I was soon woken, but by border guards, not explosions. Mercifully, no bag check. I next woke just outside Chisinau, in time to wish my poputniks (fellow travellers) bon voyage in Deutschland. 15 years ago, Chisinau had struck me as a rather sad soviet leftover, with little new building and not much of a plan. They’d just ditched Cyrillics but few people spoke English.
The station saw little traffic. I was greeted by an avenue of blankets of second hand goods. Around the next corner, two shopping centres faced each other – one seemed to be devoted entirely to beauty shops. Like Ukraine, nouveau riche women were into glamour, big time.
Certainly not what I went to Ukraine for, but the nearest guy on Grindr was 100km away – probably in Romania. The Chisinau listings came up trumps with Queer Cafe, a community centre a few km out of town. I thought Friday might be a busy night so I hopped on a tram. They were hosting a book launch (in Romanian) but half a dozen staff/regulars were lounging outside so I joined them for a chat. Super friendly, as ever, they were a mix of Moldovans, Ukrainians and Russians, floating effortlessly between those languages plus impeccable English. Their previous city centre landlord had evicted them for a renovation (and, I suspect, a homophobic hosing down), so they moved to suburbia, to rent office/event space from Film Moldova. Not an act of solidarity from Artistic Types; just the cheapest option.
I offered encouraging reflections of how quickly things had changed in the UK, and a personal account of how Schools Out had pounced and launched LGBT History Month after the repeal of Section 28. They couldn’t work out Pride Month. I explained it was only because the Stonewall riot happened in June; very few pride festivals actually took place in June. It was a bit lame really. Or was this new kid on the block just threatening my legacy? I described myself as a retired queer activist. Did I think there was a retirement age for activism? Certainly not. My friend Sue (a co founder of LGBT History Month) was about to turn 80 and still an active troublemaker! I was with kindred spirits again; I totally forgot my initial disappointment that the cafe was unlicensed.
Was I planning to visit Transnistria, the infamous breakaway region – a toenail of land to the east of the Dniester river, that still felt the phantom body of the Soviet Union? They called it Pridnestrovie, not Transnistria. Someone’s friend had called it Transnistria and got locked up for extremism. It wasn’t a proper state so there were no human rights; they did what the fuck they liked. It turns out Trans- (across) emphasises the Chisinau perspective, whereas Pri- is a more neutral ‘along’. Plus the fact that the Nazis called it Transnistria when they built concentration camps there. Words matter. But they’re still dangerous nutters.
I didn’t have time to ask why Moldova didn’t just abandon it and bang on Romanian/NATO/EU doors. After a couple of hours, thunder roared in the distance. Someone confessed she had an obsessive fascination with thunderstorms. As a child, she and her dad would routinely dash to the communal terrace on top of a neighbouring 16 storey block of flats for their adrenalin fix. “Yeah, so my dad put his daughter in danger. How fucked up was that?!” A penny teetered on the brink: there I was, planning to take my son to Ukraine. How fucked up was that? But no, I’d been through the risk assessment so many times. The bottom line was: travel insurance was only £3.50 a day. It really was safe.
Despite a wallet full of Moldovan Lei, I booked a coach to Romania the following morning and resolved to post the cash to Queer Cafe.
Nigel Tart 
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