The Phenomenon

Many foreigners come to Caracas and are swept away by what Giulio and Miguelangel call The Phenomenon.
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The Phenomenon is, in my interpretation, an insensitive, starry-eyed fascination with this country’s president, his followers, his outrageous claims, and also the levels of crime, inflation, and other aspects of present-day Venezuela that depress locals to the point where, when people say, Did you hear what he did today!? the only response is: I don’t want to know.

Another friend says that Venezuelans have experienced crisis fatigue for a while now. They are not outraged by, but rather tired of the threats and breaches of trust bucketing down on them from their leader. So that’s why I think The Phenomenon discussions are somewhat disrespectful: its followers come to Caracas and quickly arrive at brazen and superficial conclusions about the status of things, then have a neatly wrapped story to send home about how “crazy and wrong” things are “over there.” It’s insensitive because it’s a frustrating / difficult-to-escape reality for some, and for others, a passing topic of conversation, kinda like what bar you went to last night.

It’s also too easy to criticize The Phenomenon up and down; all the “shocking” observations are predictable and all the political themes are “sexy” as we love to say in the development world.

I recently read the NYTimes’ opinion piece on Japan’s “dysfunctional and troubling” hostess culture. Below is the one comment on it that rang true for me:

Analyzing Japan’s social customs is a silly and somewhat arrogant endeavor. Lefacido (sic) Hearn’s books and comments started it all and everyone since chimes in as if their comments register with someone somewhere in Japan. They don’t.

While I think the individual plight of a human being who is forced to sell her sexuality should be made known to a wide audience, I’m bothered by criticism of a culture as it presently is, as if any single person’s standard of cultural judgment is the correct one. I myself am guilty of this all the time (see: this blog). And while all traveling humans experience culture shock in some form, this is a call to all us expats to please keep The Phenomenon discussion to a (bare) minimum. As in, please do not discuss it or I will awkwardly interupt the conversation by asking what bar you went to last night.

Morning choices

There are two paths I can take to work. Each morning as I reach the bottom steps of my apartment I am faced with a decision: take the 7-minute path that crosses the security guard who awkwardly waits until I pass him in order to hiss for attention, followed by several stories of whistling construction workers, followed by a small narrow passageway that often smells of pee, or, the 13-minute path whose extra 5 minutes and slight incline cause me to arrive sweaty and breathless at my office.

In a triumphant vote of anti-awkwardness and pro-fitness I usually choose the incline, but when lazy, tired, or (frequently) late, take the awkward route. As soon as I see the security guard I kick myself for choosing that path and then flatly and aggressively yell “HOLA” at him so that he has no opportunity to pretend he didn’t see me until it’s too late and I have a hissing man hovering unseen in the background of what would otherwise be a lovely tree-lined morning stroll. Until I enter the confines of the pee path.

L'ultimo Bacio

Last night Giulio and I watched a lovely Italian movie rife with emotional running and screaming (which, as Giulio told me, is common for Italian films. Love it.). Its callled L'ultimo Bacio, a dramatic comedy with exquisitely gorgeous Italian women and their soon-to-be-a-father-angst ridden beaus, older couples lamenting their lack of passion, and other relationship/ life transition themes expressed through more screaming and running.

The actresses have luxurious names like Giovanna, and the men love yelling about their feelings in a way that's neither annoying nor threatening (lots of vaciliating between "TI AMO!!" and "TI ODIO!!"). It's the perfect mix of light but realistic drama plus comedy, and it inspired me to learn more Italian, if only to emulate the characters' tempta-licious convos.

Welcome, pathogens

It seems my immune system has had an open-door--nay, red carpet--policy for most foreign intruders this year. It has welcomed the likes of influenza (twice), parasites, and most recently, bronchitis. I just took a nauseating elixir of 1001 medications that the doctor apparently perscribed in the hopes that one or 2 of the meds would sneak past the red carpet long enough to interact with bronchitis and escort him out of my lungs. While I would normally ask my insurance to reimburse me for this break-in, they have been rejecting claims on the grounds that they were repeat submissions. But no, cigna, it is the freaking pathogen red carpet.

1950 comes to Caracas

I just read a book that I (wishfully) thought would be a constructive critique of cuaimas but is actually a full blown celebration of the cuaima.

If in 300 years an alien comes to Venezuela and reads this book, it will think that the life of a woman passes no further than her house, her child’s school, and her church, and that her self worth depends entirely on making her children lunch and ironing her husband’s shirts. The author forgets to feed herself breakfast while making elaborate meals for her husband and children, labels her plastic surgeon a “magical god” and seeks guidance from a priest who informs her that the habits of her egoistic and alcoholic husband are something for which she needs to “be stronger”. And that the "strong" friends she really needs are the one that also cry when she goes to them with repeated sob stories about her husband’s behavior.

The narrator’s “breakthrough” moment is when she realizes that she doesn’t need to “clean what is already clean” (como se le occure hacer eso??) and that she can, in a motion of self discovery, take a walk outside with her friend, go window shopping at the mall or go to the gym to pursue a “beauty routine”. Amazingly, even if she does not clean the house that day and pursues these “independent activities”, the house will still probably be as clean as it was yesterday, so worry not.

Throughout the book I found myself hoping for a sign that it was all a farce: that the author understood the nature of her codependent existence and wrote all that drivel as a form of mockery, or at least as the "what not to do" section of a corny advice column, or that the book was a reprinted version of the 1950 edition, but no.

I recently had a discussion with gringas and venezolanas about dating/ gender stereotypes here. Highlights:

-One friend was asked by an older woman, on three separate occasions, if her boyfriend was indeed single and not married to someone else.

-After getting a haircut, one friend was complimented that if her boyfriend was married he would leave now indeed leave his wife for her. Congratulations.

-One friend's mother regularly tells her that if she does not stay pretty and cuidar a su novio then he will unquestionably leave her.

But alas, things are the way they are, and no point in getting pissed off about them. Off to bed.

Craigslistia dreaming

The agua is out in my office again, making today one of the days I daydream (via craigslist ads) about life in the US. We still don’t have any contract news so life in New York is the only somewhat concrete plan I have to cling to.

I idealize New York so much. I like the accessibility of anything I could want to do or learn (most of that I plan on doing in the dreamy NY Public Library). And cheap dance studios in every neighborhood. And being able to walk around and get lost. And being able to flush a toilet without fearing the menacingly motionless toilet response signaling that no hay agua.

And the mix of people, from anorexic supermodels to budding actors /musicians /painters, “prairie” hipsters, geeky foreign professors, money grubbing finance guys, and people speaking languages I can’t recognize and cooking food I didn't know was edible. I have this idea (that I would like to test by living there): that NYC has many people who are extreme versions of whatever they want to be, and they all seem to coexist on that tiny island (plus boroughs) in a hectic but delightful way.

I'm also still toying with the idea of a delicious and financially irresponsible long weekend trip to Paris. My heart still irrationally beats for gay ole Paree in the way it wishes the euro would drop below $1.20 again.

Fun with names

Courtesy of the sandwich shop, the following are examples of creative spellings of my name from this week:

- Herrín

- Erílyn

- Eileen

- Edy

- Helen

Silver lining to my bug

Something about recovering from my fifth (or sixth...?) stomach bug has made me feel inordinately grateful for my job and the opportunity to be in Venezuela. I was putting fresh sheets on my bed earlier (a task one can only thoroughly enjoy after being horizontal in bed for 50+ hours) and heard Don Omar's latest Virtual Diva (from the album "iDon") float in from a neighbor's window when I felt a rush of nostalgia for my life here. I'm a bit heartbroken by the fact that I might be forced to move away if our contract isn't renewed in a few months.

Though I will not miss the bimonthly stomach bugs, I will miss the special things about Venezuela that have made me enjoy life more. I really like the focus on today instead of the thirty year plan, celebration and appreciation of family, the freedom of spontaneous emotional expression, the humor that is a bit more bitingly funny than what I find at home, the attention to home-cooked meals and the always perfectly breezy evenings.

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In any place, including my original home, there are things I want to focus and enjoy on in this culture, and other things I've simply grown to accept but not really adore. The things I've merely learned to live with include the lawlessness/ lack of accountability, inflation, thick traffic and anxiety-causing crime levels. Also when people blow up with spontaneous negative emotion I get WASPily awkward and bug-eyed, which totally ruins my chances of genuinely responding in kind.

Beauty school

I just returned from Giulio’s graduation and in the midst of teary parents, moving faculty speeches, and thoughts about life transition markers, my mind kept returning to one thing: judgement.

I was reminded of how important school prestige is in the U.S. And the fact that since I moved to Caracas, the question, “So where did you go to school?” has only come up amongst gringos, not locals.

Which school you attend is also important here, and people certainly judge you by it, but not nearly as ruthlessly as people in the U.S. do. It is so important in the U.S.that colleges have essentially turned into businesses—you pay (a lot) for the name—and which college you’ll attend is in some areas a serious topic of conversation as early as age 11.

Lots of people in the U.S. think they know everything about you once they learn your alma mater, or what you do for a living. So that is our superficial standard for judging strangers.

As I sat in the graduation audience watching many heads of luxuriously shiny hair proceed down the degree line, I realized that the only near-equivalent here is beauty. I’ve met many Caraqueños raised to understand that a good looking person, especially a woman, is successful in ways that supersede her appearance alone. You can (irrationally) extrapolate information about a beautiful person in the same way people in the U.S. (irrationally) extrapolate information about a Harvard graduate.

In Caracas, people think they will get everything they want in life if they are beautiful, and it is a perfectly logical goal to do whatever you can to become more beautiful, even if that quest involves painful surgery and spending hours at a salon on a more than frequent basis.

In the U.S. the reaction to such decisions would be you must have nothing between your ears if you spend so much time on that, and therefore I don't want to talk to you, but the common response here is: good for you—you have direction in life and you must know something about how to get ahead that I don't know, so please, let's meet for a coffee. And if you don’t take care of your appearance you are not quite as worthy of adoration and respect, and are most likely poor at handling life in general.

That's not to say that you'll fail at life if you are ugly here, but Caracas is arguably the worst place in the world to be ugly, in the same way Concord, Massachusetts is the worst place in the world to not be accepted at a Top Ten college.

Office magnet

Today we’re having a special lunch at the office: pabellón criollo, a wonderfully delicious and satisfying Venezuelan staple.

Around 11:30 a magnetic force seems to have drawn all men from their respective stations into the finance room, and all women into the kitchenette. The women are immersed in a giggly flurry of arepa/ rice/ beans/ plátano/ carne mechada preparation while the men, hungry and chatting across the hallway, lean against file cabinets in an untroubled way that says “I am a man.”

Handcuffs

In an unexpected turn of events, Lost has increased my cultural awareness in Spanish-speaking countries. Sawyer was mid-arrest by the Others when the word esposas came up as a subtitle. (Huh? Alrighty. I must have missed something because esposas means wives and there is no wife in this scene, nor is Sawyer married because he would never settle down like that.)

Then it happened again: Ponle las esposas!

(Put the wives on him?? What are we talking about?)

No, indeed the translation for handcuffs is the same as the Spanish plural for "wife."

Before my brain delved into the sociological significance of this translation it took a brief but important detour in which I imagined two doll-sized but life-like trophy wives in red Jessica Rabbit dresses wrapped around Sawyers wrists.

Apparently the words share the same etymological root: the latin word spondere, which means to promise.

Even with this academic explanation I had a hard time wrapping my brain around the idea that these two words are IDENTICAL. But it actually makes some sense in Venezuela, where the term cuaima is popular.

Cuaima literally means "snake" but in Venezuela it more commonly refers to a woman who, according to my googling, is "trained since childhood to screw men over and to be suspicious, jealous, possessive, manipulative, dominating, controlling, fear-inducing."

If I, as a theoretical man, had committed my life to a theoretical wife with those particular traits I might also theoretically feel imprisoned.

Jacobo

Jacobo doles out bread at the panadería on the corner of my street. The inside of his mouth reminds me of the surface of scraggle rock—jagged stones spurting from the earth and fighting for space amongst themselves. This arrangement makes him sound like he has marbles in his mouth. So in addition to the fact that he speaks very fast Spanish, each word that leaves his mouth is first subject to sound editing by the zigzag of teeth that block its exit.

