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. "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 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 prehistoric or something?

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 of an actor.

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 six 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

I just landed in Atlanta, en route to D.C., 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 received a call from my airport driver at 4:30 a.m. Pain. Álvaro, the driver, assured me his car has papel—bullet proof casing, and that he is armed. In my 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 I caught key phrases in his response such as cabrón (bastard) and imbécil incompetente (incompetent idiot).

Álvaro left the police force five 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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