This love is in its air!

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

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 grotesquely 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 ten 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.

El crimen de la comida

I woke up at 3 a.m. 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. AMAZING.

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El Residente (see pic) has so much energia. I couldn't understand most of his Puerto Rican accent, but I am a little bit in love. He has the playful spirit of a kid and the mouth of a sailor.

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By the time they played their most famous song, it was pouring and everyone was bailando. 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," she said.

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 to meet friends this morning, but it smells so 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 corner of my eye that she had dropped the pan she was scrubbing to get a better look-see 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.

“Well, I hate cooking,” I said, unthinkingly.

-Silence-

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

“But Erin… Why??”

OK. Maybe it 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... "even though it will make us fat."

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!!!!!”).


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

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.”

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 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!!!! 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, eying 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.