The Day I Was Shamed By All-Natural Cleaning

I think it's time we paused to talk about vinegar. In my previous life as a young woman living in Virginia, I did not consider vinegar a very useful daily tool.  It was something you sometimes cooked with, maybe mixed up to make a salad dressing or tossed in cold pasta to liven up your favorite summer picnic dish.  My friends, it is safe to say that vinegar has a far greater purpose here in my adopted Caracas home.  There is, in fact, a whole half an aisle in the grocery store dedicated to just one vinegar- your run-of-the-mill white distilled vinegar.  It maintains its place of honor along with the other half aisle of rice and beans because Venezuelans use vinegar for absolutely everything.

-Out of windex?  Use vinegar!
-Need to clean your wood floors that are painted with a freaking half an inch of varnish? --Use vinegar!
-Need to clean the ilk that give you parasites off your vegetables?  Use vinegar!
-Having health problems?  Warts, the plague, heart disease? Take a shot of vinegar daily!

I was skeptical, gentle readers, about the near religious adherence given to vinegar.  Then, I came upon domestic a problem I could not solve.

So, I bought wine glasses before anything else.  Actually, I bought the coffeemaker first, then wine glasses.  Priorities.  Anyways, the glasses I bought were plastic, so I could take them to the pool.  Again, priorities.  But when I bought them, they were covered in a cloudy film.  I figured they were just dirty (like many things you find in the store are here), and I could just wash off the film at home.  I tried three times to scrub them down wish dish soap the evening I got them and the film was untouched.  Since they seemingly do not sell sink stoppers in the whole of Venezuela, I couldn't soak the little boogers, so I figured myself stuck.  Stuck forever with icky, cloudly plastic wine glasses not even fit for poolside, bottom shelf vino.  What's a girl to do?

This girl grabbed a toothbrush, that damned bottle of vinegar and started scrubbing down.  Literally, without much elbow grease, the film disappeared.  No, said I.  This can't be!  The glasses will dry and we'll be back to square one!

I sit here, up way too late, drinking water from my clean, clear wine glass.  Why not drink wine, you ask?  Because I bought the vinegar first.  Priorities people!

My Initiation to the Caracas Hash House Harriers

It's Saturday, it's 6pm, and I'm sitting on a large block of ice being yelled at for being a virgin who committed one of the holiest of hash crimes- tattling while in the circle. 

My Saturday plans began innocently enough, with an email from Gordon, inviting me to go "hashing".  I had heard of the infamous Hash House Harriers from my Venezuelan guidebook, so I immediately knew that I was not being invited to some sort of drug party, but instead a "running club" of sort. Since I made a pact with myself to not turn down any social invitations, I readily agreed to go, even though I am not much of a runner. Much to my glee, I soon learned that running wasn't exactly the focus of the Caracas Hash House Harriers.

For those unfamiliar, the objectives of a Hash House Harriers are as follows:

• To promote physical fitness among our members
• To get rid of weekend hangovers
• To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer
• To persuade the older members that they are not as old as they feel
• Source- Wikipedia

Offhandedly, the HHH are often referred to as a "running club with a drinking problem" or conversely, a "drinking club with a running problem", but either way, I was very excited about my invitation to the Caracas Hash House Harriers.

Gordon, Jason, Jackie, Wallie and I took a cab to one of the more famous squares in east Caracas- Altamira.  There we met up with what could only be described as a motley crew of expats, locals and pretty much everything in between.  We socialized for a bit before we took to the streets, and the elders of the club were very pleased to see some "new blood", even if we were all mostly Americans*.

We were split into walkers and runners, and I immediately took the low bar when I saw that only boys were running.  We were led by our bold and fearless leader, a 70 year old Venezuelan gentleman with a very, very loud horn.  He fearlessly began our walk, literally stopping traffic with his horn every time we had to cross the street.  It was lovely to see a little more of the city at a casual walking pace.  In a group, we all felt safe, and even more reassuring was the number of people out and about, working out in the parks, walking to and fro.  One cool thing about this part of Caracas was the number of parks.  They were nearly on every corner!  And each part had exercise equipment. The kind of machines you would find in gyms in the US were scattered about the part, made of metal, almost like children's play equipment. What an ingenious idea!  Wouldn't that help the American obesity rate? Take note, Michelle Obama!

