraine. So, step one: Ukrainean visas were not as difficult as Andreea's telling Cristi that going from Bucharest to Chișinău in Moldova required a Ukrainean visa. The poor soul was only informed that we were going to Chișinău. For the time being. Meanwhile, during a break between drawing the above-mentioned lines and copying / pasting station names on the UZ railways timetable (which was to turn in a national sport in Odessa), I wrote my editor in Poland about the trip, just before - and without - looking for what "parnih" and "neparnih" meant. We were to find later on what a mistake this was, I mean not looking for translation of these two terms which appeared next to many trains running from Odessa to other parts of Ukraine and Moldova. The Polish friend answered and said he would like to come join us, together with his belongings (i.e. wife and car, the dog remained at home), but only for part of the trip: they would join us at Chernivcy on July 9 at the station, in the morning; neither of us were to make it to Chernivcy at the scheduled time, each for its own reason, but the unexpected (or rather the unaccounted for) is what makes journeys memorable and enjoyable in the end of the day.

Visas obtained and tickets for the train to Chișinău purchased, Cristi was informed that instead of Thursday evening, we were to start on Wednesday evening and we went to the station. We got on the train and, after Cristi grumbled on the fact that only two windows could be opened in the whole wagon, we started. Somewhere on the way to Ploiești, after making sure the train had started and the doors were locked so that Cristi could not have second thoughts, we unfolded the map and I showed him our intentions for a route: Bucharest to Chișinău by overnight train, Chișinău to Dnisktrovski Bilhorod by bus, Dnistrovski Bilhorod to Odessa by bus or train, Odessa to Chernivcy by overnight "neparnih" train, then we were supposed to meet Tomasz and Dominika and continue on to Khotin Fortress, cross into Moldova and go on with Soroca Fortress, Țipova and Orheiul Vechi monasteries, respectively get on the train to Bucharest in Chișinău, while the Poles were to go back home via Iași and the classical Suceava - Chernivcy - L'viv - Przemysl route. Without being complete (as the following couple of days were to show us), this itinerary made Cristi grumble a little, but eventually he was happy with it with one request: "I want hot water in the evening". Nothing wrong with this so far, as even the wagon water supply was hot as the wagon had been parked all day on the sun-exposed side tracks at București Nord terminal.

The typical long journey on the former USSR standard wagons began, with onions, fresh cheese and the old, almost always fat and nevertheless funny ladies employed as wagon attendants; this is almost reason enough to get on the train from Bucharest to Chișinău instead of a crowded bus where nothing happens and one gets to the destination faster; as if time is the eternal truth...

Awaken by immigration and customs officers, passports checked, stamps granted, pictures at the bogie changes shot, Cristi's admirative words at the beautiful, pristine Moldovan countryside marked, we reached Chișinău. The station had been restored since my previous trip. Beyond the station, one could hear the city's buzzing and moving around at a faster and noisier pace than the one I had been accustomed to a couple of years back. Construction sites, wide bazaars, plenty of people moving around, poor old ladies selling miscellaneous products on the sidewalk just off the station, young people in smart clothes, old Ladas, respectively new Audi and Mercedes cars, flashy glass-covered banks, a pleyade of kiosks selling everything from detergent to chocolate bars and underwear, tree-lined streets and wide parks that gave Chișinău the nick-name of "the Green City", fancy terraces for the richer and crowded snack bars for the poorer, serving coffee, country style soup, Chișinău beer and cheese or potato-stuffed donuts... this was the Chișinău I rediscovered. Without hosting masterpieces of Renaissance art or of Gothic architecture, the city has a captivating soul of its own which is much more rewarding than any artifact or monument in this world. The mixture of Romanian and Russian phrases one could hear coming from here and there, the heterogenous atmosphere, the busy street life, van drivers shouting for customers around the entrance to the bus station and eventually the cheering lady at a ticket office inquiring for our nationality, then asking us whether we possessed a visa for Ukraine and eventually selling us tickets for the bus to Dnistrovski Bilhorod, these were only a few snapshots before we left Chișinău...

