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June 14, 2005. How to begin a saga of connections? Even after one day of Cultures in Harmony's Project I, I find it hard to remember who said what when, as anecdote after anecdote crowds my memory. The first thing I recall is a blue UNICEF folder, waved frantically in the air by Nicoleta Bodrug. She ran around the sea of people waiting for international arrivals at the Chisinau airport so we could meet. In the car on the way to UNICEF, her relentless energy and sharp intelligence impressed me as she outlined my upcoming schedule. I'll be busy, but not like her: when she showed me her schedule, I gasped. I'd never seen a daily to-do list with thirty-plus entries before. She gave me a tour of the elegant and modern UNICEF office, introducing me to a lot of people, all of whom are young, smart, idealistic, friendly, and good-looking. Her boyfriend Oleg drove me to the apartment of Viorica Berdaga (UNICEF's Assistant Project Officer, currently out of town), who will host me during my stay in Moldova.

Chisinau differs from many European capitals in its paucity of ancient landmarks: devastating World War II bombing took care of them. The style of architecture and infrastructure that remains could be termed post-Soviet decrepit. During their half-century in Moldova, the Soviets built imposing, utilitarian buildings which are now in decay. Even the sidewalk in front of the government building, where a huge Lenin statue once stood, crumbles dangerously. Oleg and I soon arrived at a dilapidated apartment building. Like excess make-up peeling off the face of a woman too old to wear it, the paint was falling off the aged building, both outside and in. Our elevator, barely big enough for one person, groaned mightily to lift us up to the eighth floor. We took the stairs one more flight and rang the buzzer. What awaited me?

The building belied the beauty of the Berdaga apartment. Spotless wood floors and shiny, elegant furniture easily reflected light, and the standard of cleanliness humbled me. Oleg introduced me to Sandu, Viorica's 13-year-old son, who had volunteered to serve as my unofficial guide to Chisinau (Nicoleta said he'd called her three times today, demanding "Where is my William?"). He's a dark-haired, pensive lad, initially taciturn until repeated assurances that his English is excellent got him to open up. He stands on the cusp of puberty, his voice careening unexpectedly from the baritone to soprano sections of the choir.

His bunica (grandmother) cooked dinner for us: a soup of potatoes, onions, and parsley; very dry chicken breast; a course grain topped with a cold brown onion sauce; tomatoes, pickles, cherries, and strong tea. After a post-dinner chess game, we took a walk in a local park filled with Communist and World War II statues. I was pleasantly shocked by the style of female Moldovan dress. The attitude of the young women here seems to be: if you have to wear clothes at all, buy them so tight it won't look like you're wearing them, or so loud they could serve as a reference point for airplanes during emergency night-time landings. I approve.

During our walk, Sandu and I developed an easygoing camaraderie. In spite of the barriers of culture and age, he began to feel like a long-lost younger cousin. "I always walk this route when I feel a little sad," he told me. "Does it help?" I asked. "I don't know," he said truthfully. That evening, he came into my room three times to make sure I didn't need anything.

June 15. I was awakened by a three-hour symphony of dogs barking and roosters crowing at 4:30 a.m. After frying eggs for me, Sandu accompanied me to UNICEF: when I expressed surprise at his willingness to do so, he grinned and said, "I have to take care of you." He also insisted on serving as my porter, refusing to allow me to carry my own bag.

At UNICEF Nicoleta introduced me to Virgiliu, my official translator, and then the four of us proceeded to the Organ Hall. The ornate continental building, guarded by large stone lions, contains a concert hall that strikes the right note between austerity and beauty: elegant high-backed chairs rest on a marble floor, and an enormous crystal chandelier hangs gracefully from the ceiling. Adjourning to the director's office, Nicoleta and I outlined plans for the big event on June 24. I also met Ilian Girnet, the violinist with whom I'll collaborate (fortunately, he speaks a small amount of English). I'd thought that he'd be younger than me, but it turns out he's a stocky, confident, amiable 21-year-old who has played more concertos with more orchestras than I have.

