The Boys of Caracas

It was September of 2002 and I wanted one last adventure, one last hurrah. Everyone else was still working so it looked like my trip to the middle of the Andes Mountains of Venezuela was going to be solo. “It’s as if you closed your eyes and dropped your finger on a place and picked that.” Michael said, his Georgia accent dripping with concern for my well-being. I was like a sister to him at that point but his gentlemanly ways were too polite to say “Are you crazy, girl?” My other friends, many of whom were boys, all had a special place in their hearts for me for one reason or another though Michael showed the greatest concern for my free-spirited whims. I should have appreciated this more at the time but even back then, having completely freed myself from any and all constraints, I was still a little oblivious. “When are we going to get together?” one asked me before I set out on my trip (not saying who). “Ummmm, I don’t think so.” I said. Michael got mad when he heard about this. His southern genteelness couldn’t fathom such boldness and, like I said, he was like a brother. My ummm no was fueled by the fact that they were all like brothers to me.

These young men were very much into the Venezuelan beauties who frequented our apartments; I was just a sarcastic, take no shit, chick from Boston who made a mean spaghetti sauce and a kickass lime rum drink called the “anti-scurvy special”. I was privy to what went down at and after our parties and wondered, at times, if they thought I was just one of the guys as they withheld very few details from me. They all seemed to love me, I think I might have been this little 5 foot tall slice of home they all missed. I loved them too. Were there 7 of them? 8? 9? 10? I can’t remember exactly. Each one was so different that I thought it a miracle they all got along; the most perfect boy band. We threw some of the best parties in our apartments, complete with salsa/merengue dancing and frequent complaints from neighbors and sometimes visits from the police during which I would hide as I had “accidentally” let my visa expire at the end and was worried about being deported. Aydin told me to “loose” my passport (I still think he was CIA) with the expired visa and he took it for “safekeeping” thus forcing me to get a new passport to go back to the states but this one without any evidence of an expired visa. With the computer systems the way they were back then, I’m sure this was a genius move. They still questioned me when I presented myself at the airport on my flight back. “Where’s your visa?” they asked me, in Spanish of course. I explained how this was a new passport and that the visa was in my lost one. My Spanish was really good at that point and I had grown accustomed to dealing with scary men in military uniforms with massive guns slung over their shoulders. “Do you ever plan to come back to Venezuela?” one asked me. “No.” I answered, shaking my head ever so innocently. I wonder to this day if I am barred from entry.

The mornings were slow there, afternoons were filled with rain. Living in eternal summer was bliss and the beach trips we took to Mochima, Morrocoy, and Choroni were rife with the most ridiculous of shenanigans. Someday, I’ll recount them all in detail if they’ll allow. Through my little expat plus community, I boiled myself down to the purest concentration of my essence. I yelled at Aydin when his sass encroached on the peace of my living arrangement, I allowed Michael to weather my bad days with me, I shared my love of roaming the city alone with Evan who thought my dirty flip-flop clad feet were “gnarly” in a good way, I anticipated Eric making me laugh every damn day (which I’m sure he does for everyone that works in the ER with him today). All of these boys are now men, good men. I think it’s important to shine a light on the good ones as there has been quite a lot of bad male press lately, would you agree? Most of us keep in touch and love to reminisce about just how crazy and young we all were. Somehow we were all drawn to the same place at the same time, a move that altered the molecules of our souls and fused them together; an unnatural yet exquisite union of disparate humans on many different corners of the globe. Our connection to one another is palpable and makes me feel more at ease knowing that they, my brothers from other mothers, are all out there. At my last party at the Quinta Arizona, Eric pulled me into a quiet room and said the words that I am now learning to embrace 20 years later. “You are amazing. Never settle for less than you deserve.” I didn’t believe him one bit until this year. I sent him a thank you for saying that; it’s always important to let people know the positive power of their words even if it is a couple decades later. It was a moment that I looked to at a time when things started to crumble in my life. I am fortunate. I look at my time in Venezuela and these bonds I formed there as an integral part of who I am. Though I write only of the boys today, I can say a million things of the women I met there as well. Another day and another piece I will reserve for them; we too are forever woven together. These boys of Caracas will get the spotlight for now. Thank you, gentlemen. Congratulations to all of you on the amazing lives you lead today. I am proud to know you and count you as family.