We got on the bus just to soon start feeling the heat. A static air without the slightest trace of a draught, a 30 year old Irannational coach produced on a Mercedes license, where everything had been designed based on the idea that the air-conditioning would work and there was no need for any window that could be opened in any other way than by breaking it, air conditioning which would only start quasi-working when the bus reached at least 60-70 km. / h. (which it only did a couple of times during the whole journey), an environment where the slightest move one made would result in the loss of energy and further perspiration, where this atmosphere blended with the otherwise comforting glances towards endless sunflower-covered fields around the bumpy road we were following and with broken phrases coming from the other passengers' conversation. People talking about the harvest, about the tricky weather that created problems to their insurance-free life, about their relatives, about their being poor, about their being happy or sad; in a word, about the natural and human-related things we usually forget to talk about. Getting closer to the Ukrainean border and entering a mostly Russian - speaking area of Moldova, we stopped for a short break, just to enjoy some locally produced tomato juice and a breath of hot, but nevertheless moving air. Just before reaching the Moldovan border checkpoint, the driver pulled aside and told the passengers to use the toilet facilities there, as there would be no chance of doing so until exiting the Ukrainean border checkpoint. Several passengers went out and, when asking where this toilet was, the answer briefly came: "well, go in the forest, there, to the left of the road, and you will find what you are looking for". Such straight-forward and purely honest a statement made it for a brief refreshment before reaching the crossing. Then the driver handed us some entry forms for the Ukrainean side, forms which were printed in Ukrainean and English, but the driver insisted on our using the Cyrillic alphabet and Ukrainean only; he probably did not want any time and any other "out of normal" problems at the crossing, so we complied with the help of another passenger. When the Ukrainean authorities noticed there were foreigners on board, a polite English-speaking officer was called and after a couple of regular questions, we were allowed in the country. The countryside scenery was similar, from the household architecture and the road conditions, to the endless agricultural land and even to the drought.

Eventually we reached Bilhorod, getting off the bus at the small, ad-hoc bus station just off the railway station. Some words in Serbian used, we took a taxi to the fortress; the driver was a very funny man, telling us about the history of the town in the times when it was called Akerman and using from time to time some Romanian syntagms which made the 10 minute drive refreshing. After crossing the old quarter of the city, we reached the gate of the fortress, told the driver we would be back in 15-20 minutes (which were to turn in 40 minutes) and went to see the place. The "White Fortress" was quite large, with a long creneled wall facing the Dnister Liman. The whole settlement seemed similar in dimensions with Smederevo Fortress on the Danube. There were many tourists moving around, walking on the walls and enjoying the beautiful weather: Ukraineans, Russians and some Moldovans; one could feel we were going towards crowded Odessa. Meeting our charismatic driver, we went back to the station, not before he insisted on taking us down to the lake shore, to show us the fortress from there, telling us about fishing in the area, then making a detour to take us to an ATM to get some more hryvnas. After paying for the ride and thanking the man for his service, we found a van towards Odessa, reaching the city about an hour later, after a quite fast drive (it felt like going back to the crazy van drivers in Iran or Romania), casting glances at the Black Sea and at new villas being built along the coast.

After some walking, we asked in the street of a hotel we had the address of and happened to meet a lady which used to teach English, showing us the way. We eventually found Hotel Pasaj, a once beautiful building with impressive stairways and hallways, a fine lobby and otherwise nice rooms, but all in need of restoration. However the lack of restoration had resulted in very low prices and in the fact that they had available rooms during the peak season. However Cristi's only request was declined:

Cristi: "Is there hot water?"

Receptionist: "No, there is no hot water for the moment"

Cristi: "But will there be any hot water later on today?"

Receptionist: "We shall not have any hot water until October"

Cristi: "But is there any hotel in the area where you know we may have hot water?"