Sandu and I lunched at Delice D'Ange, a French patisserie where I enjoyed a delectable Chicken Roulade and Cherry Tart. I treated him, but even with tip it came to 70 lei (less than $6). We enjoyed a leisurely walk through Stefan cel Mare Park, comparable in its importance in Chisinau to Manhattan's Central Park. In honor of my monarchist brother Theodore, Sandu took my picture with the statue of Stefan cel Mare, Moldova's legendary fifteenth-century king who fought off the Ottomans.

After a respite back at the Berdaga apartment, we returned to UNICEF via the microbus, which resembles nothing so much as the Knight Bus, the mode of transport in the Harry Potter books that moves by leaps and bounds, throwing its passengers around like pinballs as lampposts struggle to leap out of its way. Here's how it works: stand on a corner and stick out your right arm at a low angle, and eventually a large white van will come hurtling towards you. After it screeches to the halt, enter quickly before it takes off with a bang which, if you're lucky, will suddenly place you on intimate terms with the ravishing beauty who had been separated from you by half a van a millisecond ago. As you fumble towards one of the eleven seats or grip a ceiling handle, extract two lei from your wallet, and your fellow passengers will pass it up to the driver, who cheerfully looks away from the road to place the money where it belongs. How do you know where your microbus is going? The little route numbers in the windows only help if you have all the routes memorized. If your destination is not on a route you have memorized, flag down a microbus, get on, and ask in Romanian, "Are you going to [desti nation]?" If the answer is "nu," well, it's cheaper than a scary amusement park ride. The one rule for passengers? "Keep quiet, so the driver will not become deranged," Sandu warned me. I kept quiet. The microbus drivers are already deranged enough.

Speaking of sanity, it amazes me how calm everyone at UNICEF is, in spite of how busy they are. They don't have set hours, coming to work early in the morning and staying till late at night, often on weekends. Nicoleta in particular is remarkably stress-free, given that all the responsibility for coordinating the big event on June 24 and managing my schedule falls on her shoulders. She remains quite capable of carrying on a friendly conversation. Most people in her position would blither, or glare, but Nicoleta and her colleagues have realized that being relaxed and affable makes those action-packed 14-hour workdays more fun than blithering and glaring.

Nicoleta, Virgiliu, Sandu and I went to the Republican Lyceum of Music "Ciprian Porumbescu" to arrange some activities for me. It's a bit surreal being the subject of a meeting in Romanian. Even with Virgiliu's translation, I wasn't sure what they were planning for me. For all I know, I'm supposed to do a juggling act involving two violas and an acetylene torch.

After my evening practice, Sandu's bunelu (grandfather) and I played chess. He thoroughly but politely annihilated me, creating board situations where every move I made contributed to my inevitable doom. Sandu's six-year-old sister Laura came home from the countryside tonight, where she had been visiting her other grandparents. She's a beautiful little slip of a thing with big brown eyes that stare right into your soul. There's a glint of mischief there, which results in her endearing philosophy of motion: why walk when you can hop, hopscotch, or skip?

June 16. Sandu's bunica took Sandu, Laura, and me to the Deptartment of Information Technology to register my presence here as required by law. I got my first taste of Soviet bureaucracy. In America, we wait silently and stressfully in long lines in cold, impersonal rooms which direct your attention to the front of the room. Here, people mill around, chatting amiably in a stifling, unairconditioned maze of hallways from which wooden doors open into small rooms. You don't see actual lines, but everyone knows his or her place in the order, and no one minds the wait. I passed the time by helping Laura with her English. She learns very quickly: is there anything so cute as a little kid carefully and eagerly learning a new language?

Hanging around UNICEF, I was impressed to notice that Sandu is treated almost like a colleague. He knows the passcodes, takes the steps two at a time, and converses on an equal footing with everyone we meet. They seem very grateful to him, and why shouldn't they be? I would be lost, physically and emotionally, if I were in Chisinau without him.

We walked to the Organ Hall for my first rehearsal with Ilian Girnet. He is very much the violinist—interested in kinds of strings, violins, technique, and violinist-composers like Wieniawski and Ysaye. But he's also a musician—his playing shimmers with a softly compelling poetry when the music calls for it. I told him to audition at Juilliard for his post-graduate degree, and his face lit up as he thanked me for my confidence in him. We will perform three of Bela Bartok's Duos on June 24.