Half way through our walk, we met up with the runners at a corner market and had a beer.  Why not?  There I chatted with some of the boys, who were working hard at convincing some of the girls to join the runners.  I met Ivan, who was there with his mother, who I proceeded to call "mi mami" for the remainder of our hash.  Both were very interested in practicing their English, and of course I am out for Spanish practice, so we were just a match made in heaven, they asking me questions in English and me responding in Spanish.  As we were about the take off, I took a last minute impulsive dive and followed the runners.  Thank God mi mami, Jackie, and Catherine all joined immediately- apparently we were all intimidated to be the only girl!  

The boys basically lapped us, and Catherine, a fellow CIC teacher, and I quickly figured out that our 12 minute mile pace was not going to help us keep up, so we fell into pace and resigned ourselves to losing the pack.  Thankfully hashing requires a trail laid out before the run, so Catherine, a veteran hasher, was able to follow the trail that had been laid with corn starch, through the streets.  We passed the fancy mall, Centro St. Ignacio in San Marino- and by passed, I mean we ran through it, including restaurants and a McDonald's drive thru.  Hashers are, shall we say, not super timid?  They tend to like to let people know that, well, dammit, we are running!  LOOK AT US WE ARE HASHERS AND WE ARE RUNNING!  The boys group was kind and waited for Catherine and I to catch up at various points, and sweet, sweet Ivan kept running back to check on us, which, while reassuring, did hurt my pride some.  As soon as the lights of Plaza Altamira appeared, I was thrilled, but even more thrilled to see the hashers crashing, shoes on, into the fountain in the plaza.  I had the good sense to remove my shoes, and the water felt HEAVENLY.

Back at the camp, we all grabbed a beer because apparently grabbing water is a "hash crime". I soon learned that there are many more crimes in hashing and I was, unfortunately, very guilty.  In the hash circle we all stood, and the litany of crimes committed were recognized.  Texting while hashing, taking off shoes before traipsing through the fountain, getting lost, and talking while in the circle all led to one being thrown in the middle and forced to drink while the others sang to you. Hash "virgins" were particular targets for hash crimes due to our ignorance in the hash justice system. So ya, a hash circle is kind of like a birthday party?  At least the kind of birthday parties I go to.  Mostly, the fun thing to do is take a sip and then fling the remaining beer on the person standing behind you in the center of the circle.  This led to good-natured shoving and everyone staying a little more sober, at least for the meantime.  True hash crimes- the 1st degree murders of the hash justice system- were dealt with quickly and strongly, as we were forced to sit on a large block of ice until another person committed a mortal sin and was sent to relieve us and serve their sentence.  Where they got a block of ice big enough for two adults to sit on in CARACAS is a mystery to me, but I will tell you this- it was cold and my butt was wet for hours.  But I will never again tattle in a hash circle- ever.

After the circle, we all got to eat, and let me tell you, the hot dogs they served were the BEST HOTDOGS EVER.  The remainder of the evening consisted of dancing, drinking, and chatting.  For hours we did this and the time simply flew by.  Everyone was just so interesting and interested in getting to know you.  The boys were eager for gringa dancing partners and we were eager to start learning the dancing- salsa, merengue, whatever else was playing.  Mi Mami and I also had some GREAT english/spanish translation errors we all got a laugh at.  At one point, I held a piece of ice to my face and said "Oy, my cama es calliente!"  What I meant to say was "Mi cara es calliente"- my face is hot.  What I said was "my bed is hot".  Awkward. Palm Tree.  A while later, mi mami decided to top me when she said that the "porn" was for my hotdog instead of the "corn" being for my hot dog. The glee that ensued from these interactions proved that all of our minds were in the gutter, but at least we all had good company while spending our time in the gutter.