Receptionist: "All area here will lack hot water until October. Only in some 4*-5* privately owned hotels you will have hot water until then."

Tired enough to start looking for another hotel and see whether the lady at the reception was right or wrong, Cristi eventually accepted and we went upstairs. The once elegant decorations on the walls and the ceiling now lay under subsequent, thick layers of paint, the windows could hardly be opened or closed after being open, while the whole place was overwhelmed by a general atmosphere of decadence that made it an interesting and - in a strange way - welcome experience.

We had a 10 minutes rest and then we rushed through the city to eat something which had to comply with the following requirements: 1. it should have been alive once; 2. it should have died meanwhile, but not of natural death; 3. it should have been well cooked. We found a not so fancy terrace close to Richelieu (the statue that is) and his stairs, they had some ukrainska supa (which was to give me some troubles overnight) and some very good shashlik, as well as plenty of Chernigivske to fill in the gaps. We later on had a long walk, enjoying the pleasant breeze in the evening. Odessa hadn't changed much since my last visit. It was just as crowded, they had refurbished Hotel Odessa and the Opera House was now restored, more appealing, while there were more terraces and bars. However the general atmosphere was the same, vibrant, powerful, with a multiethnic touch in a way, probably because of the multitude of tourists which were there, coming from many neighbouring countries and not only. We went back to our Palais d'Antan: the first leg of the trip had been successfully accomplished, should success mean anything when traveling. We did not know that the following day would take us both away and back to the schedule...

The following morning we stopped to have a coffee on a terrace, with Cristi which wanted to rent a car an drive it at least to Chernivcy, respectively with Andreea and I which wanted to check whether a bus would be faster than the train to Chernivcy or at least to Kamyanets Podilski. We went to the bus station and found no bus to that area, except for one in the evening, so we went to the train station and, when asking for a ticket to Chernivcy at 15.30, the "neparnih" train I had printed the route of and I knew it did not cross Moldova (as we had a single entry visa for Ukraine and could not have entered again if we had exited it), the lady at the office started to explain something fastly enough so that I understood only the "harasho?" in the end. Eventually she smiled and printed three tickets to Chernivcy at the 12.59 train, a train I had not checked the route of and did not think when at the station at anything but the fact that we were going to get there earlier, so that Cristi and Andreea could see the city before the Poles came. Several bites of shawarma gulped at a joint where a quite funny Moldovan guy served, some cheese pies and plenty of beer bought, we got on the strangely quasi-empty train. Windows could not be opened again, hence a reason to open what there could be opened, and the thing that came in hand was the (cold) 2 liter bottle of Chernigivske beer.

A Bulgarian lady was walking along the train, offering the few passengers smoked fish, which we added to the a la carte menu we were working on. Soon enough, the wagon attendant came in to ask whether we had a visa for Moldova. Neither of us needed one, but this meant the train was crossing Moldova en route to Chernivcy. Therefore, time for language lessons: "neparnih" stood for "(this train runs on) odd days" (and we were on July 8, therefore "parnih" applied, i.e. the train via Moldova, which ran on even days) and this was probably the sentence before the "harasho?". So, yes, even though it is very unpleasant of them to do so, mistakes do occur and it is not the fault of the system that we do not speak its language, so we have to bear it and go on. Therefore, while the Ukrainean immigration officers were getting on the train, we got off the train at Rozdilna, the last station before the checkpoint at Kuchurgan. As Rozdilna was not on the highway towards Kiev or even on the main road to Chișinău via Tiraspol, but rather on a local road, there were no buses going at that time of the day to Odessa. The first train was due in a few hours, so we asked a taxi driver to take us back to Odessa. He took off his "taxi" sign on the roof (as he probably had a taxi license only for that town) and we started back, crossing some beautiful countryside areas before meeting the busy highway coming from Kiev.

