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I was invited to a residency in Chișinău, Moldova, with an organization called Oberliht, as part of a workshop program. It didn't include housing. The participants, including artists, activists, organizers, and curators from post-Soviet territories, spoke Russian, Romanian, and other languages, while I spoke none, which made this residency difficult to participate.

I chose a modern apartment near the city center, hosted by Alex with positive Airbnb reviews. It was a bit pricier than average but seemed accommodating. This soviet era apartment became my retreat, especially after my dad died near the end of my program. 

On my dad's last day of life, I was in Tiraspol for the first time. I had gotten the news from my sister through Facebook; yeah, how ironic to be in Transnistria on a field trip with people that I don't know and realize my dad was going to die and there was no chance for me to be at his side in Florida.


This artist residency became secondary for me. I canceled everything, and this apartment became a place of mourning my father's death. 

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