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.

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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. 

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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.