I arrived in Moldova during a tense time—the fall of 2022. The country had just endured a summer of bomb threats, power outages, and internal unrest, much of it stirred by Russian provocations. President Maia Sandu’s government was hanging on by a thread, trying to stabilize the fragile situation and hold the nation together.

Despite these tensions, Moldova intrigued me. Known as Europe’s least visited country, it immediately captured my imagination. What fascinated me even more was Transnistria (PMR), the breakaway region still locked in the Soviet past. As someone who had visited the Soviet Union in 1991, just before its collapse, I felt compelled to explore this strange corner of the post-Soviet world. Speaking Russian fluently made the trip even more appealing—I knew it would allow me to connect with the people and culture on a deeper level.

Even so, I had my doubts. I contacted a psychic I had once met in Las Vegas to clear my mind. Her warning was unsettling—she saw a vision of a car bomb and advised me not to go. Though I didn’t take her words literally, they cast a shadow of doubt over my plans and made me cautiously proceed.

I was staying in Bucharest, Moldova’s cultural sibling and an established member of the European Union. While Moldova is still working toward EU membership, Romania has long been part of the union. During my stay, I asked the hotel manager—who would later become a friend—if it was safe to travel to Moldova.

“It’s safe,” she told me confidently. “There are NATO troops there.”
Her words surprised me since I knew Moldova wasn’t a NATO member. Curious, I asked her to clarify, mentioning that I planned to visit Chișinău. She smiled and said, “Oh! You mean the Republic of Moldova?” (Note to readers: if visiting Romania’s Moldova, it is best to refer to their neighbors as “The Republic of Moldova”)

Then, I realized the source of my confusion—there are two Moldovas. One is the Republic of Moldova, the independent country I intended to visit. The other is a historical region within Romania, near Wallachia and Transylvania, which shares the same name. Reassured by her words, I booked my ticket.

Arriving in Chișinău felt like stepping into another world. People had warned me the city was Soviet-like: gray, lifeless, and unremarkable, but I quickly found those opinions misleading. Speaking Russian was effortless, and it felt like a good sign that I was staying on Pushkin Street—a nostalgic reminder of my trips to Moscow, where I had often stayed at the Pushkin Hotel. My Airbnb, perched above the city with views of the presidential palace, exceeded my expectations.

Compared to Bucharest, which I love but find sprawling and gray, Chișinău is green, calm, and filled with open spaces. Life here feels simple and centralized, unlike Bucharest, where everything revolves around malls and the city is chaotic. I found a quiet charm in Chișinău that I hadn’t expected.

But the real reason I came to Moldova was to visit Transnistria. I asked my Airbnb host, Svetlana, if it was safe to travel there. Without hesitation, she assured me that it was. “I have the perfect person to take you,” she said, adding that the man she had in mind often drove her children to school and helped with errands.
Trusting her judgment, I reached out to the driver. From the first exchange, I found him calm, friendly and grounded—precisely the kind of person I needed for such an unusual trip. We began exchanging messages, and although I was nervous, I felt reassured by his easygoing demeanor.

Then, just as I was ready to start my plans, I received a message from the driver: his car had broken down and needed repairs.

My heart sank. The PMR felt so close, yet it seemed my journey might unravel before it began. The driver, however, assured me that we would still go. “Don’t worry,” he said. The car will be ready soon.” Despite my anxiety, I held onto faith. Something about him made me trust that he would come through.

Still, the reality of what I was about to do began to sink in. In Moldova, getting into a taxi alone as a woman is enough to make anyone nervous. But what I planned took things to another level—it wasn’t just about getting into a cab. It was about stepping into a car with a man I barely knew and heading toward a breakaway region where the rules of the Republic of Moldova no longer applied. For most, this would seem like sheer insanity—a reckless gamble that bordered on the suicidal.

And yet, I couldn’t turn back. I had come too far.
Finally, after hours of uncertainty, I received the message I had been waiting for: the car was ready. We would leave early the following day, bound for Transnistria.
The road to the PMR lay ahead, full of unknowns. Would the border guards let us through without trouble, or would they decide otherwise? Would my driver follow his promises, or had I made a terrible mistake? As the morning light approached, the questions swirled in my mind. What secrets lay beyond the border, waiting for me in this land frozen in time?

There was only one way to find out.