When he speaks to me at the store I squint my eyes and tighten the skin on my face, creating a buffer for words to arrive as directly as possible to my ears. He repeats phrases two or three times but never changes his pace or enunciation—for example, “Ji ute ta busano ao mevisas” which roughly translates to: “Ifa looin summin lemmenah.”

On the rare occasions when I do understand his words, they often paint the picture of a personal experience or acquaintence that I have no capacity to understand in the immediate way he implicitly requests. It reminds me of the way three year olds yell out to their mothers in excitement about the picture they’re drawing and ask, “Isn’t it pretty!?” when their mother is downstairs doing laundry.

Lost in traducción

A few days ago, Giulio sent me history's best on-screen bilingual interview. I've now watched it 25 times and feel a need to share with all you Spanish speakers:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZVAbTVd0nsM

What makes this interview is the confidence and authority with which the interviewer totally BS's her way through all translated responses. She could be saying that the sky is fuscia and that clouds are made of cotton candy, but her body language and intonations suggest she just returned from Harvard's campus where she completed a two-week long fact-checking mission to substantiate her claim.

I have no doubt she will be successful, if not annoying, in life because of that.

Best part:

Upon being asked, "What is your favorite part of Venezuela?" the musician responds:

"Um.. The people, of course."

Through this interviewer's special translation powers, that response turns into (in Spanish):

"Ok, he tells me that Venezuela hasn’t changed much, that what he likes the most are the landscapes and the motos thats he’s had the opportunity to see on the streets and highways of Caracas. Anyway, very little has changed and he hasn’t had the opportunity to see much."

Earth's growing pains

Last night all of Caracas experienced a terremoto. If I had to describe it like something I’ve never experienced, I would go with a small ship at high sea being attacked from underneath by 4-5 sharks on sugar highs. When it happened I was in the midst of yet another outrageous dream involving Lost characters so it seemed appropriate at the time.

Soup

Being sick in Venezuela is not that bad because people here are great at taking care of others, especially the weirdos like me who live alone. My boyfriend brought me lovely soup and arepas last night and another woman made chicken soup for me today. It was so delicious that I just had to know how she made it.

As soon as she started with "you just throw in xyz..." and not "boil water for 15 minutes then add 1/4 cup of onion" I knew I had no chance of replicating this sensation of a meal. But I smiled and told her I "can't wait to make it!!" anyway.

Lost in El Rosal

I’m at home with a flu, and the combination of excessive Lost episodes plus my inexplicably strong medicine (gracias, Doctor) has yielded some odd dreams.

I just fell asleep to the walking icecream man’s creepy “dee di di dee dee di di di-ding!” and dreamt that the 10 year old boy from Lost was selling icecream in front of my apartment. After slight resistance I gave in, only to find that the chocolate icecream I’d ordered had Rompe Colchon mixed in.

(Rompe Colchon is a divine dish served by roving Rompe Colchon vendors on Venezuelan beaches. It’s a tomato-y vinegary cold seafood soup but way tastier than that sounds. The name Rompe Colchon means Bed Breaker as it is supposedly an aphrodesiac, but the only thing it ever inspires me to do is consume more. And if vinegary clam breath is sensual turn-on for some people, then so be it.)



I stopped eating the icecream--not because of the shrimp, which I forced myself to be OK with, but because I feared the shrimp were poorly cooked and would give me another parasite like last year. When I asked the boy why icecream would have Rompe Colchon, his friend magically appeared to defend the mixture as a Venezuelan staple.

I immediately accepted his justification.

(That is, essentially, living abroad: a series situations where someone points to an apple, calls it an orange and asks where the hell you came from, calling it an apple, you weirdo. But you do look bella today.)


The boy then left his station and I guiltfully took this opportunity to indulge in some non-shrimpy chocolate icecream by squeezing the half-melted dessert into my bare hand.

Awkward succcess.

But right then Sawyer from Lost appeared and asked what in “Sam Hell” I was doing, stealing icecream from a little boy.

Instead of questioning why Sawyer was roaming my street in El Rosal (especially considering that, according to last night's episode, Kate was in grave danger in the jungle and only Sawyer knew how to handle it), I sheepishly explained that I was planning on paying for it immediately upon the boy’s return.

And that I like children--I would never steal from them.

The dream proceeded no further (lucky for me, knowing Sawyer’s violent on-screen tendencies) because at that moment “dee di di dee dee di di di-ding!” the icecream man was back again outside my window.

Pintando

My friends Anais and Andreina introduced me to Caracas' regular Mercados de Diseño. Fabulous. Like everything else in Caracas, the goods at the Mercado are ridiculously overpriced, but it's a field day for crafts ideas.

We saw some really colorful painted lampshades, which caused me to run home and round up all the white lampshades in my apartment like cattle awaiting their mulitcolored salvation.

Painting them with watercolors is especially divertido:

Who doesn't like an unfair and biased comparison?

Its been a while since I cracked the writing whip and I’m bored as H in the office right now, so I’m going to do a little review of life in the US vs life in Caracas.

Positives about living in the US:

1) I don’t have to go oh F*CK upon accidentally swallowing tap water or getting a mosquito bite.
2) I can be a vegetarian without withering into a shadow of a human being for lack of imitation meat and tofu.
3) Easier to be a shady McShadster (I can walk places alone at night).
4) I can have a conversation with anyone and not wonder what exactly we are discussing.
5) US prices for most goods are half the Venezuelan prices, so I can easily convince myself that I am actually SAVING money instead of spending it with every hack of the credit card.
6) Extravagant and gorgeous free public libraries.

The positives about living in Caracas are a bit more difficult to pin down and have more to do with my general sense that Venezuelans are a happier bunch than gringos.

Granted, they know how to make themselves miserable just like the rest of us. I realized on a Miami-DC plane, though, that all the gringos were mired in a cloud of their own late-winter anguish and didn’t want anyone to bother them while sitting in it (hence the blackberry/Economist/headphones combo).

Venezuelans are much more sociable—on planes, on buses, in lines, on street corners, in tow-trucks (during Carnaval, for example, Giulio was able to get to the heart of our truck driver’s recent near death experience within 15 minutes of his ass touching the sweaty truck seat).

Sometimes I think they have an unlimited capacity for social interaction, which probably has a lot to do with the fact they live with their families until marriage. Alone time doesn’t seem to be quite as valued.

I’ve finally adjusted to most of the Venezuelan value system and the only problem is that I now severely judge others in a way I never thought possible: beau-tay.

A woman sitting in front of me on the plane had slightly unbrushed hair and no makeup. In a most shocking and upsetting moment, the following serious judgement crossed my mind: Her hair is so...not shiny.

Carnaval makes me loca

Today is the first day of Carnaval and the city is so empty you can hear the wind more clearly than the honking horns. Yesterday the highways were lined with beach-starved city folk willing to spend hours to get the hell away from Caracas.

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I woke up and realized I’m going to have 4 days of a barren city in an apartment in which I’ve already spent 5 sick days.

Natural response? Fly across the world to Paris as soon as humanly possible!

But of couuuurse!

I hadn’t fully convinced myself I was capable of making a trip to France with 10 minutes notice but looked online for fares and figured that financial/ emotional reassurance would arise naturally in me (hopefully within the next 22 minutes).

Found a good fare online with dates that work. Not sure yet. Found reasonably priced cutesy Paris hotel for 2 nights. Not sure yet. Pack clothes. Realize it's freezing there and I have a caribbean wardrobe. Not sure yet. Go to bathroom to pack toiletries. Stop. What the hell am I doing. Ask self: Do you really want to do this? all by yourself? YESSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!! Retrieve passport, count cash, call taxi.

Mon amour.

The most absurdly wonderful decision of my life. I called my family and my parents who were all “Oh our crazy Erin!...” and then came around to “That’s my girl!”. I texted my boyfriend to tell him I was going to Paris in an hour and he thought I was similarly loca ("WTF!?") but knew I had to do it.

A sunny carnaval beach trip comes up minutes later. I don't want to miss out. In the end, I save Paris for the springtime when I can paint and write outdoors and be all wanna-be Parisienne. And maybe have a more clear idea of what the hell I am doing.

But I am glad to know in my corazón that I am indeed capable of being that crazy.

"SI" wins

The results were announced earlier than expected last night—54.5% of voters supported the removal of presidential term limits in Venezuela and 45.6% opposed it. So now Chavez can be re-elected for the rest of his life.

My opposition friends seem devastated in a personal way, as if this means the loss of a country they love because it will only lead to an increase in its negative aspects--particularly crime and rampant inflation. Some feel that those who voted SI are ignorant and naïve for giving this government so much more power.

They say they're depressed, shocked and angry--that there’s “no way back”. Everyone has facebook here, and people are using it as an outlet to express how disappointed they are in the 32% of their fellow Venezuelans who didn’t vote, lamenting that “cada pueblo tiene el gobierno que se merece”.

We saw the opposite reaction at a Chavista rally, however, right after the results were announced. People were dancing on top of moving SUVs, cramming themselves 20 at a time into the backs of trucks and stroking passing cars with endless rows of “SI” banners. We also saw caravan after caravan of guys on motorcycles with red bandanas placed over half of their faces, revolucionario-style.

One of the older Chavista women who is always at the same corner on Ave. Francisco de Miranda was wearing a red sparkly hat and red spandex pants to compliment her bright red hair. We saw tons of overjoyed hugs and watched reverentially silent crowds huddle around a small tv to witness their idol's post-win speech.

I was personally starting to align Chavez with those really persistent guys who get repeatedly rejected for dates without noticing or caring, but this was a big win for him.

Fireworks at dawn

I awoke at 5:30 am this morning to massive fireworks exploding in front of el Avila. At first I thought it was some rich guy’s birthday and he’d gotten too drunk to set them off at a reasonable hour, or maybe gunshots, then Giulio reassured me it was the government encouraging people to get your ass up and vote because today is the Big Day.

From a foreigner's point of view it’s exciting to see a huge capital city rallied like that in a positive way, regardless of the political side from which the impetus came.

Early morning fireworks over Caracas (photo copyrighted by some guy I don't know).

I am, however, secretely relishing the fact that my immigration status relieves me of the duty to stand in line for 5 hours to cast my vote.

Everyone who votes here has to stick their pinky finger in purple ink that doesn’t come off for several days (I don’t know how the beauty-obsessed women deal with it). The specially engineered ink is a way of ensuring that people don’t vote twice with fake IDs but I think it’s also a social symbol in a country where people have such extreme views about politics.

I don’t know any Venezuelans who come out of an election day without that stamp of participation and would not want to be subject to the ridicule a non-purple pinky would spark.

It’s not raining, so people who live in the poorer cerros won’t have as much trouble descending from their steeply positioned homes to the voting areas. It seems participation will be high in the major cities.

The decision on whether or not the president, governors and mayors are no longer subject to term limits should come back late tonight.

Entrapment

Floating in a sea of slow walkers: this is the Caracas sidewalk. I glance around tensely and see only relaxed arms, slow gaits and drawn out conversations. I find my leader—he is brave, and probably really late for work. He understands my frustration. I nearly latch onto him as if clutching drops of sweet freedom in this sea of oppresively slow movers. His haste creates a path of liberation as we glide seamlessly through the dawdling crowd.

We arrive at the stoplight. I am silently grateful, while he is still oblivious to his role as my sidewalk leader. I smell autonomy, seconds away—the light reaches its final yellow moments. Red will come and I will launch myself onto the temporarily open road. Prepárate.

But the Chavistas smell that open road first: I am quickly enveloped by red shirts and signs instructing stopped cars to vote SI. A monstrously large poster, a horn, 2 jumping ralliers, 5 men rushing into the streeet carrying a banner: SI SI SI SI! 2 students with red hair shouting UH!AH!

I reach the other side, defeated and entangled once more in the languid crowd.

A stroll down Dios lane

Today Giulio suggested we go to the MACCSI (Museo de Arte Contemporáneo de Caracas Sofía Imber). My flaming ignoramus art mind was excited to see a new part of Caracas, but contemplating the meaning of a big black circle on a white canvas doesn’t really turn me on.

But damn was I pleased with our visit. They had a photography exhibit on mythology from various Latin American countries. I looked at each photo and tried to place myself in that moment—standing alongside, for example, an elderly Quechua tribe leader with a perfectly proportioned feather headress, gazing at the dreamlike mountainous terrain before him.

