I've noticed the population here is pretty homogenized in terms of ethnicities. Almost everyone has dark hair, dark eyes, darkish skin. Not to say that everyone looks the same, but many of the general features are shared by most people. And it was a little jarring when I would see someone with lighter hair and eyes. Driving here is also an entirely different animal. There are a lot of roads that are narrow and wind perilously around steep hillsides. Frequently, fairly major intersections will contain no traffic signs or lights and instead cars just sort of interleave themselves into quickly passing and merging traffic. It's a bit harrowing, but seems to work. I'm curious what the accident rate is compared to a passive-driver's paradise like Seattle.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Caracas, June 12-20, 2010
My time in Caracas is coming to an end. Much of my time has been spent watching World Cup soccer, watching TV, sitting on the laptop, taking photos, and hoping for the motivation to work on my projects. It's been a nice break from work, and I'm not really looking forward returning to long, tedious days at work and to missing almost every soccer game on account of the time difference and needing to work.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Seattle to Caracas, June 11th, 2010
It began promptly at 3:30 am. My alarm went off, and I sat up from the couch, fully clothed and ready to go. I had brushed my teeth merely an hour and a half earlier when I went to 'sleep' so that I could minimize the time it would take me to jump in the shuttle van, which I saw slow down outside the window only 1 minute later. Prompt.
The van ride was pretty quiet, even after picking up someone else in Kirkland. The airport was nothing unusual. Except for the fact the security guard in the initial security line in which they inspect your ID and mark boarding pass took a while to look at my ID and compare it to my face. Then she called me by my middle name, to which I must have had a puzzled look to, and then to which she asked 'you don't like being called by your middle name?' As if I didn't know it was my middle name. She probably felt clever and important trying to find holes in my disguise. I responded that I'm rarely addressed by my middle name and continued on.
The first flight was from Seattle to Houston. I sat in the middle seat. They showed 'How to Train Your Dragon' on the plane and served a little breakfast, so it went by pretty quickly. I tried to sleep, and had slightly less than moderate success by putting the tray table down and leaning forward to plop my face onto my arms resting on the table. Houston airport was very crowded, and I just waited about an hour before the next flight. On that flight from Houston to Miami, I was in the last row, on the left window, and we had Direct TV access. So I pushed my seat back as far as possible, swiped my credit card and watched the second World Cup game of Uruguay vs. France, and took pictures of the oil spill in the Gulf, which we flew right over. All in all, one of the better flights I've had.
In Miami I met up with Ian, who arrived from LA a few hours earlier. Shortly afterwards mom and John showed up, along with mom's cousin Suzetta. We checked a bunch of bags that were left in Miami from another cousin then ate shitty pizza and finally waited around for the flight. We left around 9pm for Caracas, I was stuck in the middle again. The 3-ish hour flight felt longer than it should have. I spent time listening to music, reading a magazine, doing a MENSA quiz in that magazine, paying more attention than I'd like to admit to the movie 'The Toothfairy' with the Rock, and picking my way around the meat on top of a piece of shitty lasagana.
It took a little while to get through the airport. My uncle Joselo (sp?) was waiting for us. Upon stepping outside, I was struck with the hottest, muggiest weather I've experienced in years. It felt tropical; not fresh and natural but rather urban and dirty. It's the kind of weather that's pretty hard to fathom when living in the Pacific NW. We piled all into his SUV and were off on the 45-or-so minute long drive back to the apartments in Caracas. The windows of the vehicle were tinted, which made me feel extremely claustrophic and unable to see much out the sides. I tried to take a few pictures but ultimately was unsatisfied with my view and felt a little disoriented on account of it. Also, the roads seemed smaller than I remember. Narrower and fewer lanes. I had remembered the highways through the cities as being as large and long as airport runways. But perhaps my real experience with highways in the US since my last trip gave me a different perspective and turned those highways I remembered into winding, narrow go-cart tracks. Still, despite having been gone for about 12 years, a lot of it was pretty familiar. And the fact that it was familiar but still somehow different, smaller, was unusual to me.