In the afternoon, Sandu and I took the microbus back to the Porumbescu Lyceum. Since Virgiliu couldn't make it, the Berlizzo translation agency had sent Oxana, a tall girl a couple years older than I. While waiting for my meeting with the headmistress, we had a fascinating conversation about Moldovan politics, based on my limited knowledge of the conflict in Transnistria (where rebels fight for an independent, Russian-speaking country) and the post-Soviet Communist ascendancy. In 2001, Moldova elected Vladimir Voronin president, making Moldova the first former Soviet republic to elect a Communist.

During our meeting, we established that since I am a student, which the headmistress had not realized, the school will rescind their earlier invitation for me to serve on the jury of the international competition they will host next week. However, they will still allow me to present the competition's opening recital: "Perhaps you will have something to show," the headmistress said charitably. I gathered that they were still extending this honor because I study at Juilliard and used to study with Ilya Kaler, a big name in the Soviet music world.

June 17. After Laura and I began work on a puzzle involving all the major Disney characters, Sandu, Laura, and I went to UNICEF for my daily briefing with Nicoleta. We discussed a lot of things in English while she was talking with her colleagues and answering the phone in Romanian, cuddling Laura to her (calling her puisor, or little chicken), and complimenting me on the CD I gave her. You know those guys who spin eight or nine plates on three sticks? Nicoleta keeps eight or nine thousand plates spinning in all the rooms of a skyscraper, racing from room to room to keep them spinning, while never losing her calm or her sense of humor.

Sandu and I arrived at the Organ Hall to pay the director 10,000 lei (about $830) for the concert hall rental on June 24, then I had my second rehearsal with Ilian. The syncopations in the last Bartok duo proved very difficult for him…in spite of his superlative technical capacity, rhythmic intricacies challenge him. Since we're the same age, I had to guide him to the correct rhythm very carefully. We tried switching parts, clapping, singing, and stomping (to my embarrassment, Sandu recorded this on his cellphone and spent the next few days gleefully playing the recording to the amusement of anyone who would listen). The longer it takes to solve a musical problem, the more involved and excited I get, so I was getting quite sweaty. Finally, we did it a couple times with the right rhythm, and we both burst into grins. Nothing quite like the feeling of successfully tackling a thorny problem, especially when there's a huge language barrier involved.

June 18. The UNICEF van picked me up at 8:15 before picking up Nicoleta and Oleg for our trip to the village of Farladani. The trip's purpose: facilitate the connection between Katsutoshi Maeda, a Japanese businessman living in London, and the kindergarten of Farladani.

As we left Chisinau, I kept waiting for us to get on the expressway until I realized...there was no expressway. Just a three-lane road, almost empty except for the occasional car, pedestrian, or horse and buggy. We stopped at a hill overlooking the village to rest and take pictures. I met Mr. Maeda, a reserved and distinguished older gentleman in a classy gray suit; Linda Critchley, an attractive, sophisticated woman who quit her job at Marks and Spencer to work as Mr. Maeda's personal assistant; and Ala, their pretty young Moldovan translator.

We parked in front of the school and were met by one of the teachers. The school seemed quite deserted. Nicoleta explained that the kids had been invited back from their summer recess for Mr. Maeda's tour, but where were they? The teacher led us down a set of stone steps. At one time, metal had lined the edge of each step; now, the steps have crumbled to the point that these thin metal rods are now dangerous tripping hazards. But of course, nothing has been done.

We rounded the back of the building to find the smiling schoolchildren lined up to welcome us. A little boy and girl in traditional Moldovan costume held a circular loaf of elaborately braided bread, topped by a small glass filled with salt. Mr. Maeda snapped off a piece of bread as cameras flashed, and then we all received bread, salt, and bouquets of wildflowers. Our tour began with the French and math rooms. The small speech pathology room serves fifteen of the school's fifty-seven children who have a speech impediment. The whole school has three teachers, none of whom is a speech pathologist. Their method? Use make-up mirrors to show the children their lips as they speak. A speech pathologist would be a godsend to the Farladani school. But of course, nothing has been done.