Or beside Kalakshé, dueño of the impenetrable jungle of the mountain that provides infinite resources for his tribe. Or next to Awishame, Colombian dueña of the the coca plant, valued for the energy and clarity it provides while engaging in cultural traditions.

I really liked the photo they associated with the Mawari, evil spirits of the table-top mountains in Canaima. They are the enemy of man, responsible for the deaths and disappearances of those who dare to climb.

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The visit put a little painting seed in my head, so when I got home I went up to the roof, put on Gustavo Santoalla's Montaña, gazed at my lovely Avila, and made this:

The return of the goat

Vero likes to say things she knows I don’t understand. Today we had this convo en español:

Me: Matt’s party will be fun.

Vero: Yeah totally. There will be mostly guys there.

Me: Are you gonna bring your new man?

Vero: I'm not going to bring a goat to Coro.

Me: Umm.

Vero: You don’t bring a goat to Coro.

At first I thought: FINALLY! I understand this one. She’s talking about how she doesn’t bring a goat, meaning, higher up fancy man, to Coro.

Coro must be a low-brow bar, where one would not bring a fancy man. Like Matt's party.

Not at all.

Coro is a place in Venezuela where there are lots of goats. So it’s like saying “you don’t bring sand to the beach.”

Her point: Time for Vero to meet a new man.

Plata

Yesterday my boss sent me an excerpt from a book written in 1963 by historian AJ Toynbee. He shared it because he believes much of what Toynbee said about Venezuela in 1963 is still true. This part was the most interesting to me:

"Venezuela has the makings of an earthly paradise. It would, in fact, be one if a paradise could be stocked solely with minerals and plants, without needing any complement of human inhabitants. Venezuelan human nature is probably no better and no worse than the general run of the mill. Venezuelan wealth, however, is something quite out of the ordinary, and extra-ordinary wealth puts human nature to one of its hardest tests. Can human nature stand this? That is the critical question for Venezuela."

Caracas in 1963

The excerpt got me thinking about what it would have been like to live in Venezuela before the "golden rain from the oil-fields and the iron mountains began to descend on the capital." There is so much wealth here and it's interesting to think about the effect it has on the human psyche.

Toynbee briefly discusses that idea: "In present-day Venezuela, as in the present-day World as a whole, one is conscious of a tension in the air. Was the atmosphere as tense, I wonder, in the days--still not so long ago--when poverty was the Venezuelan people's common lot, and when even the largest landowners were no millionaires?"

A tale of two presidents

Today I got the front-seat view of a little movie I like to call "National leaders are absurdly influential on the psychology of individuals."

I opened my office window to a sunny day and felt a movie-like euphoria (complete with birds chirping and babies laughing): Bush is gone and, more importantly, Obama is The President.

We'd just watched his speech dubbed in Spanish. Some of his key WOW lines came out more like yonoentiendoniuncoño, but nevertheless I gazed starry-eyed at the screen, still in disbelief that he is The President. It’s like a national dream from which we're all going to wake up next month. (Maybe the wakeup will happen when, 3 weeks into his term, Fox News demands, “WHERE’S THE CHANGE?”)

I’m reading articles about “getting used to the new president,” as if our national senses have been numbed by 2 Bush terms and must be reawakened to adjust to positive feelings towards our leader.

While I don’t yet burst with pride every time I explain, soy de Estados Unidos, I can see a light at the end of the awkwardness-as-a-result-of-my-nationality tunnel. And watching his speech from Venezuela made me yearn for the chance to be in Washington and feel the energy of his symbolic triumph.

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Below my office window, though, student marches are starting. Next month there will be another constitutional referendum to eliminate term limits here. I had the impression that Venezuelans are tired of being bombarded with this kind of thing (what my friend calls political crisis fatigue), until I blindly stuck my camera out the window and caught this girl:

They’re mockingly wearing red shirts that say “NO” on the back. Red is Chavez’s color so when Vero spotted them on the street below she groaned and got all, ay coño aqui vienen los revolucionarios (“oh f*ck here come the revolutionaries again…”).

Despite the idea that afuera todo es más arrecho (“everything is much better outside of Venezuela”… read that link if you are a Spanish speaker, it is hilarious), Venezuelans I know are way more proud to be from here than gringos are to be from the US. At the same time, there is far more political strife here and often, things don’t work the way people want them to (like when you're sitting in traffic for 30 minutes to turn a corner, or when the water dies for 5 days during your 20-person Thanksgiving dinner and you can’t wash any dishes so the chiripas—mini cockroaches—step up to the task). But in general Venezuelans seem pleased with themselves when they talk about where they are from. This is especially true for some when they completely separate their national identity from their nation's highest representative, as if the two were totally irreconcilable.

I, on the other hand, get more of a “alrighty well, let’s change the subject!” feeling when I have to talk about my home country in general. But I didn’t get that feeling today.

Geduld

I decided on a vegetarian trial run 2 weeks ago and it’s going ok. I don’t miss meat (aside from the crushing realization upon suggesting we visit the Colonia Tovar because it "has great German sausages!…DAMN!”).

Vero believes this switch means I'm loca as the food chain is a natural part of life—lions eat deer (or whatever the hell they want), birds eat fish, etc. But I am doing it because of what I’ve been reading about Buddhism. The views on meat eating vary from school to school and I’m not enough of a Buddhist to even know which school makes the most sense to me yet. But Mahayana Buddhism argues that if one pursues the path of the Bodhisattva for enlightenment, one should avoid meat eating to cultivate compassion for all living beings. Reading that line (thank you, Wikipedia) made me want to let go of meat right away, and now I think of it whenever I see meat dishes.

The best part of my switch was the dog Brit and I fed last night. He (who we later learned was indeed a she, then continued to refer to her as a he) got the best of my freezer’s parilla leftovers. She was sleeping in the garden in front of my building and emerged to greet us, escorted by her nose. One look at her sad eyes and round goofy ears gave me the impulse to do something--anything--give her my spare change?--left me sad and unsatisfied. So we raced upstairs and nuked some frozen pork, then mixed it with corn flakes and a raw egg.

She seemed hesitant towards her meal, circling it and then backing away as if it were still alive and she’d forgotten how to kill it. We felt relief when she pulled the pork out of the bag and ate the whole thing. But she left the rest. Sensing my disappointment, and still a little disgusted by my decision to give her a raw egg, Brit reassured me: “Don’t worry--it just means she has good taste.”

We sat on the stoop and chatted while the dog finished eating, content that at least for tonight, she was well fed. Upon finishing she climbed to our eye level and looked at us all Do you think you could maybe pet me for a while? So of course we did, before leading her to a fount of fresh water and deciding to purchase a bag of dog chow.

I think I will name her Geduld, which babelfish tells me is German for Patience.

Malabo

“Can you go to Malabo on Friday?”

Not exactly the kind question one expects at 8am on a Monday morning in the heart of all things suburbia, otherwise known as Bethesda, Maryland.

It was the assignment everyone was suddenly “too swamped” to take. Malabo, in the words of my veteran supervisor, was the "weirdest place on earth.” By his account, 6 years in sand-stormy Sudan would be more pleasant than a 6 day assignment in Malabo, Equatorial Guinea.

Aside from that sunny comparison, I had at my imagination’s disposal four facts about this location: it’s the only Spanish speaking country in Africa; photography is punishable by jail sentence; the government is renowned for torturing opposition supporters in “Black Beach”, and most of the population is extremely poor while foreign oil extractors live comfortably on Pleasantville-style compounds.

It was just the kind of place I wanted to spend Christmas alone.

My bosses needed a Spanish speaker to coordinate startup for a USAID project in that country, and it all had to be completed within 2 weeks or else I’d be spending the holidays on Strange Island.

Before I knew it I was floating in a sea of long faces and alligator skin attire at the Paris Charles de Gaulle airport. About 30 men, not so fresh off their flight from Dallas, looked like they were waiting for The Devil to swing by and escort them back to Hell. Everyone from the pilot to the rotund man named Jimmy sitting to my left had one thought plastered on his face: What’s a woman doin' on this plane? Maybe she’s confused and thinks we’re goin’ to New Guinea in South 'merica.

After a few half-comatose and extremely disorienting realizations that the silent, deep indigo view I repeatedly awoke to was indeed the Sahara, and that all my sleepy co-passengers were indeed from America's Heartland, we descended upon Malabo.

The electricity-less terrain we’d just passed made the island of Bioko look like Vegas on steriods, with dozens of oil refinery fires thrown in for good measure (environmentalists seeking an image of natural resource exploitation at the height of its fury need look no further).

On that cold night under heavy rain an immigration officer looked me up and down with an unhurried, menacing grin. He gripped an uncomfortably bulky machine gun and posited his main question--the one thing every border patrolman must know: "WHY are you without your husband?"

Welcome to Malabo.

Sensgiveen en Caracas

Last night was an unexpectedly very Thanksgiving-esque dinner en mi casa en Caracas. Turkey, wine, stuffing, (20 pounds of) sweet potatoes, green beans, soup—the whole deal. We even went around and each said what we’re thankful for en español. Por ejemplo, Thom and I said we were thankful for all the friends we’d made in Caracas; Steve said he was thankful for water (we had no running water, which made washing dishes/hands/etc interesting..), and Giulio said he was happy for passing all the tests he needs to graduate (eeesooo). The mood was lovely and everyone left 5 pounds heavier than they arrived.

Back for more

The cleaning lady at our office just sprayed the most oppresive brisas de vainila odor-eater throughout the office HELLLLPPPP!!!

So I’m now here on a courtesy visa which is their way of saying "please get off our backs until we’re assured that Devil Barbie (Sarah Palin) will not be elected" (she just said she'd use military force here--that's fun! I’m really glad that she made that comment. It was well thought-out and reflected her nuanced understanding of relations with this country).

As much as I enjoy temporary corporate housing it is so nice to be back here. Yesterday it rained in that four-to-five-inches-on-the-streets kind of way and when I said I was leaving to walk home (everyone else metros or drives) my coworkers wished me a pleasant swim. Even though it was 65 degrees out they all rested assured that the boss-lady would be stuck at home with the flu the next day.

Instead of the flu I came back with a Tupperware stocked with amazing cookies. Which leads me to the next point: I am becoming domesticated. Not sure where it’s coming from but I actually look forward to grocery shopping—and I’m not even buying frozen meals. Last night I washed and chopped vegetables with my boyfriend and actually enjoyed it—felt a cozy, appreciative relationship with the tomatoes and mushrooms.

Thankfully, domestication hasn’t reached the point of not hating laundry, which is why I also made sure to purchase several weeks worth of extra clothing while in the US.

We were born in Time's best decade.

I recently made a list of my top ten favorite things from the 80s ("Why?" is a valid question but is beside the point) and came to the not shocking conclusion that all items revolve around food.

I am posting them here because we all love a trip down memory lane. (Most of these gems were not born in the 80s but, I believe, enjoyed their peak in the 80s):

10) Candyland: obvious. Best section: Candy Castle. Scariest section: Molasses Swamp.

9) Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: any scene where they eat, admire, or discuss pizza.
8) Lady and the Tramp: the spagetti smooch scene.
7) The Very Hungry Caterpillar: never understood how he could eat so much but loved watching him do it.

6) Chiquita banana commercials: wanted to be the girl with tropical fruits on her head (even though they are an evil company http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/6452455.stm).

5) Reading Rainbow: the episode in which Lavar Burton goes to the zoo to learn what the pandas and baby elephants are fed; also the episode where they make pizzas at an authentic pie shop.

4) Flight of the Navigator: I couldn’t find a picture but there is a very special scene when he’s exiting the pod and the camera focuses in on the Hersey bar he’s eating.

3) Strawberry Shortcake: lived in a house shaped like a strawberry and exclusively wore strawberry-inspired fabrics.2) Back to the Future II: the scene where Lorraine prepares the dehydrated mini Pizza Hut pizza in 2 seconds flat.

1) Carebears: the Birthday Bear, with the power to whip cupcakes out of thin air. Even if it wasn’t your birthday.

New favorite word

Carabobeño.

(http://www.el-carabobeno.com/)

Slang

Every time I hear certain Venezuelan slang words, fireworks go off in my head. No one else knows about them, obviously, because all they’re doing is saying normal stuff-the equivalent of "hella"/ "dude" etc etc.

