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.
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