As it turns out, Jackie and I were so excited about the fun we were having, we volunteered to host the next Hash!  So expect a post in early September about my first experience hosting a Hash!

Our evening ended on a high note- we took a cab home and then proceeded to a house party.  These Venezuelans party like it is freaking 1999.  I cannot keep up!  But everyone reassures me that this was the last hoo-ra weekend.  With school coming on everyone puts on their game faces.  Thank God.  Otherwise I don't know if I could keep my pact with myself!

*Note: it is NOT the Venezuelans that give the Americans a hard time- the Brits do!  They can't stand our English! But don't worry, we defend ourselves and our slang.

Surviving and thriving without Trader Joe's- It's a Miracle!

I wish I could chronicle every waking minute of my life here in Caracas.  First of all, everything is just so new, different and interesting that it all deserves a thorough description to do it justice.  Secondly, I am so happy and having such a good time that I will want to read back on all this when I am horribly depressed four months from now to remind myself how much I really do like it here. 

It's been exactly a week since I arrived in Caracas and things just keep getting better and better. I've tackled a grocery store by myself without incident, toured the city via bus, metro and taxi (in groups! don't panic Mom!), survived my first official day of work and managed to make a number of friends both Venezuelan and Expat alike.  Wednesday night I had the distinct pleasure of going with my teacher mentor Gordon to the local expat hang out- Curry Club.  A restaurant hosts local expats and feeds them delicious curry and of course copious adult beverages.  Clearly they were not ready for our caliber of drinking, as they ran out of beer before 11pm.  At Curry Club, I met some really wonderful people that I am already looking forward to seeing again next week, include three older English gentlemen named Graham, Nigel and Paul, a lovely and fashionable Indonesian Santi and Zeke, a Venezuelan reporter who has since taken a very strong liking to Jackie.

I am finding a few oddities worth pointing out, but let it be known that in general, I think there are far more similarities than there are differences between Caracas and my homeland.  One of the first glaring differences was what you can and can't find at the store.  While most things are readily available- kitchen items, foods, clothing, shoes, housewares, there are a few things I can't find.  My search for a fan has already been well documented, but along with a fan, I am also searching for a sink stopper, dryer sheets, and windex. Speaking of spending money, you can't spend it in any store without first providing the cashier with you passport number, name and usually the urbanizacion you live in. I can't find anyone who can tell me why stores engage in this practice, whether it is for demographic purposes, government spying etc, but it's pretty consistent no matter where you go.  Also curious is the fact that while almost every building uses open windows for air and ventilation, almost none of said windows have screens. Gordon told me you can pay people to make a screen for individual windows in your apartment, but there are no screens to purchase that readily fit windows in homes. This is curious, as there are no dearth of mosquitoes, flies and other creepy crawlers that I would not like to have in my house, so I find myself constantly choosing between fresh air and insects visitors.

All in all though, I've found the adjustment to the day to day much easier than I was expecting. The lines may be longer and the language barrier is obviously a stumbling block, but with a little patience and an open mind, I think I am going to continue to do just fine.

My first 48 hours in Caracas

It is overwhelming to realize that I have only been here for 48 hours.  So far, it has been everything and nothing that I expected. 

In the airport in DC, I thought I was going to have to take a clonazepam.  My stomach couldn’t decide if it was going to throw up my McDonald’s lunch or loudly digest it all at once.  Before I could decide on the best medicinal cocktail to deal with my unruly stomach, the usual DC crowd rushed the gate and I knew I had to run in elbow out if I was going to make it on the plane with my carry on.  Once on the plane, my stomach reasserted itself, but by the grace of god the nice (and may I say attractive?) man in the seat next to me began to speak to someone on the phone in Spanish.  This peaked my interest, distracted my stomach and thankfully provided me an opening to start a conversation that lasted the entire flight to Atlanta.