Whenever Karla says “y… vaina…” (and...stuff...) that is like ten fireworks. When my boyfriend talks to his friends, it's like a conversation of fireworks. Sometimes I am so distracted by the barage of exciting slang that I have no idea what he just said:

"Epale chamo! [talking] huevon no joda [talking] savaina [talking] arrechisima... vaina [talking] errga [talking] ese peo huevon [talking] o sea [talking] oiste?"

(Yo man! [talking] balls no shit [talking] that thing [talking] really great [talking] thing [talking] bull's weewee [talking] that fight, balls [talking] i mean [talking] y'hear?)

A bunch of white people

A courier walked into the office today looking for one of the local staff, Trang Anh.

Trang, along with the rest of the Vietnamese staff, had mysteriously disappeared for a 4 hour lunch. The courier walked around the office a bit confused and then called her dispatch. Mid convo, one of the gringo interns laughed. “What did she say?” I asked him.

His translation:

I don’t see no Trang Anh. It’s just a bunch of white people. Yeah just foreigners. Whatever I'm leaving.

The magic wand.

Parks in Ha Noi are the kind of place where it’s difficult to walk 10 feet without bumping into a man or group of men who are meditating, resting their untroubled gaze upon some placid body of water, or engaging in a similar mind/body/spirit expanding activity. What struck me about those guys (and other Vietnamese people I’ve bumped into on the street) is that they are relatively very soft spoken until you pull out the magic wand: a camera.

This device turns the shiest of Vietnamese into smiley, jazzy friends who think its so funny that you have a camera! A staff member in a red shirt blazed by me yelling “Hello! Where you from!” as I sat by the pond at the Temple of Literature.

Out of nowhere: a dragon pose.

I searched around me to see if one of his friends was about to snap a pic but no, he was waiting for me to capture his moment of glory—finger claws, snarled teeth and all—to be placed in the photo album he’d never see.

I then asked him where he was from. Time to get shy again. It was probably his lack of English but the man went from a crazy fun-loving dragon to a self-conscious staff member who suddenly had to run away. Literally he ran away from me, but at least he was smiling when he did.

CHỈ SỐ VỀ TÍNH NHẤT THỂ TÀI CHÍNH CỦA CHÍNH QUYỀN ĐỊA PHƯƠNG

One of my 4 favorite things about being in Ha Noi is that I have absolutely no idea what anything means. I’m here developing an index for local governance that I call the Fiscal Integrity Index. I just got it translated to Vietnamese for a meeting with government pepole. It looks so ridiculous to me. “Fiscal Integrity Index” apparently translates to the following: CHỈ SỐ VỀ TÍNH NHẤT THỂ TÀI CHÍNH CỦA CHÍNH QUYỀN ĐỊA PHƯƠNG. The one word that I actually understand and brings me solace is my name. But then it's followed by 1209 other words I am totally lost on.

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I do hate the flaming ignoramus feeling when it comes to local languages, so I try to feign apprehension with cab drivers by repeating whatever they just said to me. The other day I met a lovely cab driver who had the most endearingly awkward bowl hair cut. He was so smiley that I couldn't help but want him to think I knew Vietnamese:

Lovely cab driver: Anh bao nhiêu tuoi?
Me: Ah! Yes, anh bao nhiêu tuoi .
Lovely cab driver: Tôi duoc ba mươi lăm tuoi...
Me: Oh--lăm tuoi—haha!
Lovely cab driver: (turns around confused) hahahahaha!!!

Sa' tu donest'ah laof'ina de fax?

And now. A guest post. From Ms. Hina Strayer:

The most giant soft old woman with painted lips of coral and misaligned pencil drawn eyebrows just sauntered up to me. It was as if a Floridian shower curtain had ripped itself from a retirement home bathroom and found its way to my desk. She asks, in a dialect that could only be Caribbean Spanish, a long melodic question that sounded like "Sa' tu donest'ah laof'ina de fax?", followed up by an flagrantly frustrated "Oye, hablas espanol?". I reply amicably, "si, pero no se donde esta...", and she interrupts me by rolling her big tired-lidded eyes back into her head, just shaking it slowly back and forth. And waddles away without another word.

Sigh.

Vietnam: I like my pants linen and my moto without a seatbelt

Crossing the street in Vietnam is like walking through a beehive and just trusting it will be ok if you go at the right pace. If you stop or get scared, ZING, you.are.dead my friend. Every time I do it I feel like a 13 year old boy is directing all the motos from his Nintendo controller up above, just waiting to confuse one of the opponent motos into crashing into me.

I first discovered this while on my way to a meeting on the other side of town. A professor and I walked to his motorcycle and I put on my helmet in a way that wouldn’t mess up my hair, which is not possible. He couldn’t believe I’d never been on a mototaxi in Ha Noi, or that no one had told me how to cross the street Vietnamese style.

Time to look cool: “Well I’ve only been here 24 hours.” Even cooler: “also, I’ve been in Caracas, where riding these things is likened to a death wish.”

“Hah! Here too!” he shouted as we sped off around the corner, all of my precious papers nearly flying out of my lap and into the street. “The good thing is,” he continued, “I’ve only been in one accident. But it practically wasn’t my fault, you know?”

No. No I don't know.

I then determined why everyone in Ha Noi wears those face masks while riding motos—exhaust fumes. Mmm.

A few white-knuckled miles later, it was yet again time to enter Super Mario land o' oncoming motos. I stayed directly parallel to the professor and copied his movements exactly, in an attempt to use him as a buffer in case of emergency (likely).

Just because they stopped for 2 seconds is not going to keep them

from starting up while you're mid stream.

When we got to the meeting, rife with chivos (higher ups) in the international development community, I noticed many U.S. expats here like to wear linen, a look that says “I’m humble because I work in development—no 9-5 office clothes for me, no sir. I can take it without AC--just look how simple my office is--except when I get home to my U.S. tax-paid cushy palace that has 3 local maids and a cook. I also like to have peace of mind—an attitude embodied by these pants that easily adjust to locally practiced meditational positions, which I never do.”

For the love of a generator.

I saw a three year old in the park in Ha Noi today. He was all about this generator so I decided to take lots of pictures of him. And now I've created a mystical tale about their romance:

He had a feeling from the beginning that this generator was the one.

At times, he did wonder if this inanimate object was The one. After all, the tree was tall, dark and organic.

He soon realized though, that his love for the small gray metal box was unstoppable.

He ran into its nonexistent arms.

He greeted it with love and smacks.

He was sure: for him, there was no other generator.

The frirk

I’m on my way back from my 5th trip to Caracas and feel removed enough from U.S. culture to make some superficial generalizations. Namely, that we gringos are so awkward. I asked for soda water with a lime and this caused the stewardess to get all “uhh!! I’m going to have to—look—uhh! for that...later..uh!”

Alternatively, the Venezolana approach might have been to say No hay before flashing a deadpan upside down smirk (like a frown + smirk: frirk). The frirk no hay combo is deceptively simple but roughly translates to:

And what are you going to do about it? I’m not even going to mention what the other options are because you freaking went and asked me for something I don’t have. And when you tell me what you want instead, I’m going to look in the other direction and pretend I didn’t hear because you know what, I have better things to be thinking of right now. God it’s hot in here. Is it not hot? It feels so hot. I wonder if my boyfriend is sleeping with that girl behind you in line. Probably. She slept with Alejandra’s boyfriend too. My hair is much shinier though, plus I just saw this ugly picture of her on facebook. You’re gunna have to take this lime soda because we don’t have any soda water. No you can’t get your money back because I already made your receipt and the manager’s at his wife’s cousin’s aunt’s baby shower, and only the manager can give you your money back. He’ll be back at 6. But we close at 5. Wait, did you go to San Luis? I thought I recognized you from my brother’s girlfriend’s graduation party. Do you want to come to our house for dinner? Because the cousins are all over because it’s my great uncle’s birthday.

’cho-cuiao-co-ua-vaiii

Having a bilingual Venezuelan boyfriend is similar to having a personal translator. All I have to do is say a Spanish word with a certain intonation and he auto-feeds the translation back to me. It also works for phrases. My favorite is kindof like saying “You better WATCH yoself”: Mucho cuidado con una vaina. We mutilate it into a snobbier, single word: ’cho-cuiao-co-ua-vaiii always pronounced with an open, lazy mouth and sometimes an accompanying finger snap or threatening “OK” sign. I use it as an extremely dramatic overreaction to anything: getting too close to another car on the highway, stealing a fry from my McDonald’s meal—basically any act that slightly resembles a transgression calls for ’cho-cuiao-co-ua-vaiii.

Note to self

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MUST STOP CHANGING WITHOUT GLASSES ON!

Upon uniting with my round red second pair of eyes I have thrice come to realize that I have an unusually at-ease audience of 4-5 people of varying ages in the apartment next door. This usually prompts me to hit the floor immediately, which provides further entertainment and ensures they'll linger at the window for my stealthy and fully clothed ascent five to ten minutes later.
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Love in the time of samurai robes.

I’ve been traveling back and forth to Caracas for over a year now but I still have an internal pause-for-confusion when taxi drivers or service people refer to me affectionately.

Yesterday heading to yoga class I asked a taxista to confirm the fare:

Me: Y cuánto será? (“How much?”)

Him: Veinticinco mi vida. (“Twenty-five, my life.”)

Me: ...Dale perfecto gracias. (“...Ok perfect thanks.”)

Him: Nada mi amor. (“You’re welcome, my love.”)

Me: [Relax into backseat and pretend to respond to a text message].

Venezuelans are more verbally affectionate than gringos in every fathomable life situation. Submitting an expense report, taking out a large bag of trash, ordering a side of dijon, depositing a check, purchasing a tank of gas, writing an email notification that you'll be late to work due to night of gastrointestinal malfunction: not one of these circumstances precludes an exchange of loving pleasantries.

Not just my boyfriend, but friends, coworkers, shopkeepers, hot dog preparers, and at least 9 security guards on my walk to work believe me to be their “love/ little friend/ life/ beautiful/ pretty one” and have no problem talking about it before we even know each other's first names. Basically, this entire city is in love with me.

They also ask me to repeat Venezuelanisms just as parents entreat babies to repeat newly acquired phrases:

Coworker: Erin, pregúntale COMO ESTA LA VAAAAIIINA VERRRGAAAA CHAAAAMO.
(Erin, ask him HOW’S IT HANGINNNNN, [harmless explicative—literally, a bull’s weewee], DUUUUUDE.)

Me: Como esta la vaina… Vergaa. Chamo.
(How’s it hanging... Bull’s weewee... Dude.)

Coworker: AY NO PUEDO AJAJAJAJAJA!
(OH MY GOD NO I JUST CAN’T– HAHAHAHAH!)

They’re also way flirtier than gringos. Exhibit A: Last night’s Zen meditation class, which closed at the same time as my yoga class. One might suppose that sitting cross-legged in a bulky samurai-warrior-like robe and staring at a blank wall for 60 minutes would not have the same effect as, say, an aphrodisiac.

But that is simply not so.

Every exiting female had something special to say to the instructor (“I bet you don’t even remember my naaaame… heehehehe… nooo you sooooo don’t [smile]”), at which point his effortless post-Zen-mental-state flirtation came surging forth: “Noooo, noo my love, but of course I do [wink/ smile/ approach with samurai robe in hand].”

Cheaper than water

Colleen just forwarded me one of those email jokes. This one looked promising because it was about gas prices, something I rarely concern myself with as a car-less freeloader.

The whole gas thing of course got me thinking about Venezuela's petroleo. On a lovely 4 hour mountainy drive to the beach, Giulio and I pulled up to a gas station.

Oh yeah—offer to pay for gas. I’m getting a free ride here.

“No no—let me get this.” I selflessly offered.

"It’s ok,” he said, scrounging for some coins between car seats. "Do you have like, 15 cents?"

I looked at the register and wondered if the figure we saw was for one liter, or if they should have been using the old currency and forgot to add three zero's to the end, or if the machine was broken and computing incorrectly, or if the mountain air had induced in me a form of temporary numerical illiteracy and 98 cents really meant "109080 cents".

Nope. The whoooole freaking tank: 98 cents.

Bienvenido a Venezuela.

Caracas: Why walk 2 blocks when you can drive.

My Paris parenthesis

It is greedy to dream of traveling abroad while in a foreign country, but I just searched for pictures of Paris because I have this huge crush on it and if I were a city I'd want to marry it in like 2 seconds but would surely just have to get in line with all the other (certainly more financially capable) admirer cities.