The nurse's office contained a broken old scale that told you everything weighs a hundred kilograms. The tragically barren medicine cabinet contained a few rusty containers from the Soviet era and—could it be?—yes, an old container of potato chips. Nicoleta said it probably contained something else—my guess would be a folk medicine of some kind. A few dollars would buy the Farladani school some modern medicine—the kind that comes in bottles, not old potato chip containers. But of course, nothing has been done.

We inspected the washroom, where children use colorful buckets filled with wellwater to wash their hands. Nicoleta said that hepatitis spreads easily this way—during school, the local hospital is overwhelmed. Pure running water, flowing out of stainless steel faucets, would put a permanent stop to this. Handwashing would accomplish its intended purpose—keeping kids healthy, not making them sick. But of course, nothing has been done.

The kitchen is a disaster. Everything is broken except for one hot plate. A stove would be wonderful—who knows how many microorganisms a good stove could kill? But of course, nothing has been done.

As we left the building, Oleg joked with me, "I hope you stop shaking by the time you play." I must have been visibly shaking with rage. Why has nothing been done? For God's sake, how much would it cost to fill a medicine cabinet with something other than an old potato chip container? The price of a pair of American movie tickets? If four Americans gave up their cellphones for a year, wouldn't that be more than enough to buy a stove for the Farladani school? It was a small consolation to see a U.S.D.A. poster in the kitchen indicating that the U.S. provides some funds for the school lunch. Next year when I pay my taxes for the first time, I will pay them gladly, having seen that poster. But it is not enough.

However, the worst was yet to come. "See those?" Oleg said. He pointed to a pair of buildings out in the field. "Those are the toilets." We stopped at the first one. So much paint had chipped off, it was barely white anymore. The air around the small concrete hole inside hung thick with flies. "That's the teachers' toilet," Oleg smiled. My heart sank. The students used something worse? Sure enough, the student toilet, consisting of five holes in the concrete, was worse, but what Linda and I found truly horrifying were the large holes which yawned unexpectedly in the concrete outside the toilet. Partially obscured by tufts of grass, each one was more than big enough for a child to fall into. We peered into the holes, whose faraway bottoms were choked with shit and trash. "Have you lost any children?" Linda asked anxiously. After Ala translated, a teacher laughed nervously: "Not yet."

Children's concert in Farladani

It was now time for my children's concert. The children assembled, restless and giggling, in the school's largest room. Mr. Maeda and Linda spoke briefly, presenting the kids with a box filled with Japanese cranes. I began my concert with a lively Romanian folk dance. "Buna ziua," I shouted when I finished. "Buna ziua," they responded dutifully. "I didn't hear you," I said, waiting for Nicoleta to translate. "Buna ziua," they screamed. I relaxed. These kids weren't so different from all the American kids I've played for.

Next, I did the "Bravo! Bravissimo!" routine that I learned from my old friend Alicia Doudna. You teach the kids to shout "Bravo!" when they like something and "Bravissimo!" when they like something so much, they can't control themselves. I was initially thrown because I hadn't known that "bravo" is also a Romanian word, but from their lusty yells I could tell these kids enjoyed the routine as much as their American counterparts.

I had the kids raise their hand every time I played the three-note motive in the first movement of Ysaye's Obsession Sonata. This gets them to listen carefully, plus they enjoy seeing me help them out by raising my right leg whenever they're supposed to raise their hand. Next, I asked them to tell me what the second movement of the Barkauskas Partita is about. Worried that they wouldn't understand the assignment, I offered a few suggestions, such as a thunderstorm, two rabbits playing, or a silly chicken on vacation. After I played the piece, I received only combinations of those answers. I ignored one of Alicia Doudna's cardinal rules: never force-feed kids anything. Sorry, Alicia, you were right.

I told them that I'm getting kind of tired and would need some help with the next piece. I asked for a volunteer and picked a small chap, teaching him to pluck the E and A strings. Then, I played "Pop Goes the Weasel," prodding him to pluck those strings at the right moment. Afterwards, I motioned for his fellow students to clap for him, and to my delight, they started chanting "Bravissimo!" in perfect rhythm. I closed my program with another Romanian folk dance. I felt thrilled and humbled when I finished and the students once again chanted "Bravissimo!" as three of them gave me bouquets of wildflowers. Later, a teacher asked me when I'll be coming back!

