A timely decision

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 so like... 11am?”

Thank you, 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 mad about that.

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 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…

But why is it just half an hour—why not an hour?

For now he can control how we speak too: No mas English! We are no longer permitted to speak English in the office. 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.

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 two-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 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, Caracas.

Men and comida

In the casual stage, dating is straightforward in Venezuela—no pointless games, no ooh, well, maybe, I’m not sure if I like you, because Venezuelan men are 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 first, and (get ready to cringe all you egalitarian daters!)—paying for dinner.

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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.

My other favorite thing about eating in Venezuela is that everyone asks, “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), limón (lemon), mora azul (blueberry), melocotón (peach), sandia (watermelon), pomelo (grapefruit), melón (cantaloupe), pera (pear), and uva (grape). I also inhale these before my food arrives.

My other favorite thing 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.

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!

I aspire to be a youthful goat

Today, Verónica explained that Venezuelan higher ups are chivitos. This is just silly, because chivito 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: “Oh no, 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!

The Avila is the only thing in Caracas that makes me feel tranquila. Sometimes, when I gaze at it for a while, 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). But being the understanding village elder that it is, el Avila serenely accepts this chaos and continues on.

el Avila