A couple of hours after we left Odessa, we were back at the same Odessa Golovna railway station. We went to an internet cafe near the station, back to the UZ online schedule, back to copying and pasting station names, eventually finding an evening train to Khmelnitski, where we would change for another train coming from Kiev and eventually we would get at around 8 AM in Kamyamets Podilski from where I knew there were vans and buses to Chernivcy via Khotin every hour or even more often. All trains were daily, there was no parnih or neparnih tag on them, so, everything written down, we went back to the station, to another lady as the shift had meanwhile changed. She issued the tickets and this allowed us to have a few more hours in Odessa, so we went for a long stroll, enjoying the city. We even had the time to give us the comfort of allowing Cristi check with the car rental he had wanted to do in the first place and was nowadays - rightfully - complaining about, in the "I have told you to rent a car, haven't I?" style, with a wicked smile glued on his face. However the Hertz office in Odessa Hotel was closed and we had to remain with the open, pleasant platskartni wagon (i.e. without static air) on the train and with our walk in Odessa until the early evening.

After traveling through Russia, Moldova and Ukraine on all types of trains there are, I can say I prefer the platskartni if overnight: it gives one the experience of traveling beyond the privacy that sometimes cuts off interaction with people, it provides glimpses of lifestyles and it therefore makes the journey turn in an experience, i.e. more than a simple means of getting from A to B. So we got on the train to Khmelnitski, unpacked the cheese pie and the smoked fish bought on the other train and, after looking back at the day for a while, we went to sleep, to wake up at 4 AM as we were getting near Khmelnitski, a large station where many people were changing trains. There were many sleeping on benches in the waiting hall, many others were waiting on the platform. Large pieces of luggage, many old and mid-aged people which seemed to sit or stand there since the beginning of the world and until the end of this world. Despite its rather repugnant architecture typical for large public buildings in Eastern Europe and the former USSR of the 1970-1980s, that station had a charm of its own, even though we only crossed it for a short while. Our train eventually arrived at around 5A.M. and, together with many other passengers, we got on one of its wagons: a platskartni which was now in daytime use, i.e. people were supposed to sit down and upper beds were supposed to be folded.

Passengers which were coming from Kiev were slowly waking up. Most of them were peasants or poor people, as Kamyanets and its environs do not make a rich area of Ukraine. Families would gather around the tables between their former beds, unpacking their breakfast consisting of vegetables, cheese and ham. People would wake up and go to the wagon bathroom to wash their faces. The train was slow, as the railway was not electrified and it was probably very old as well, with a constant speed restriction at about 30-40 km. / h. or less. Green meadows would alternate with endless corn or wheat - covered fields, and the railway crossed a few picturesque villages with beautiful, small railway stations every now and then. We reached Kamyanets in a hot and quiet train, the passengers of which rushed to the doors as if they were going to the gates of heavens: the fresh morning air, a few vans going to the centre and their homes were all calling them after a long overnight journey from the capital.

As for ourselves, there was the fresh air welcoming our arrival in Kamyanets, as well as an SMS from Tomasz: "we tried 3 crossings on the Polish-Ukrainean border, there were 2-3 km. long lines of cars at all of them, so we gave up and crossed into Slovakia; we have just entered Ukraine from Slovakia and are going to be late". We were not in Chernivcy either also due to borders (even though not the same borders), and Kamyanets had plenty of places to visit, therefore we went straight to the old centre. Restoration of the area had gone on since my trip in 2003 and there seemed to be lightly more tourists (mostly Poles), but even the core of the old area still preserved an atmosphere of normality and routine life where the tourism industry does not yet rule the place (thankfully). We went to the ratusha and had breakfast consisting of dry fish, some snacks and an alternation of L'vivs'ke beer and coffee. There was going to be a hot, sunny day. We went to visit the fortress; two of the halls hosted an interesting exhibition of Communist nostalgia artifacts and items, from old (and newer replicas) USSR flags, to pictures of the glorious Soviet soldier, different medals and old documents granting awards for heroism in the name of the prosperous red future, and all the way to an old Russian tank. It felt strange to find that exhibition there in 2005, however I have to admit that a fortress would be the only place for a show of force which ruled a certain part of the world for over 50 years; for nothing has changed since the Middle Ages as far as the power game is concerned, not only in the former USSR, but rather anywhere else on this quite conservative planet, disregarding of the flags we wrap us in.