The photos stirred up my latent fantasies of being a petite Frenchy for a month or two and doing nothing but drinking vin rouge and writing about the quirky things Parisiens do and say in the public places I'd stealthily observe them, like bus stops and park benches. My intermediate French language barrier would ensure mild alienation and thus an ability to feel completely at ease in taking notes while staring at strangers.

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I would live in an exorbitantly priced closet with a view of the Sienne, eat fresh nutella crepes for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and stroll around listening to the Amelie soundtrack on my 'pod as though I were starring in my own petite scene. I'd probably try to find an old, bitter, but quirky and ultimately lovable, artichoke vendor like the one in the movie, but I wouldn’t be able to converse with him (or anyone) without sounding awkward. That’s fine though because Paris would be lovely for exploring life as a hermit.

Raid and vulgarities: Venezuelan futbol

Going to a soccer game in Venezuela is the same as going to a Red Sox/ Yankees game, but just everyone is on crack. Upon arrival I made the assumption that all the fire shooting from the hands of fanaticos originated from special fire-spouting devices that one can only purchase in Venezuela.

Upon further inspection, though, I realized they were cans of RAID with a lighter held to the spout. So that’s fun to inhale in an enclosed space.

Raid.

I got pretty decked out for this game and even bought my own devil horns to celebrate the red glory that is the Caracas fútbol team.

"Is that smell... Raid??"

I wrote down and memorized the chants that everyone sings to the other team. Also similar to chants sung at Red Sox/ Yankees games, but everyone is 10 times more pissed off and 100 times more vulgar. When a special goal kick is made (I’m sure it has a name other than ‘special goal kick’ but we’ll take care of that bit o’ knowledge at another time), everyone shouts HIJO DE PUTA!! to which the other side of the stadium (Tachira fans) responds TU MADRE!!, to which we retaliate with LA TUYA!!! We also sing about how everyone says that Caraqueños are drunken delinquents, but no les paro bolas ("I don’t give a shit").

This one looks innocent but he's actually telling Tachira fans to go **** their **** in the *** while *****.

You better put that budget right.

Being part of "management" in an office where I am not a native speaker and am half the age of the people I "manage" is always fun, particularly when I get pissed off at employees and write threatening emails in awkward Spanish:
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"Paola, I waste the time on this. I don't want more. Please put the budget right next time. Make me know if you have the questions about this. A thousand thanks. Bye."
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Joyriding with the blood cells

Just as I was beginning to feel truly at home and comfortable on the Venezuela portion of my Road of Life, I got hijacked by a parasite who kicked me out of the front seat. He drugged me so I was too out of it to know what was going on, or to which state in his disease-world he was taking me.

The first 36 hours of his joyride consisted of insane, bumpy off-roading, but he was considerate enough to drop me at the emergency room where a flurry of white-clad nurses forced an introduction between some over-eager needles and my fearful skin. They also appropriated litros of blood that I was fairly certain belonged in my body and not in test tubes.

The doctor softly questioned me about my time in central Africa, where he believed I contracted the virulent strain of malaria he referred to as paludismo.

My brain enthusiastically responded to this foreign term with images of gas-masked, bratty paludismos holding spears and charging at my rotund, feeble red blood cells. The paludismos were stealing spare cell parts to create more vehicles for joy riding around the rest of my body, yelling nonsense and throwing half-empty bottles of booze out the window.

I was too weary to request clarification on the bulk of his Spanish explanation, and was consumed by one thought:

Those little motherf*ckers.

The paludismos were apparently well connected in the Venezuelan portion of my Road of Life because 4 hours into the joyride they caused a blackout in all of Venezuela (=chaos), and they brought death to my cell phone, just minutes after I hazily gave my family the news every parent wants to hear: Something's wrong and I'm headed for the ER in an unfamiliar country where you can't speak the language.

Being that this portion of my Road was in relationship/ family/ friendship/ general bond -loving Venezuela though, I was not solita, alone. Veronica’s sangre de madre venezolana busted out in full force and she patiently stayed by my side for hours on end as I requested slight adjustments in the angle of my hospital bed and assistance with the unrecognizable substances my nurses insisted on calling food. In typical Veronica fashion, she got pissy at me for requesting pizza, which no te alimenta!!--does not nourish me (!!).

Matt also ignored Veronica’s warnings about visiting my hospital’s unsavory neighborhood after dark and in the aftermath of a blackout, when there would surely be many malandros up to no good. He showed up, instantly perceived my susceptibilty to male-centric tv series addiction, and kindly bestowed upon me 4 complete seasons of Entourage.

A week (and many jars of liquid antibióticos later), he has an Entourage watching buddy and I, an uncontrollable desire to discover what monkey business ensues in Vince’s acting career in season 5.

Luckily, the many litros of my blood indicated I did not have paludismo (which is muy grave) but rather a really pissed off parasite that did not like my stomach or anything I fed it. I think the antibiotics killed him so he is now joyriding around parasite heaven, where he belongs.

This love is in its air!

I have a lot of free time here, so naturally I like to find special translations on babelfish.

Some gems:

-From cooking websites:

“Although by house several tons of candies have left still the other day desired to me to do the muffins for breakfast. It is possible to be said that they have left delicious, very spongy to us!”

“This time I have used pumpkin because it was an idea that it had in the head since I made those cakes the Christmases.”

“Is time to watch at the mirror with horror when discovering meat unknown during the covered months of winter so I am going to make a pause with candies."

“We did it for Christmas Eve since after the supper the latest that desired to us was a forceful dessert. It gave something me of fear to annoy it. But the truth is that he is not nothing difficult!”

“I continue taking advantage of the strawberries; it could not lack a jam!”

- From horoscopes:

"If able one exists somebody to defy your mental capacity and to make annoy your heart... because he is very lucky!"

"Two together hearts, much more have power that one. To give a breathing to the people who surround to you, really will be a lightening for all!"

"It considers the first days of this week like a phase of preheating. Soon you will enter yourself in a new space station, in which you will have renew your loving life."

"During a pair of days, it tries to walk to your own rate; if you feel that something clay is approached, probably is the incredible energy. This love is in its air!"

A stroll through Caracas

Karla is my favorite shopping buddy, even though we’re in a city where a white cotton t-shirt runs about $45 minimum.

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Sambil: The place to go for overpriced clothing.

On our way to Sambil in order to sambilear (kindof like Macy’s-ing), I asked her if it’s safe for us to walk there at dark. She assured me no hay problema--it is a nice neighborhood, but in most other places we wouldn’t be doing this.

I then told her about my gringo friend Matt, who thinks it’s safe to walk most anywhere in Caracas at night. As I blabbed on about all of the "crazy" neighborhoods in which our feet have tread the earth, Karla bowled over. She laughed in the way that sitcom actors react to the crazy neighbor's harebrained antics, turning her whole body away from me while waving her hand in disbelief.

I arrogantly concluded my stories: Y bueno en fin no estoy segura que Caracas sea tan peligrosa como se dice. (“In the end, I’m not sure Caracas is as unsafe as everyone says..”).

Karla smugly giggled at my wrap up and forced a pause.

Jajajaja pero Erin-- mira esto.
("Hahahaha but Erin--look at that.")

She grabbed my shoulder and pointed 10 feet behind us, to a man tapping on the window of a gridlocked car, clearly in an attempted stick up.

In my nervousness and Karla’s lighthearted jadedness, we both threw our heads back in laughter, turned, and resumed our leisurely stroll to the mall.

Hurts my motor to run so slow

Inner UptightWaspyGringa made a grand appearance today, complete with dramatic walkout. I was 2.5 seconds away from falling asleep in the middle of our team building meeting when she barged in and asked what the eff was going on.

“Why is he talking about slaves in a cave… and something about sunshine blinding the slaves who exit and think they’re better than the ones left behind in the cave. What??? That’s not even politically correct! We paid for this!!”

This meeting was a far cry from her beloved cubicle in Bethesda, where succinctness reigns and any conversation with the semblance of non-professionalism is immediately slaughtered.

I got into a debate with her about it:

“Well I think it’s nice—look everyone is listening. It’s like story time.”

“OK. I, however, do not see the point. First of all, the fonts on his power point are not uniform. What is the point to his story—why am I sitting here when I could be finishing my budget? We should be learning about organization and effective, concise communication methods!"

Then the man ended his story with my current favorite Venezuelanism:

Y… vaina…
(“And… stuff…”).

I desperately searched the room for a face as bored and stunned as mine, yet all signs pointed to total engrossment in his story. “Where the eff am I!” Inner UptightWaspyGringa demanded, before becoming so overcome by her need to be working on the important budget that she got up and huffed out of the room.

Deep breath ok walk back in there oh my God I cannot.

When Inner UptightWaspyGringa did re-enter the room, she found everyone talking about their emotions and personal experiences in the office.

Before she could even get an eyeroll in, good ole sassy Venezuelan fairy flew in through the crack in the window. She sassily tapped her foot and asked: "If you could only live for five more years, would you prefer to work in an office like this one, where they are laughing and sharing stories, or that sterile Bethesda cubicle where you slave away all the time??"

Inner UptightWaspyGringa immediately retreated for naptime.

Finally, a door opened and I could join in the fun of giggling, playful teasing, drawn-out storytelling, laughing, emotional talk, y… vaina…

El crimen de la comida

I woke up at 3am last night to realize the not-so-fresh sushi I'd eaten earlier was having a despedida in my estomago de gringa. At this point I am so pitifully familiar food poisoning that I mechanically know what to do—even at that hour, when I can barely remember my name. Charcoal pills (sounds weird but they absorb toxins), a tall glass of water and the wastebasket huddle by my bed. That night was truly maravillosa.

Calle bello

My clothes are blissfully drenched right now. For el 13 de abril, a municipality sponsored a free last minute Calle 13 concert in Plaza Venezuela. Puro AMAZING.

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El Residente (the guy in the pic) has so much energia and I couldn't understand 50% of his Puerto Rican accento but I am a little bit in love. He has the playful spirit of a kid, the mouth of a sailor and the body of a ... really hot guy.

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By the time they played their most famous song (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nCukjMJ2D54) it was pouring and everyone was bailaaando. In my Caracas heaven every night ends dancing bajo la lluvia to the rhythm of an inappropriate serenade from el Residente.

Morning with a mango

I'm eating a Venezuelan mango right now and my hands are dripping with juice. My friend plucked it from a tree in her backyard and proudly offered it to me as a unique "you don't find these in the U.S. do you now" gift. When I told her we have mangoes up in el norte too, she smiled. "Just smell it."

It hadn’t been cut open yet, but it had an aroma—even the skin radiates fruity sweetness. That's why it's a Venezuelan mango--el perfume.

I was late for work this morning but it smells sooo luscious that I had to just sit with it. My romance with the mango was interrupted by the nosy neighbor next door, though. I noticed out of the corener of my eye she had dropped the pan she was scrubbing to get a better looksee at what that weird gringa's up to now. She was probably trying to figure out why I had my eyes closed and a piece of fruit plastered against my face.

Peanut butter no more!

My coworkers held the door open as we stepped into the elevator, discussing our dinner plans. They were both so eager to get home and cook, but the mere idea of standing by an oven after a long day made me drowsy.

Bueno por mi parte, odio cocinar (“well, I hate cooking”).

-Silence-

I had exited the realm of Venezuelan social propriety and crossed into the land of nonconformist oddballs. One would have thought I said I detest newborn babies. They looked at each other like, Did she really just say that? Uh... maybe she got the Spanish wrong and meant to say she adores being in the kitchen.

Pero Erin… Por qué?? (“But Erin… Why??”).

**Mental flashback of Virginia explaining that she likes to cook for herself because A mi me gusta comer bien (“I like to eat well”).**

OK. Maybe that is a nice thing to do for oneself. I figured I would give cooking a try instead of the usual peanut butter crackers (my treasured Skippy jar is a smuggled staple in places where I don’t have the means to safely get to a market by myself, or haven’t yet figured out how the produce machines at the grocery store work).

I almost turned the kitchen into a fiery inferno, but am so pleased with my creation: boiled plantain, fried eggplant and goat cheese on toast, with a side of passion fruit juice in a champagne glass.

I'm going to tell my coworkers all about it tomorrow.

I'll take one cake and... 5 trillion tanks of gas.