Tracey- 1, Nerves- 0

Once in Atlanta, I leaned on my already acquired ATL Navigation System (thanks Brendan/Delta flights to New Orleans!) to get me from terminal A to terminal E- the international terminal!  There I found the closet bar and largest Sam Adams possible.  There I also met the new love of my life- Jackie!  Jackie is from California and will be serving as the high school history teacher at CIC.  Jackie also told me shortly upon meeting that she spent $35 in the airport buying candy, which alerted me to the scientific fact that Jackie was probably awesome.

Our flight was delayed about an hour, but this gave Jackie and I time to chat and eat candy.  After we boarded, I was handed multiple customs documents that required more attention than I really could muster, so I chose to instead distract Jackie with mindless chatter while she tried to fill out her forms.  Thankfully my exuberance attracted the attention of nuevo amor numero dos- Jason!  Jason was from Seattle and will be teaching middle school history.  The flight was not full, so the three of us new besties got to sit together and learn more about each other.  Both Jackie and Jason were coming from other schools in South America- Jackie from Peru and Jason from Brazil. I learned that Jason had previously done Peace Corp in Africa and Jackie had been airlifted out of her last site by helicopter soon after having intensive ankle surgery.

Jason and Jackie’s street cred- 1, Tracey’s street cred- 0

The flight was only four hours and before we knew it, we were setting our watches to Caracas time!  Based on state department posted information, the Caracas airport is basically the most dangerous place on earth, on par with the whole of Syria and walking alone at night through Taliban infested Afgan deserts.  When we arrived, it was as quiet as you can expect an airport to be at 11:30pm.  Soccer stars adorned the walls and to my surprise, the air condition was plentiful.  I went through customs within 10 minutes without incident.  We arrived at the baggage claim and immediately acquired all of our bags- Jackie’s seven, my five and Jason’s two.  To our relief, all bags were intact and no worse for wear.  We lugged our lives onto luggage carts, pushed our bounty through the detectors and made it through to our new home.

Our new school director, Mrs. Carmen Sweeting, arrived to take us home.  Carmen is basically the most charming, genuinely caring individual I have ever met in my life.  She has subsequently become Mama Carmen and is kind enough to let me call her that to her face.  She arrived to claim us with a van and three pickup trucks, and once the able-bodied men in the airport realized this, they were all more than willing to help us load the trucks- for a small price, of course.  We were in and out of the parking lot and off to our new home without incident.  The drive from the airport to our houses was about 45 minutes.  Caracas at night is almost like fairyland- mountains and hills pop up of nowhere and all are covered in twinkling lights.  While I am not naïve enough to think that Caracas is a fairy land full of gumdrops and rainbows, it was reassuring to experience the land for the first time through this lense- all lovely and subdued and a little enchanting. 

I called my Mom from Carmen’s phone on the way home and learned later that she subsequently Paul Revered many of my friends the next day to let them know I was alive.  I love my Mom.  We arrived around 1am at our new home- Apartamentos Sierra Blanca en Los Samanes.  Los Samanes is in the south east suburb of Caracas and is home to mainly apartments, a small shopping center, a few small parks and not much else.  It’s basically the Burke of Caracas and that is FINE BY ME.  Our gaggle of helpers assisted as we lugged our luggage into the small elevators from the parking garage into our new apartments.  Our building has four towers labeled A-D and Jackie and Jason lived in B while I held down the fort in A.  We visited Jackie’s apartment first.  It was a lovely one bedroom with a nice kitchen, big windows, a desk, kitchen table, bed and couch.  Oh, and king sized bed.  Jackie has since lamented that it is too big and makes her toss and turn.  I told her I saw that as a situation ripe with opportunity, and she obviously agreed.  Next was Jason.  His apartment was a bit more furnished with an arsenal of wicker furniture and, to my delight though it didn’t seem to interest him as much as me, a built in wine rack.  Finally, Mama Carmen and I made it over to A wing to my new apartment.  As we walked in I went ahead and broke the seal and swore in front of my boss for the first of what would probably be many times.  My apartment was sick.  Large, well-furnished and well beyond my expectations.  I obviously went to bed a happy girl….as soon as I found my pajamas.