We moved away from the recent history, going to the bus station and got on a van to Khotin, enjoying the walk from the main road to the fortress area entrance, as we crossed the village with many wild cherry trees, tiny houses bearing traditional decorations similar to those in the Republic of Moldova and in Northern Moldavia in Romania. We then entered the fortress grounds and found it to be the best preserved of all fortresses of the Moldavian Kingdom, even though probably the fortress in Neamț has the most impressive location. We interestingly entered through Bender Gate and to the left of us there was Iasi Gate. Located on the very shore of the Dnister, the fortress overlooked the hilly neighbourhood through its straight walls made of white stones. Window arches reminded one of similarities with Putna Monastery in Southern Bukovina, while the fortress well was quite similar to one of the two in Soroca fortress we were to visit the following day. As another SMS from Tomasz said they were somewhere between Ivano Frankivsk and Chernivcy, we had the time to sit down on a terrace by the entrance to the fortress, and try some "monastirske pivo", still looking for the monastery when Tomasz and Dominika arrived: "what an awful border crossing".

After they also visited the fortress and after we enjoyed some Ukrainean and Polish food, we started towards Moldova. When, at a crossing, we saw that we had to choose between border checkpoints on the way to Moldova, we chose the one the name of which we liked more, i.e. Mămăliga (Ro. corn mush, a sort of polenta). The way out of Ukraine was fast, but the way in Moldova was not so fast, as they were working on the border checkpoint and the construction site had resulted in the fact that vehicles could use only a single road lane for both in and out of Moldova. There were three or four fees to be paid, i.e. the road toll, the disinfection toll, the sanitation-veterinary toll and one more; all in all they amounted to less than USD 15. Apart from those, there was a small rectangular piece of paper on which one had to collect several different stamps of various (but seemingly precise) colours and shapes. Furthermore, when we had everything in order and wanted to go on, a truck coming out of Moldova blocked the single lane, because the customs officers told the driver there was something wrong with the load and he did not want to go back, so he thought that the best way to persuade them to let him go on was to block the way. After a 15 minute conversation starting and ending with "come on, brother, look, there are children in that car waiting to go home" (and pointing at us), the Moldovan customs officers compelled the driver to back off and let us go. I once more realized that I prefer public transportation vs. private cars when traveling and shall always stick to my belief; it allows one to enjoy the places / people more and let others more in the know handle formalities.

Once on Moldovan land, Tomasz probably wanted to test the car endurance on those roads and kept on ignoring any speed lower than 100 km. / h., hence missing the right road a few times, as signposts were rare and almost always not fluorescent, therefore invisible at night from more than 10 meters. We picked an old man en route, and the only words he knew were "mama bolnavă" (En. "ill mother"); he was from Ukraine and going to a village on our way. Eventually, at around midnight we reached Bălți, where Tomasz had to pay a fee as he went (rather flew) over the red light in a crossing; actually in the first place the police officers told him that failing to stop at the red light is punished with prison detention, and eventually they accepted USD 5. After going around the centre a few times, we found the only hotel, and we started the long list of places where the authors of Lonely Planet Romania & Moldova had not been but had joyfully described from dreams and hangovers: the hotel name had long changed. Later on we were to find out that monasteries were located in other villages than those listed in Lonely Planet, while one of the cave monasteries had been uninhabited since the coming of the Red Army, while the guidebook talked of hermits (therefore the Lonely Planet Romania and Moldova was probably written in the 1930s). Tired enough, we went to bed, without even noticing the loud music coming from the terrace across the street.