Whenever someone has a birthday, a mass email is released in the halls of our inboxes, signaling a fiery and exclamation-point-filled debate on what breed of cake shall grace our kitchenette table.

27 demands/ pleas/ negotiations later, we giddily arrive at our decision: mil hojas.. aunque engooordaaa (a thousand layer pastry... even though it will make us faaaat).

One time, we missed the birthday of the secretary of one of our partners. This heinous error prompted an informal meeting by the café station:

Ay!! Qué hacemos entonces??? Cuándo era?? Cuánto cumple? Ay no puedo creer que lo perdimos!!! (“Ay!! What are we going to do then?? When was it?? How old did she turn?? Ay, I can’t believe we missed it!!!!!”).
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When all is said and purchased, I like to check out our spending reports just for kicks. With absurd inflation and ridiculously low gas prices (drinkable water costs more than gas), they generally look like this:

• Five full tanks for gas-guzzling SUVs: $4.12

• Single layer b-day cake with minimal frosting: $107.98

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Powdered (or boxed) victory.

Lucho and I were waiting for our food when the juices arrived. Oh, divino delicious juices. I told Lucho that strawberry drinks (thick and sweet tart with chucks of berry) are one of my favorite things about Venezuela. Here, I rest assured that even a filet mignon will always be accompanied by frosty strawberry juice if I so choose.
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When I told him I can’t get this glorious drink in the U.S. unless I order the crappier imitation—a virgin daiquiri—Lucho looked at me like I’d actually said “Houses in the US don’t have doors—just spaces on the ground where you get beamed inside.”

No puede ser!!! (“It cannot be!!!!”). Lucho nervously ran his hands over the table in an attempt to regain a sense of reality.

He then asked for a confirmation of my outlandish statement before resigning to the fact that his next visit to the U.S. would be devoid of fresh jugo de fresa.

I further explained that the only juices you can easily get in the U.S. are boring: grape, orange, apple and cranberry.

“I bet they’re not even freshly made,” he ventured, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Nope—from a bottle,” I solemnly confirmed.

In spite of our fresh juice deficiency, Venezuelans are in no place to judge the U.S. on the basis of its liquid consumables. There is no fresh milk in Caracas. If you’re lucky, you can get your hands on that boxed stuff that lasts longer than any animal product should, or the powdered kind, which I have trouble classifying as milk.

Going to the grocery store on a day when there’s boxed or powdered milk is to be avoided at all costs. When this happens, the grocer yells HAY LECHE!!!! (“THERE’S MILK!!!!”), at which point people dash for the back as if a tsunami were on the horizon: arms, bodies and carts flail in all directions.

Having hoarded sufficient amounts for their families, customers proudly resume their shopping. The game doesn’t end there, though. Competition is so fierce that if you take your eyes away from your cart for even a second, you can kiss that pasteurized prize goodbye.

Worth fighting for.

If you do manage to make it to the front of the store with this precious commodity in hand, there is a special line for you and the other victors. In this line people brag and congratulate themselves on their brave feat, eyeing how many boxes the person in front of them grabbed and loudly fantasizing about the creamy stews, flans and dulce de leches that now loom in their milk-laden horizons.

Beach bitch beach bitch beach

Venezuelans are really good at having fun because they take it just as seriously as their work:
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-They deliberate on proposed courses of action (after 30 minutes of discussing pros and cons, we concluded that yes, we would nap for 2 hours and then re-commence pool partying on our first night at the beach house);
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-They invest money in it (not uncommon to see SUVs with snorkels, because if you live near the beach, why would you not take your car swimming?):
..

Ready for a dip.

-When it comes things that might potentially affect their capacity to have fun, like music, or cooking and getting tastes just right, they do not mess around.

One must never get in the way of a Venezuelan woman in the kitchen. Virginia and Veronica had naturally started cooking lunch for all 7 of us at the beach house. Being the most domestically challenged person I know, it was probably a bad idea to offer my ayuda. But I had to, or else I would be a non-woman by Venezuelan standards.

I basically walked onto a cooking battlefield.

ECHALE LECHE—por qué estás usando SAL Erin!!!! La vaina no está LISTAAA! Por FAVOR. Ok ECHALE LECHE hay que mezclar bieen las salsas. Echale leche, y las salsas. Ok dale –DALE--pa que se impregne de sabor. DAAALEEEE pa que quede SABROSITA. Ok pica el ajo. AY NO ASI! Hay que picarlo finamente, asi. SI PERFECTO, ASI.

(“PUT THE MILK IN—why are you using SALT Erin!!!! It’s not READYYY! PLEEEASE—ok PUT THE MILK IN, we have to make sure the sauces mix well. Put the milk in, and the salsas. Ok put it down—PUT IT DOWN—so that it impregnates itself with flavor. PUT IT DOWWWWN so it’s tasty. Ok chop the garlic. AY! NOT LIKE THAT! You have to chop it finely, like this. YES, PERFECT—like THAT.”)
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Virginia and Veronica on the battlefield

So, Venezuelan women like to be in control of things. This especially applies to dating. Accordingly, men ask lots of questions—Cuándo nos vemos?? Tú me dices cuando. Qué vamos hacer? Qué te gustaría hacer? A qué hora te busco? (“When can we see each other?? You tell me when. What are we going to do? What do you feel like doing? When can I pick you up??”).

They don’t really act on your responses unless you order them around—much like a puppy that’s learning to pee on the newspaper and not the carpet. I didn’t fully understand this concept until my friend Ana translated it into a hand movement: grab (a special part of the male anatomy), twist, and don’t let go. Unless you do this, she subtly warned: te montan y te dejan—they mount you and leave. Right then.

Virginia and Veronica further explained that I must be a "beach" if I am to get anywhere with venezolanos. I then went into ESL teacher mode, talking about the pronounciation of "bitch" vs "beach," and thus we ended our night--hanging by the pool yelling "beach bitch beach bitch beach bitch beach bitch beach bitch!"

No room for granny panties on these beaches

There it was--every Venezuelan woman’s “must have” and every gringa’s worst nightmare: the thong bikini. Blindingly pink, yet so small it was practically invisible to the naked eye.

Veronica anxiously waited outside, amidst rows of other tiny pieces of fabric that also called themselves bathing suits. "Estas lista? te queda?? Necesitas uno mas grande?" (Are you ready? How's it fit?? Do you need a bigger one?).

When I opened the curtain 5 inches, she insisted that I looked espectacular and demanded that I step out of the dressing room to spin around (in front of other people? that happen to be gorgeous Venezuelan models??). That’s it, she said: I absolutamente had to purchase it.

I was more of the opinion that I would/could/should never appear in public wearing something that resembles a four year old's headband. But I’d heard it all before on the beaches of Venezuela: my (skimpy, mind you) JCrew bikini might as well have been pulled directly from my grandmother’s underwear drawer. It was time for a change.

The sales associate interrupted her gossiping to corroborate Veronica’s ridiculous claim that I looked arrechisima. I pointed out all the blah blah blah criticisms women always make of their own bodies, and Veronica responded with her this gringa has so much to learn head shake. She reminded me that any woman who thinks she’s drop dead sexy looks sexy and—more importantly—she really didn't want to be seen with me wearing those granny panties anymore.

Two minutes later, I’m handing cash to the saleswoman and walking out of the store wondering what the hell just happened. Now it's time for a weekend at the beach. And exposing parts of my body that have never seen the sun.

Dengue Dreams

One of the weirdest things about Caracas is the fact that you can still get Dengue from white footed mosquitoes (I thought mosquitoes just had long dainty legs but apparently there’s feet too).

Matt and I laughed about this idea as we hiked el Avila: Hah, who gets Dengue, am I right? Isn’t that like, prehistoric?

Then he called me a week later and said he had Dengue. I knew he was joking so of course I laughed. Then he said he was at the hospital and his voice cracked. Matt’s not that good an actor so I got all Oh my god are you serious what does that even really mean are you ok?

We learned Dengue is not so prehistoric when your temperature goes to 106˚ and you have to eat smelly chicken’s feet soup while doing nothing but lying around for 6 days. A dainty mosquito did all that to a grown man, one thousand times its size! Pobre Matt.

Now, every time I get bit by a mosquito in Caracas I say a little swear and check out its feet.

Álvaro

It’s always a great idea to party all night before getting on an international flight until you are writhing in pain on said international flight.

We just landed in Atlanta and I’m so loopy. A drug sniffing beagle and his border patrol owner approached my unreasonably large heap of bags. Naturally, I asked the beagle if he wasn’t just the most precious little thing I’d ever seen!

“Maam. Please refrain from engaging the animal.”

I retired to my hotel at 4:30am last night and received a call from my airport driver at 5am. Pain. Pain. Pain. Álvaro, the driver, assured me his car has papel—bullet proof casing, and that he is armed. In my probably still drunk haze I asked him if he had training for that. He said he had been a cop in Caracas for 20 years, which I took to mean, Are you kidding me.

My hazy blabbing continued: Esto es un trabajo que jamás quisiera tener. (“That is one job I would never want to have.”)

Álvaro kindly explained that most cops in Caracas don’t want it either, considering they risk their lives daily, and generally get paid $700 a month. (As a point of cash comparison, my friend said he had trouble finding a one-bedroom in a decent Caracas neighborhood for less than $3500 a month).

Almost every Caraqueño I’ve met blames Venezuela’s rampant violent crime on el Presidente, so I asked him why Chávez hasn’t made it a priority to increase wages for la policia. My bilingual braincells were off duty at this point but the spare ones that work 24 hours caught key phrases in his response, such as cabrón (bastard) and imbécil incompetente (incompetent idiot).

(These spare cells also show up for work with no explanation in my dreams and blurt out stupid things like pantalones! (pants!) and mayúsculo! (uppercase!) which leads me to believe they’ve been out partying).

Álvaro left the police force 5 years ago because Irene Saez (who, not surprisingly, was also a Miss Venezuela and Miss Universe) stepped down as the first elected mayor of Chacao. People have a lot of respect for this woman and he did not anticipate that her successor would be as qualified a leader.

As we drove through of a string of hills marked randomly by shantytowns, Álvaro explained that his country has the same problem as most other developing countries: lots of natural wealth but nobody seems to know what to do with it. A common joke, he said, is that when God was creating Latin America he put oil, diamonds, and gold in Venezuela. When the rest of the region complained that all the good stuff was going to Venezuela, God said, OK, I’ll add Venezuelans.

I asked him if he’d ever considered leaving. He said yes.

Then some second thoughts quickly surfaced: “But Venezuela is a unique place. There is no country like ours. There is no gente like the venezolanos. I could leave Venezuela. But I would feel very sad.”
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The space-time continuum

Veronica needs to pick up a box tomorrow so she asked if she could come temprano tempranito—as early as you can get.

The 5:30am shriek of my alarm and the thought of greeting Veronica at the door with eyes half open and hair unbrushed begin to torment me.

Then she turns to me: Ok entonces como a las… once?

(“Ok so like... 11am?”)

Thank you, sweet gods of Venezuelan time.

I am currently making plans to meet up with a friend in ten minutes but I know I’m going to take at least an hour. I’m in Venezuela, though, so technically speaking he can't get pissy about that. (Inner UptightWaspyGringa notes that lengthy assignments in Caracas are not doing wonders for my lacking sense of punctuality).

I think it's fitting that, aside from a handful of global cities (like Tehran), Venezuela’s clocks are always 30 minutes ahead of the rest of you guys. This shift sounds so silly. But the point is to make it lighter when a lot of people go to work in the early morning. Precious daylight is a good way to combat crime. So maybe Chávez is on to something…

Holllllllld it. Why is it just half an hour—why not an hour?

If you’re going to mess around with Time then the only thing left to tinker with would be Space no? So, if he ever gains power indefinitely his next logical step will be to physically remove Venezuela from Latin America and place it in outer space...or (what with all those petrodollars) make it an island in the Pacific. Otherwise everything he does will be mere child’s play.

For now he can at least control how we speak: NO MÁS ENGLISH! We are no longer permitted to speak English round these parts. This announcement incited a mass of what I adore about our office here—giggles. Venezuelans are lovely like that. Us norteamericanos would never giggle if the government tried to restrict our business languages because we would be too busy calling our lawyers on our blackberrys. But here, everyone laughs—albeit in a slightly anxious, when is the next flight to Miami kind of way.