The children followed my performance with one of their own, singing and dancing in traditional Moldovan costume as a teacher accompanied them on the accordion. It amazed me how cheerful they are. These children risk debilitating disease and death every day by going to the toilet, and they were smiling.

My post-concert high died a bit as I sat in on the meeting where Linda asked the school officials to assess their exact needs. They need so much, I thought glumly, and violin recitals are last on that list. So many of their needs are easy to meet, but of course, nothing has been done.

And yet, as I listened to Linda grill the officials on the exact price of a well, a toilet, and sinks, my sadness evaporated as I realized: something is being done. Mr. Maeda will buy these kids their toilets. The world is not such an indifferent place after all.

Feeling guilty that I couldn't offer the school something as concrete as a toilet, I rummaged in my bag and found a large sheaf of manuscript paper. With Nicoleta translating, I asked a teacher if they could use it in their music class. Yes, she replied, they could.

Nicoleta, Oleg, Tudor (the UNICEF driver) and I stayed to have lunch with the teachers and staff, which afforded me my first opportunity to sample homemade Moldovan wine. Dr. Everold Hosein, my friend in Indianapolis who helped me plan this trip, told me that Moldova makes excellent wine. That's not true—it is far, far better than "excellent." The fabled nectar quaffed by the Olympian gods could not have induced greater euphoria.

"This is amazing," I said, over and over again, roughly five times per person at the table. "This is…amazing!"
"You know," I said to Nicoleta after my fifth glass, "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but most Americans don't even know Moldova exists."
She nodded. "Our government only began to promote our country five years ago."
"But this wine is so amazing," I blurted out. "Don't people come for the wine?"
"Yes, and we do export to Russia, but it is not well known in the U.S."
"I don't know why. It's…it's…amazing! Amazing! Amazing!"
"It's the best in the world," she proudly agreed.

What's remarkable about the wine is that none of the unpleasant aspects of alcohol consumption accompany it. No head or stomach problems, none. You experience a sublime sensation somewhere between giddiness and bliss, which then subsides to more mellow feelings, such as having led a life well-lived, or looking out over a valley at the last rays of the setting sun.

If you are a oenophile, run, don't walk to the nearest computer to book your flight to Moldova. The experience of one glass of homemade Moldovan wine is worth the plane ticket. You could use one of the nice Chisinau hotels as a base to make wine tours of the villages—Oleg's father conducts such tours. As a plus, Moldova is one of the few countries where tourism doubles as humanitarianism: the economy desperately needs your tourism dollars. If you go, the only problem is that you may never be able to drink another glass of wine that doesn't come from Moldova. I've drunk wine at a Michelin-recommended restaurant in France and at swanky bars in New York, and I can assure you that the best non-Moldovan wine is pigswill compared to the wine here.

We stopped at Oleg's parents' home before returning to Chisinau—he grew up in Farladani. As our feet gently sank into the rich loam, we picked and ate cherries right off the tree. Oleg introduced me to the pigs, chickens, and roosters in their stinky stone houses, and I cheerfully answered each of them in their respective language.

That evening in Chisinau, Mr. Maeda generously treated Linda, Ala, Nicoleta, the director of Step-by-Step (a teacher training program), and me to dinner at Nori, a Japanese establishment considered the best restaurant in Moldova. I'm not surprised: it was the best Japanese food I've had, and with its mixture of modern chic and traditional dŽcor, its outstanding cuisine, and high prices, it would be right at home in New York. I could hardly believe I was in the same country I was in this morning.

We all enjoyed the opportunity to unwind after this morning's sobering experience. In fact, the persistent topic of the evening, made fascinating by the collective travel experiences of everyone at the table, was "Toilets I Have Seen." I hope that one day the children of Farladani will be able to have a similar conversation.

June 19. I enjoyed meeting my hostess, Dr. Viorica Berdaga, a quiet but very articulate and intelligent woman. She had been away in New York for a UNICEF conference.