The following day welcomed us with a heavy rain. Only when it ceased, we realized we were in the city centre, and the hotel was facing the main square. After breakfast which consisted of some cakes and quite good yoghurt, we started towards Soroca. The fortress there was smaller than both Bilhorod and Khotin, while its location on a flat shore of the Dnister did not make it impressive. However the scenery from the river shore towards the other side, in Ukraine, was idyllic, with a few fishermen trying their luck on the Moldovan shore, a small village dotted with trees and green hills to the back on the Ukrainean shore. One could hardly say this was a border between countries.

We entered the fortress, just to find that the fortress caretaker had an archaeology professor from Chișinău as guest and they held a very interesting and nevertheless funny speech on the fortress and the history of the area in front of us.

What made it more interesting was the degree to which these people admitted their being poor, but also - at the same extent - the degree to which they could laugh at their fate and live well disregarding of what life would bring. We left Soroca and went Southwards, en route to Țipova Monastery. On the way to the monastery there, we crossed a few small picturesque villages hosting interesting "troița"s, where Death was omnipresent an element, in an almost Shakespearian way. We then went to visit Țipova Monastery and the relic caves in the river cliffs. The site was impressive, also given its dimensions, but mainly through its being desolate and abandoned: there were traces that people probably used to go there on picnics, building campfires, former frescoes painted on the walls of monks' cells had been destroyed, while the whole place reminded one of reports on the discovery of some long forgotten temple in the middle of the rainforest. As a trace of black humour, the quietness of the place was history when a tourist-filled boat named "Moskva" arrived.

We eventually went on towards Chișinău, but not before stopping at Orheiul Vechi. On the way to the site, we crossed a few villages of vividly painted houses, which were refreshing to the eye in a particular way. Without hosting any man-made fortress, the site at Orheiul Vechi was impressive through its nature-granted design. A limestone ridge going on for a couple of kilometers above the river hosted a few monastic settlements on one side, as well as a village on the other side. Without being touched by any tourist endowment that would spoil the scenery in the immediate vicinity, the whole site was simply superb, especially with an old monk in the monastery church (also carved in the cliff), giving advice to some of the young visitors upon the fact that the truth lies in people's sticking together and communicating directly, respectively not in our being torn apart by technology and the city life.

Leaving the site, we went to Chișinău to have dinner before starting on the way home. We went to a traditional restaurant mentioned in the guidebook, La Taifas, which was nice, but, as always with places listed here and there, it was rather tacky and too comme il faut to have anything from real life as far as the experience was concerned. Polenta was served in round, characterless portions probably coming from cups (no connection with genuine polenta, cooked in large metal pots), the recommended wine was about average (coming with a free 50 g. cork bonus inside), while the traditional show, even though nice, was meant to impress and not to please. The general ambiance was nice however, as nice as it can be in a place where there are only foreigners and tourists, as local people certainly know better.

The time to leave had come. The train to Bucharest had long gone, but the road was still there, so we went with Tomasz and Dominika all the way to Iași, taking times at singing traditional Polish and Romanian songs, going through heavy rainfalls twice, going around Ungheni three times because all signposts stopped existing in the most important place, walking back and forth with the papers acquired when entering at Criva, to be allowed out of the country at Sculeni Moldova, then eventually crossing River Prut to Sculeni Romania, getting to Iasi at about 2 AM, doing a 10 minutes city tour and enjoying the cool weather after the rain. We walked to the bus station, waved good-bye the fully-booked bus to Bucharest, walked to another bus station, found nothing and eventually returned to the railway station, slept on benches like those eternal travelers in Khmelnitski, woke up and fell asleep again, got tickets for the intercity to Bucharest, took times at admiring the countryside across Moldavia and its similitudes to the one in Moldova and Ukraine, respectively taking naps on those stiff seats, still preferring a platskartni in Ukraine and Moldova, respectively an accelerat train in Romania to any intercity...