Surprise! we're on a plane!

I make most of my travel plans while inner UptightWaspyGringa is out on a business lunch or taking a nap.

Inevitably though, Eeyoowug gets startled and suddenly wakes up, uncomfortably bewildered by the fact she is on a plane to, say, the armpit of Africa. Then she starts freaking out.

It happens every time. In Spain I saw some pictures from a friend’s trip to Brazil: oooh FUN!! Look she’s riding on a motorcycle behind some random Brazilian! I want that!

Four months later, Eeyoowug woke up on a plane to São Paolo and totally flipped out.

“This food is weird –why are we going here?! You don’t know a single person! You barely speak the language and there’s lots of murders! Three months will be an eternity in this place, just so you know.”

(Eeyoowug's rationale is always “just so I know”).

The worst was when she was sleep deprived on a flight from Paris to Malabo. She woke up, looked out the window and realized she was in the middle of f*cking nowhere: “Is that the… SAHARA?! When did you sign up for this—the government is one of the 5 most corrupt in the world! You don’t even know what the place looks like because photography is illegal! What if there are tarantulas in the bed!?”

Eeyoowug perceives every trip to be like I am on a rocket ship headed for a black hole and might physically vanish in the vast unfamiliarity of it all. It is not until days later, once I have made new friends and developed new habits (she loves those) that she resumes regular breathing patterns.

She hasn’t yet realized that I’m going to Vietnam in May so I’m sure she’ll panic when she lands in Hanoi and can’t read any of the signs.

My superlatives are greater than yours. Now GO.

Every time I order room service or take-out I feel like I’m in the middle of a superlatives showdown:

Guy: Very good day to you, my esteemed guest, how are you?
Me: Excelente, thank you very much. I’d love to order your delicioso tomacat sandwich.
Guy: Perfecto, anything with that?
Me: No, nada, gracias. That alone will be divino.
Guy: Magnifico. It will be ready in 20 minutes.
Me: Buenisimo. A thousand thanks.
Guy: Perfecto, ciao.

***

The word ahora (“now”) often triggers an over-the-head-question-mark for me. For example, one time a friend and I were driving back from the beach:

Me: Saque unas buenas fotos este fin

.......(I took some great pics this weekend)
Him: Tienes que enseñarmelas ahora

.........(You have to teach them to me, now)

(Question mark: How might one teach photos? Perhaps a mini-chalkboard placed on the dashboard so that I may indicate important aspects of each photo with a ruler while wearing a scholarly cap and gown. But why does he want me to do this now? He is driving. We would get into an accident).

Luckily I am good at feigning rapid comprehension:

Me: Bueno, claro.

.......(Oh yeah well of course.)

The following Monday I was wrapping up a convo with Carolina at the office:

Me: Well I must get back to work.
Carolina: Vale. Hablamos ahora. Ciao.

..................(Ok. Let’s talk now. Bye.)

(Question mark: She wants to talk now? Did we not just end our conversation? Do I keep talking? Ok she's not looking at me, I think we--ok, yes, walk away.)

As it turns out, ahora in Venezuela does not mean now like any silly dictionary will tell you. It means “sometime soon, maybe”.

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The more immediate alternative, ahorita, means “probably right now, unless something gets in the way, you never know”.

Thankfully I am not the only one in this country who could benefit from a personal translator. Many a Venezuelan, while holding a door open for me, has simply demanded: “GO.”

This is their English take on the word pasa, which is a much nicer way of saying “go right ahead.” The ESL teacher who started that one should probably investigate alternative career paths ahora.

Walking to work

No respectable Venezuelan woman would walk to work in tennis shoes. So in my ever-failing quest to fit in, I made my 2 mile walk in heels. This was a really bad idea. Aside from the fact that stop lights are interpreted merely as suggestions, the sidewalks in Caracas look like they were imported from an Indiana Jones movie set.

According to Verónica, venezolanas are las mas femeninas de todas las Latinas (the most feminine of all Latin women). Surely my normal gringa walk would make me stick out, so I pretend there is a book on my head (as if prepping for a beauty pageant) while dodging open potholes, motociclistas that observe everything on a road except pedestrians, and drivers of oncoming cars that don't really see the point in slowing down if there is a human being between their SUV and the open road.

In spite of all my efforts to fit in, no one approaches me to inquire if I am Venezuelan. BUT, one creepy man who saw me across the street did stop dead in his tracks and called out: "meeow. meeeow. meeeoww."

Ah. Bienvenida a Caracas.

Hombres and comida

Oh, dating in a foreign land. I like it here. Venezuelan men take a delightful I cannot get enough of you approach to a woman they’re courting. That's fine but sometimes it confuses me and I find myself wondering, but aren’t you supposed to Wait Two Days to Call after getting my number?

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In the casual stage, dating is straightforward—no pointless games, no ooh, well, maybe, I’m not sure if I like you, because Venezuelan men are pretty damn clear about that. They’re also very skilled in the art of flattery. A local writer sums it up well in saying that the role of women in Venezuela is “symbolically elevated to the peak of human experience. Women are celebrated as queens and goddesses.”

Venezolanos are also pretty good about things like opening doors, making sure the woman walks onto the elevator/ small sidewalk space/ etc. first, and (get ready to cringe all you egalitarian daters!)—paying for dinner. Yes I said (wrote) it.

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The restaurant near the place I’m staying makes milkshakes so divino I inhale them in a single sip, before they even have time to put the salsas on my sandwich. They also have delicious arepas (thick corn meal patties) that can be turned into massive pockets for avocado, steak, tomatoes and cheese (just a suggestion), or simply served warm with butter. Or shrimp and avocado. Or melted white cheese. Or fried plantains with sauteed onions and steak. Mmmmmmmmmmmmm.

My other favorite thing about eating in Venezuela is that everyone asks Que jugos tienen? (“What fresh juices do you have?”) before ordering anything. The response sounds like the waiter recently surveyed the shoreline of a tropical island: parchita (passion fruit), papaya, mango, piña (pineapple), naranja (orange), fresas (strawberries, my FAVORITE), limón (lemon), mora azul (blueberry), melocotón (peach), sandia (watermelon), pomelo (grapefruit), melón (cantaloupe), pera (pear), uva (grape). I also inhale these before my food arrives.

My other favorite thing (I have like, 100 favorite things) about Venezuelan food is pabellón criollo, which is rice, black beans, shredded beef, tajadas (fried plantain slices) and sometimes avocado or egg served all together. I’m not a food writer so I’m not going to try to describe it but please know that if you ever set foot in Venezuela your first priority should be to find a place that will serve you this dish.

Hello Expats

Hanging with other norteamericanos here sometimes feels like going to McDonald's in Paris. In Sarajevo I made a lovely friend, Bronwyn from Australia, who feels the same way. While walking to meet our Bosnian friends, another Australian stopped us: “Uh, hey! Do you know where (__insert bar with lots of gringos__) is??”

Why hello, gorgeous Australian man. “Well actually this other bar that we’re going to is really fun and—”

“Your bar is that way and to the left.” Bronwyn could not get rid of him fast enough. When he was out of earshot she heaved a sigh of relief, having liberated herself of the presence of other Australians while in Bosnia (apparently I am willing to make an exception for exceedingly handsome men but others are not).

Enter: “expat girls night!” dinner, organized primarily by Canadians and Americans. Awesome.

Rosey from the UK picked us up. She drives like a local Caraqueño (which means holy sh*t I am going to die), is the proud owner of Smartcar plastered with Hello Kitty vinyl graphics, and swears at pedestrians who have the right of way (well, if such rules existed here). Yesterday she inadvertently broke up with her serious boyfriend on facebook (I rolled my eyes and explained that we all see a broken heart on newsfeed when an In a Relationship status is deleted). But my favorite thing about Rosey is that she hates salsa dancing. I’ve never met an expat in Latin America who doesn’t totally like looove salsa, but Rosey prefers to “just get freaky!”

I immediately wanted to be best friends with this woman.

Kearsey from Finland is also lovely (I have no idea if that’s how to spell her name). Kearsey’s bodybuilder Finnish boyfriend had been dating her for 2 months when he decided to move to Caracas in the name of her job. “How the hell did you pull that one?” (I'd just spent an hour asking Rosey about living in Argentina so a British accent had crawled into my mouth). Kearsey’s man is now back in Finland, counting the days until her tour is up. She is also completely enamored, but in view of her lifelong dream of working abroad, has chosen to enjoy Caracas for a few more years.

Kearsey and Rosey think it’s “absolutely preposterous” that I take taxis alone at night. “In Caracas, you’re fine 97% of the time. But 3% of the time, you’re totally f*cked. People use guns here so don’t bother with mace. Right then love?”

“Ok, you’re right. Thanks for the ride—see you tomorrow,” I say, firmly closing the car door. Rosey smiles back then floors it, sending her beloved Hello Kitty ornament into an uncontrollable bobbling frenzy.

Amor por Bush

Just wanted to clear up all that confusion about how the Venezuelan government feels about our current President:

Full good looking

Beauty in Venezuela is understood to be more of a serious obligation than something on which you might focus if you have time. I imagine the to-do list of every Venezuelan woman to resemble the following:

Finish financial reports for January
Go grocery shopping for the feast I will cook for my husband tonight
Buy new stroller
Get gas for my Range Rover

At the top of this list, underlined four times:

Look really hot.

This is a little confusing because in makeupless land of Washington, DC, when a woman devotes hours and hours to her appearance, we make the assumption that the intelligent thoughts she had were all directed towards which color of nail polish she should purchase.

But Venezuelan women (and men) are really opinionated. Actually, that’s gross understatement. If you’re trying to think of an English word in the presence of a Venezuelan who speaks no English, he will probably suggest something to you. And then if you tell them that word actually means something quite different, he will probably argue with you.

I didn’t realize the extent of this tendency until our staff meeting yesterday. My boss asked me for a recommendation on a management issue and I got all tongue-tied en español "uh bueno eh yo..."

Veronica found this to be totally unacceptable. The second she closed the door to our microclimate after the meeting, I seriously thought she was going to whack me. Luckily, she just started whacking the air in front of me, so much so that she nearly whipped herself into a circle.

CHAMA she said, POR QUE TE QUEDASTE CALLADA CUANDO TE PREGUNTABA ESOOOO?! CHAMA TIENES QUE DECIR ALGO. CHAAAAAMA. (“GIRL WHY DID YOU SIT THERE ALL QUIET WHEN HE ASKED YOU THATTTT?! GIRL YOU HAVE TO SAY SOMETHING. GIRRRRRRL.”)

She was right so I decided to march into my boss’ office and be all opinionated en español. The Venezolana approach worked pretty well because he requested that I work full time in our Caracas office. When I told Veronica about this she flipped out and fell off her chair: Chama eso es FULL BUENO!!!

“Girl, that is FULL GOOD!!!!!”

My Eeyoowug

As much as I like to think of myself as being as culturally adaptable as (something that’s really culturally adaptable), my inner UptightWaspyGringa frequently barges onto the scene here in Caracas, land of instability and planless-ness.

UptightWaspyGringa

In prissy English, inner UptightWaspyGringa demands answers to questions like (listed in order of importance):

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If she knows she's going to arrive in 3 or so hours, for what reason would my friend say she is en camino—“on the way”? If this pasta is just “ok”, why does Jorge describe it as maravillosa? If I’m going to spend all day at the beach with friends, why would I drink cuba libres when I could be reading a book about the history of Venezuela (which, in case I don’t recall, will not leave me with a vile 6pm hangover)? Why would Juan choose to have several amiguitas when he could do the sensible thing and just have one girlfriend to whom he is completely faithful all the time? Why are the Caracas police known for contributing to crime when they should be combating it like the non-corrupt cops on NYPD Blue? (Also remember that I should be able to walk around alone at night anywhere in the world!!).

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This list is really, really long.

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Luckily, IUWG ("Ee-yoo-wu-g"? oh she hates it) came prepared with an instructional book on how to efficiently manage the stress/ confusion/ frustration that one might expect in a foreign context. (Based on comparative online research she has selected 4 other such books that wait at her doorstep in Washington, ready to prepare her for her trip to Vietnam so she can know what to expect there too).

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Then one Saturday afternoon, while ignoring her books and doing nothing that even resembles efficiency, a little Venezuelan fairy whizzes right down from el Avila. She halts, disapprovingly tilts her head at Eeyoowug and then smacks a thought right in her brain: WAIT-- I’M HAVING A GREAT TIME! Right now! Not even doing anything! Nothing!