Saturday morning I woke after a restless sleep.  My adrenaline never tapered off and made my sleep rather unproductive.  Besides, we had a lot to look forward to.  We were going to visit the school, get our cell phones set up and go shopping for food and supplies!  Carmen and our new secondary principal, Kelly and Kelly’s husband Denny came to pick us up at 10:00am.  While we waited for our ride, Jackie and I chatted with Phillipe, the jefe de securidad for Sierra Blanca.  He was very kind and patient with my broken Spanish and I felt good about him leading the helm of our security at the apartments.  When the posse arrived they also had in tow two other new teachers- the bold and fearless Colleen, a new elementary teacher, her precocious and energetic eight year old son Sean and David, our new humanities department chair, former seminary student and longtime teacher in the international system.  David was coming from Brazil and Colleen from South Africa.  Kelly and Denny were coming through Wisconsin as Kelly worked on a doctorate, but they had led a long and fruitful career abroad in places like Ecuador, Thailand, China etc.  Though Kelly and Denny had only been in Caracas for about a week, they navigated the landscape like locals and had an air of fearlessness and confidence that could only be cultivated by years of being scared shitless in foreign countries. 

Our visit to the school was delightful, and soon enough we found ourselves at lunch in the shopping center by our house.  I had the pleasure of sitting by Gernan, CIC’s jefe de tranportacion. Gernan clearly was getting a big kick out of me, and even took me down to the first floor while we were waiting for our food to show me where I could find arepas.  The joke was “en un mes, yo estoy gorda!”- In one month, I am fat!  Our food was absolutely delicious and I washed it down with a Coke Light.  We talked during lunch about the exchange rate on the parallel market and suffice to say I still don’t quite understand it, but I do know that NO ONE could live off of the official rate- all prices are set on the parallel rate, which is right now six times higher than the official.  The currency- Bolivars or B’s for short, looks like monopoly money and is in high denominations, making it troublesome to figure out how much I am actually spending.  Lunch was 275 B’s- making it less than $10 at the parallel rate and close to $30 at the official.  Es muy differiente!

Next, we were off to the grocery store in Trinadad, an urbanizacion due south of Los Samanes.  The grocery store was packed, since it was the weekend, and very big.  My Trader Joe’s grocery shopping perspective has made me very easily overwhelmed in large grocery stores, so my stress level immediately shot through the roof when I found myself in a large store and could barely navigate the crowded aisles AND had to try to read all the product labels in Spanish.  Thankfully, Jackie was by my side to help and after parking the van Gernan was by our side very quickly.  He had the good sense to know we were absolute disasters and likely needed his direction and protection…from ourselves, not other people.  I was so tired by the last aisle I bypassed the red wine without even looking.  That is how tired and ready to go I was!  But we had quite a bounty and I knew I at least wouldn’t starve for the next few days.  Oh, and I bought a coffee maker.  Priorities, people.

Speaking of priorities, the next thing on my to-do list was go swimming in my apartment complex pool!  After a long day of shopping and trying to get by on paltry Spanish, getting to float as the evening drew near was just what the doctor ordered.  What I didn’t expect was the view I would get from the pool.  The pool sits in quite possibly the best spot possible to see  the sunset, and let me tell you friends, there is no sunset I’ve seen that is quite like a Caracas sunset.  The colors, the views, the sheer magnitude is just overwhelming to the senses.  Is God at work even in this crazy place?  I think yes.

Departure morning

I'm a little overwhelmed by the peace I have inside today.  I figured on D-Day I would be shitting bricks, panicking, desperately seeking my last clonazepam, crying, calling people.  I've done all of the above over far lesser life changes.  But here it is, the morning of my departure and I awake with nothing but joy in my heart and a low humming excitement that seems to stretch from head to toe.  I am sure this peace and joy will last about as long as it take to arrive in the Caracas airport customs, at which point I will probably start to shit bricks.  But for now, I will enjoy it.  I will revel in it and take it as a sign that this decision is blessed.

My bags are packed, I'm ready to go....