At the apartments, we chatted a bit with Joselo and Marile, my aunt. I say 'apartments' because my grandmother's penthouse is right next to the penthouse of my aunt and uncle. So we're frequently hanging out in either, or moving between the two. Also, I'm pretty sure my aunt and uncle, both architects, designed this building. Mom showed them pictures of her trip to Santa Monica and of her remodeled kitchen. We met their Western terriers (Westies) Cordelia and Wi-fi (pronounced Wee-fee). Ian and I got a room upstairs which has a bunk. Ian took the top. Mom took a room downstairs next to abuela's and John took a room in the aunt's and uncle's place next door. The weather at the apartments was much more forgiving than that of the coastal airport. I fell asleep with a cool breeze coming from the window and the distant swooshing of cars speeding along. A day that started 3:30 am in Kirkland, Washington ended around 2:30 am in Caracas.
The van ride was pretty quiet, even after picking up someone else in Kirkland. The airport was nothing unusual. Except for the fact the security guard in the initial security line in which they inspect your ID and mark boarding pass took a while to look at my ID and compare it to my face. Then she called me by my middle name, to which I must have had a puzzled look to, and then to which she asked 'you don't like being called by your middle name?' As if I didn't know it was my middle name. She probably felt clever and important trying to find holes in my disguise. I responded that I'm rarely addressed by my middle name and continued on.
The first flight was from Seattle to Houston. I sat in the middle seat. They showed 'How to Train Your Dragon' on the plane and served a little breakfast, so it went by pretty quickly. I tried to sleep, and had slightly less than moderate success by putting the tray table down and leaning forward to plop my face onto my arms resting on the table. Houston airport was very crowded, and I just waited about an hour before the next flight. On that flight from Houston to Miami, I was in the last row, on the left window, and we had Direct TV access. So I pushed my seat back as far as possible, swiped my credit card and watched the second World Cup game of Uruguay vs. France, and took pictures of the oil spill in the Gulf, which we flew right over. All in all, one of the better flights I've had.
In Miami I met up with Ian, who arrived from LA a few hours earlier. Shortly afterwards mom and John showed up, along with mom's cousin Suzetta. We checked a bunch of bags that were left in Miami from another cousin then ate shitty pizza and finally waited around for the flight. We left around 9pm for Caracas, I was stuck in the middle again. The 3-ish hour flight felt longer than it should have. I spent time listening to music, reading a magazine, doing a MENSA quiz in that magazine, paying more attention than I'd like to admit to the movie 'The Toothfairy' with the Rock, and picking my way around the meat on top of a piece of shitty lasagana.
It took a little while to get through the airport. My uncle Joselo (sp?) was waiting for us. Upon stepping outside, I was struck with the hottest, muggiest weather I've experienced in years. It felt tropical; not fresh and natural but rather urban and dirty. It's the kind of weather that's pretty hard to fathom when living in the Pacific NW. We piled all into his SUV and were off on the 45-or-so minute long drive back to the apartments in Caracas. The windows of the vehicle were tinted, which made me feel extremely claustrophic and unable to see much out the sides. I tried to take a few pictures but ultimately was unsatisfied with my view and felt a little disoriented on account of it. Also, the roads seemed smaller than I remember. Narrower and fewer lanes. I had remembered the highways through the cities as being as large and long as airport runways. But perhaps my real experience with highways in the US since my last trip gave me a different perspective and turned those highways I remembered into winding, narrow go-cart tracks. Still, despite having been gone for about 12 years, a lot of it was pretty familiar. And the fact that it was familiar but still somehow different, smaller, was unusual to me.
At the apartments, we chatted a bit with Joselo and Marile, my aunt. I say 'apartments' because my grandmother's penthouse is right next to the penthouse of my aunt and uncle. So we're frequently hanging out in either, or moving between the two. Also, I'm pretty sure my aunt and uncle, both architects, designed this building. Mom showed them pictures of her trip to Santa Monica and of her remodeled kitchen. We met their Western terriers (Westies) Cordelia and Wi-fi (pronounced Wee-fee). Ian and I got a room upstairs which has a bunk. Ian took the top. Mom took a room downstairs next to abuela's and John took a room in the aunt's and uncle's place next door. The weather at the apartments was much more forgiving than that of the coastal airport. I fell asleep with a cool breeze coming from the window and the distant swooshing of cars speeding along. A day that started 3:30 am in Kirkland, Washington ended around 2:30 am in Caracas.
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