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Then the fairy gets all sassy Venezolana and z-snaps some more thoughts while pacing back and forth on her shoulders:

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And maybe who cares if Veronica is late because there are bad roads and lots of cars on them because of the absurdly cheap gas. And maybe that pasta IS maravillosa because Venezolanos are so accutely aware of their senses and I can even learn to feverishly enjoy food and beauty and sensualidad and salsa the way they do! And maybe I should drink Soleras at the beach with my Venezuelan friends just because I am at the beach with my Venezuelan friends! And maybe not feeling so safe all the time makes me actually appreciate the fact I’m safe and alive, and maybe dating 4 guys all at the same time could be—REALLY FUN??

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Inner UptightWaspyGringa reaches for a pen to diligently record these thoughts and then—astonishingly—decides instead to crack open a Solera and sink into the first of many blissful moments in plan-less, unstable and maravillosa Caracas.

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Congelada en Caracas

The weather in Caracas is similar to that of Heaven. Being from New England, though, few things amuse me more than when Venezuelans complain of the cold. One morning after opening a few emails from friends at home (all bemoaning the snow and frequent arctic blasts), I went to chat with our office manager as she unlocked the door for the rest of the staff. We were greeted with the following: Tu SABES lo FRÍO que hace afuera?! Chaaama, que estoy CONGELADA—toque mis manos! Voy a necesitar unos 3 cafes para calentarme!! Debe ser como 15 grados! (“Do you KNOW how COLD it is outside?! Girrl, I am FROZEN—feel my hands!! I’m going to need 3 coffees just to warm up!! It must be like, 15 degrees (Celsius)!”)

I had no idea what 15 degrees meant in my little non-metric world, so I consulted a converter. 60 degrees Farenheit, it reported: practically freezing.

Cab drivers also love to tell me how cold December was, as if the unforgiving weather gods had damned Caracas with an eternal frost. I finally asked one of them just how cold it got. “Ufff--13 grados,” he responded: 55 degrees. In this vain I have taken to greeting our office security guard with an overly emphatic “que FRÍO no!!??” whenever I get a goosebump or two from wearing a tank-top on my walk to work. He can tell I’m faking, but he is kind and shakes his head in like-minded disbelief.

***

Veronica and I have been relegated to an alcove, which she refers to as our microclima, in the back of the office. The rest of the office is so overly air conditioned that every morning, she comes in, opens a large window and firmly shuts our door. Whenever I leave the door open she reminds me: hay que proteger nuestra microclima!! (we must protect our microclimate!!), and bolts over to slam the door.

Veronica and I do not share the same taste in music, but this gives us ample fodder for making fun of each other. She prefers romantic American 80s love ballads. These songs are so cheesy that I often and loudly question how they managed to slither across international borders without being arrested and detained. Whenever an excruciatingly atrocious song pops up on her iTunes, I say, en serio, Vero? (“seriously, Vero?”), at which point she asks me if I want to go buy candles and turn down the lights. Occasionally we switch to my music, which she finds to be equally, if not more, appalling: reggaeton.

Reggaeton lyrics are inappropriate for any environment that is not dark, crowded and smoky. But since I am not totally fluent in Spanish, singing them in my office seems like a sensible thing to do. Whenever I unknowingly croon hyper-suggestive lyrics, Veronica stares at me in disbelief and releases the valve to our microclimate. After politely waiting for me to finish, she loudly beckons Lucho, another junior staff member, and reports all the ridiculous things I just said.

Why must I work out when there is liposuction?

This morning while eating breakfast, I saw a really special tv clip. It must have been a re-run because it provided suggestions for New Years resolutions. The first one was to forget working out—simply watch Doctor 90210.

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Why? Duh. Because that way, you can make an informed decision about which form of plastic surgery would best suit your needs.

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hablo venezolano

My favorite Venezuelan-ism is a word they plucked from us gringos: Full. They abuse it to no end:

For example:
Estoy demasiado full ahorita = I am FULL busy - OR - I am FULL of food.
La musica está full buena= This music is FULL good.
El centro está puro full ahorita = The mall is pure FULL now.
La vaina está full = The (insert noun) is FULL.
Había full gente= There were FULL people there (it was crowded).
Te quiero full = I love you FULL.



Venezuelans also know how to make each other feel really good through conversation. Instead of just saying “k cool” or “alright,” a more typical Venezuelan response would be:

- Buenísimo
- Magnifico
- Divino

And while they’re at it, they’re not going to refer to you as just “you”. You’re more likely to be:

- Mi princesa – my princess
- Mi amor – my love
- Mi vida – my life
- Mi querida—my darling
- Preciosa — precious

So a typical conversation might go like this:

Me: I brought chocolates for the office.
Venezolano: Divine!! My precious—how wonderful! Well, I am full-busy right now but I will stop to enjoy these rich treats with you, my life!

Chacaito

Some amigos and I went to a free concert in Chacaito. The headline band was Chino y Nacho--Venezuela’s most famous reggaeton group--so I nearly peed my pants when I caught wind of this opportunity.
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They performed in a plaza where massive student protests occurred before constitutional reform elections (2 months ago). The hand imprint on stage is the symbol of el movimiento estudiantil.

Seeing a throng of students reunited in the same plaza made me crave all that energía and wish I could’ve been here to play with them in December. While surely their motives were more serious than playing (just like, preserving democracy in their country), I love being in huge crowds that convene because everyone cares about the same thing.

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I aspire to be a youthful goat

Today Verónica explained that higher ups in a company are chivos. This is just silly because chivo means “young goat”.

This factoid took a seat in my brain for the remainder of my afternoon at the office. I envisioned conversations with coworkers: “Sh*t, a baby goat just caught me checking gmail” or "We really need to impress the little goats with this presentation." Then I pictured a pack of carefree, suited goats having a board room party, with one goat wearing a tailcoat and top hat, attempting a thumbs-up with his hoof (he had just signed a major contract).

To aid my imagination, I went google-hunting for goats in suits. This was an alarmingly effortless task:

Aló gringa!

I must remember that coger, while widely used in Spain for “to gather/ grab” has a vulgar meaning in most of Latin America. I'm fairly certain I asked our accountant to “please f*ck the field reports for an internal audit” this morning.

***

So I’m writing this on my patio and it’s suddenly all awkward because a guy in the building across from me is whistling and waving his arms in circles. Venezuelans feel pretty comfortable about expressing their genuine attraction to women. Sometimes, though, I question their judgment.

I confirmed some doubts this morning while walking to work in brown pants, dusty flip flops (a HUGE NO-NO! Gringa Alert!) and barely any makeup. I was directly behind a stunningly gorgeous, made-up, high-heeled, silky-haired, could-be supermodel. Four idling taxi drivers stared at her and showered her with the usual comments, but when they caught wind of this gringa they had a field day: MI VIDA--los OJOS! Mi reina bellaaaaaa que se cuenta de su hermosa vida?? mi doncella eres una LOCURAAA! Ay me muero! (“Oh, my life--those EYES! My beauuuutiful queen tell me about your lovely life! My damsel you drive me CRAZY! Oh--I am dying!!”)

While it’s always nice to be labeled a beautiful damsel while sporting ill-fitting pants, I couldn’t help but to look at them all confused like Did you not see what just walked by?

When I got to work, a coworker showed me a video of her precious 5 year old daughter’s kindergarten costume party. I love reggaeton more than any other form of music, so I was pleased to hear it playing in the background. The only odd thing was the lyrics: “My girl likes it raw, she get naked and we sweat all night.” Having that as the backdrop for a group of smiling children eating their graham crackers with apple juice was a bit weird, but mostly I was jealous that those kids got to listen to reggeaton at school and I did not.

***

The Avila is the only thing in Caracas that makes me feel tranquila. Sometimes when I gaze at it for a long time it starts to sigh back at me like some village elder radiating stillness and indecipherable Latin American wisdom. I can tell el Avila is disappointed with the state of its darling valley below (the constant honking, the suggestive reggaeton lyrics blasting from cars and clubs, the crime, the sirens, the corruption, etc.). But being the understanding village elder that it is, el Avila serenely accepts this chaos and continues on.

el Avila

***

One thing I love about Caracas is the pro-government graffiti and billboards. Chávez goes to town with his own PR. My favorite example is the large white canvasses that warn nothing other than “POR AHORA….” in large chavista-red block letters. This phrase (FOR NOW…) appears to be Chávez’s favorite slogan of defiance against the failure of a referendum that would have granted him power to be re-elected for eternity (well, for the rest of his life, but some Venezuelans understand that particular scenario to be an eternity). So rest assured, international community: he will bring his not-so-fresh ideas back to the table just as soon as “AHORA” is over.

I probably sound like some imperialista anti-Chavista but I honestly have no opinion about the man. It’s easy to get a Venezuelan to give you their take on Chávez but the only person whose opinion I really listen to is my friend Matt’s. He is a fancy journalist and has the enviable task of listening to Chávez talk for up to eight hours straight every Sunday afternoon in Aló Presidente! (Hello President!). I trust Matt's opinion because he is the only person I've met here who says both positive and negative things about Chávez.

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I love the way Caracas smells. It’s kinda like standing outside a kitchen that has an old car running, coffee brewing, and French fries cooking all at once, but it reminds me where I am and I really like this place.

Welcome (back) to Caracas

This is my first foray into the world of blogging so I have a disclaimer: All of my observations are grounded in cultural ignorance so do not get offended.

My first night back in Caracas reminds me of a clichéd 80s movie where the girl is pitifully waiting for some guy to call. In my case, Caracas is my boyfriend and I know it’s out having fun (I can hear reggaeton in the next building over), I’m all dressed up, waiting for the call, but nothing. I also spent an embarrassing amount of time doing my makeup (but at least I can chalk it up to my quest for cultural assimilation in a place that lends more importance to female beauty than one could possibly fathom—just try riding the metro here without seriously considering that nose job/ liposuction/ breast enhancement combo pack because it costs “SOLO 700 Bolivares!!!!”).

What am I doing here? Why did I travel so far just to sit in my hotel room? Like any good cultural neophyte I’m going to place blame squarely on my host culture. A string of friends tonight made plans al estilo venezolano: a text message suggesting a time and place with a few exclamation points, followed several hours later by a predictable excuse for tardiness or no-show (usually the infamous Caracas traffic or—my favorite—maternal obligations). Making plans with a Venezuelan is like a weird philosophical guessing game--I never know if the plans exist in reality until I can physically touch the other person.

Me and Sandra always talk about how being abroad gives you the highest of the highs and the lowest of the lows. Tonight is a quintessential example of the latter: I’m lonely and no one wants to play with me, probably because all I want to do is ask questions about the culture and the definitions of delightfully new words like chimbo (crappy) and vaina–a catch-all, used like “thing”. (Esa vaina es de Chávez! is the favorite saying of one friend who teasingly blames everything on this country’s president. Especially while intoxicated. One time he held Chávez responsible for the red wine he spilled all over his new couch, some of which landed on me and another guy. All he could do was shake his head and explain that esa vaina es de Chávez.)

In light of some foreign dating successes and disasters, my most recent cultural questions are aimed at understanding Venezuelan men: “What does it mean when a venezolano says xyz?” These questions make me feel like I am 12 and have to re-learn everything I thought I knew (oh so well) about the opposite sex. As far as I’m concerned, though, Venezuelan men and gringos might as well be different genders.

This third gender is one I am wildly attracted to but tend to get all mentally deer-in-headlights about. For example, it’s perfectly acceptable for a Venezolano to have a girlfriend and amiguitas (or, amigos con derecho--friends with "rights") on the side. The degree of acceptability of this practice appears to increase in proportion to the man’s income. Accordingly, Venezuelan men are far more charming than most gringos. Within 5 minutes of saying Mucho gusto, a Venezolano can churn out a barrage of compliments like he's been steadily observing you and your Perfect Little Self since the dawn of time. Also, many Venezuelan men are beautiful in a way that evokes a singular reaction from the opposite sex (or probably just me): Staring.

Sound like a pretty sweet dating deal? Well, wide-eyed gringas beware. My office manager recently described the “weird thing” about us norteamericanos: “When you say something to them, they believe you.”

Apparently I need to work on that.