July 23, 2014 at 2:10 p.m.
Pavaraotti closes out a satisfying day (09/12/07)
Back in the Saddle
By By JACK RONALD-
Indulge me for a moment with a memory of Pavarotti, the Italian tenor who died last week.
It was early in 1998. We were living in Moldova for a semester while I taught, and I had just begun doing some consulting with regional newspapers struggling to be independent.
The first road trip was to the northern part of the country, a small city named Rezina.
The U.S. Embassy had provided a driver, Vitalie, and a Chevy Blazer to haul three of us - Peace Corps volunteer Mark Chernoff, embassy staffer Carolina Istrati, and myself - up to Rezina and back.
It was a long, bumpy drive, but we made it. Vitalie, who spoke maybe two dozen words of English, was a charming guy. Mark, now an attorney practicing in Phoenix, was full of a kind of crazy energy. And Carolina, also a Moldovan, was charming.
The day was tremendous, a real watershed as far as I was concerned. I met with publisher Tudor Iascenco and his staff for several hours, asking questions, offering advice, cooking up ideas, challenging them on their weak spots and applauding them for their spirit and resolve.
But it was exhausting, and it ended with a meal, hospitality, and toasts.
Vitalie, of course, drank nothing. Though he was something of a wine buff, he never had anything to drink when he was working. He took his driving seriously.
At the end, with another long, bumpy ride in front of us, we said our good-byes and got back in the Blazer.
Soon after we left Rezina, Vitalie asked Carolina a question in Romanian.
He was considering taking another route home and was asking advice. She shrugged, and he chose the alternate route. It would be faster, he said, but it would also be bumpier.
He was right.
Plunged into the darkness of the forest, we seemed to be the only vehicle on the road. And given the condition of the pavement, Vitalie may have been the only driver foolhardy enough to attempt the trip.
I didn't care.
There was a kind of emotional high after the day's work, an afterglow of sorts. Conversations replayed themselves in my head.
Carolina and Mark and I kept chattering about the Rezina paper and how we might be able to help it improve. Bumps and chuckholes interrupted us now and then, but we didn't care. There was too much adrenalin pumping through our veins.
Finally, we approached Chisinau. Vitalie stopped first near Carolina's apartment block to let her off, then dropped Mark at a cheap hotel where he had a room for the night.
From there, we drove through the oldest part of the city, heading up the hillside from the river on an avenue called Banelescu-Bodoni. As we drove, Vitalie popped a cassette into the Blazer's tape player.
"Opera," he said, smiling.
The streets were wet, and our headlights glistened on the asphalt as Pavarotti sang an aria.
Flower vendors near the park were closing up their stands. Multi-colored petals littered the sidewalk like confetti at Mardi Gras.
And still Pavarotti sang, his voice magnificent and the moment magical.
It was impossible not to grin as we headed home into the night.[[In-content Ad]]
It was early in 1998. We were living in Moldova for a semester while I taught, and I had just begun doing some consulting with regional newspapers struggling to be independent.
The first road trip was to the northern part of the country, a small city named Rezina.
The U.S. Embassy had provided a driver, Vitalie, and a Chevy Blazer to haul three of us - Peace Corps volunteer Mark Chernoff, embassy staffer Carolina Istrati, and myself - up to Rezina and back.
It was a long, bumpy drive, but we made it. Vitalie, who spoke maybe two dozen words of English, was a charming guy. Mark, now an attorney practicing in Phoenix, was full of a kind of crazy energy. And Carolina, also a Moldovan, was charming.
The day was tremendous, a real watershed as far as I was concerned. I met with publisher Tudor Iascenco and his staff for several hours, asking questions, offering advice, cooking up ideas, challenging them on their weak spots and applauding them for their spirit and resolve.
But it was exhausting, and it ended with a meal, hospitality, and toasts.
Vitalie, of course, drank nothing. Though he was something of a wine buff, he never had anything to drink when he was working. He took his driving seriously.
At the end, with another long, bumpy ride in front of us, we said our good-byes and got back in the Blazer.
Soon after we left Rezina, Vitalie asked Carolina a question in Romanian.
He was considering taking another route home and was asking advice. She shrugged, and he chose the alternate route. It would be faster, he said, but it would also be bumpier.
He was right.
Plunged into the darkness of the forest, we seemed to be the only vehicle on the road. And given the condition of the pavement, Vitalie may have been the only driver foolhardy enough to attempt the trip.
I didn't care.
There was a kind of emotional high after the day's work, an afterglow of sorts. Conversations replayed themselves in my head.
Carolina and Mark and I kept chattering about the Rezina paper and how we might be able to help it improve. Bumps and chuckholes interrupted us now and then, but we didn't care. There was too much adrenalin pumping through our veins.
Finally, we approached Chisinau. Vitalie stopped first near Carolina's apartment block to let her off, then dropped Mark at a cheap hotel where he had a room for the night.
From there, we drove through the oldest part of the city, heading up the hillside from the river on an avenue called Banelescu-Bodoni. As we drove, Vitalie popped a cassette into the Blazer's tape player.
"Opera," he said, smiling.
The streets were wet, and our headlights glistened on the asphalt as Pavarotti sang an aria.
Flower vendors near the park were closing up their stands. Multi-colored petals littered the sidewalk like confetti at Mardi Gras.
And still Pavarotti sang, his voice magnificent and the moment magical.
It was impossible not to grin as we headed home into the night.[[In-content Ad]]
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