Traveling Life

I still remember the winter of 2012 — everyone in the world was talking about the Mayan prophecy, the end of days, fear, chaos… but for me, that New Year’s Eve felt like the beginning of something beautiful. My little place in Roșu village, where Ecocostel was just a dream slowly taking shape, became a crossroads of countries, languages, and stories. That year I hosted a full house — couchsurfers arriving from the USA, Romania, Ukraine, Italy and Portugal, all gathering under the same simple Moldovan roof for one big celebration. I had never seen so many different passports in my home at once. And I still remember the laughter, the socks drying by the sobă, the sound of people trying to pronounce words like — "mulțumesc" being the hardest one. What made that winter magical wasn't only the celebration, but the shared joke that traveled from mouth to mouth. For many years, travelers described Moldova as “not developed,” saying the streets looked like England a hundred year...

I planted my fig tree fifteen years ago, with a mix of curiosity and quiet courage. In Moldova, figs are still considered an exotic fruit, something you expect to see in warmer, southern lands, not in a countryside garden shaped by cold winters and strong winds. Yet I believed in it, and more than that, I wanted to learn from it. At the beginning, my fig was small and fragile, almost losing it after first winter. Every winter felt like a test. I protected it with care, covered it with my blaket in cold nights with -12C, and learned its rhythm year by year. It taught me patience. Some seasons it suffered, some branches froze, but every spring it returned with fresh green leaves, as if reminding me that life always finds a way when it is respected. Now, after fifteen years, my fig tree is strong and generous, this summer of 2025 I succeded to harvest 55kg of fresh figs. Its large leaves create a deep shade in the EcoCostel garden and its fruits ripen slowly, filled with sweetness and...

Winter is often seen as a quiet season in the garden, but for me it is anything but empty. I have been a professional gardener for over 20 years, and I’ve learned that winter is not a pause—it’s a different rhythm, one that feeds the seasons to come. When the soil rests under frost and snow, my hands are still busy. Winter is the time when I organize, reflect, and prepare. I clean and repair tools, plan new garden layouts, and review what worked and what didn’t in the past year. This is also the season when I sell seeds, sharing future harvests with people who, like me, believe in real food and healthy soil. Every packet of seeds feels like a promise waiting for spring. My winter days have their own simple joys. I watch documentaries and movies almost every day, often with a bowl of popcorn in my hands. These moments of rest are not wasted time—they inspire me. I read books about nature, ecology, and sustainable living, and I spend hours on YouTube searching for new ideas on regenerati...

Anyone with a garden can transform it into a peaceful oasis, I truly believe and know this, because I have witnessed it over and over again in last 15 years of my experience working and living this way. For many people, a garden is still associated with stress and hard work, as society largely views a wild garden—without strict order and structure—as something negative. I often meet people who feel pressured by their garden, believing it must be controlled, trimmed, and constantly maintained. Yet a wild garden, with its many different plants, trees, and habitats for animals, makes the garden vibrant and greener. These spaces are full of life. They awaken a deep, primal sense of trust in nature and freedom within us, grounding us and making us feel safe and at home. In contrast, orderly, straight, and rigidly designed gardens automatically trigger stress responses. They demand perfection and endless effort, keeping us busy instead of allowing us to rest and connect. This is why I offer ...

My name is Constantin Furtuna, and while many of my peers feel trapped in a relentless cycle of debt and stress, I have forged a different path. I’ve managed to sidestep the systemic pressures that make it so difficult to thrive in a country like Moldova, where average salaries often fail to cover the high costs of modern living. My decision to move back to the village, grow my own food, and embrace a minimalistic, plant-based diet offers a powerful testament to the possibility of a different way of life. This choice wasn't about giving up; it was a deliberate rejection of an unfair system and an embrace of a deeper harmony with nature. The economic reality in Moldova is a harsh teacher. The contrast between urban and rural life, and the figures tossed around about average monthly earnings, often hide the real, underlying struggle. For many, the cost of living, particularly in cities, quickly consumes any modest income, leaving little room for savings or security. The minimum wage,...