I Need a Palanca

The thought of renewing my driver’s license puts me in a bad mood. My experience with the DMV has always been a frustrating one with the long lines and regimented process. The last time I was there, I felt like a five-year old being reprimanded for forgetting my homework because I didn’t have the right documentation to prove I was who I claimed to be. (Despite holding a U.S. passport and a local utility bill in my name, I was turned away until I could produce my Social Security card.) Then there was the time I failed the eye exam and had to return after shelling out a fortune in an eye exam and news lenses, which I suppose is a good thing since we expect our fellow drivers to be able to see properly. The worst DMV experience I had was the driving test with the former drill sergeant who made me so nervous I could barely function. It’s a miracle that I ever secured my license.

While I didn’t drive during my time in Venezuela and never solicited a driver’s license, I was required to have a national identification card. The cedula is a plastic photo ID that both venezolanos and extranjeros (foreigners) are expected to carry at all times. People will ask you for your cedula number at every turn and you need to show it to gain access to office buildings, conduct banking transactions, and even check out at the grocery store. Once I got my resident visa, it was time to go to the Venezuelan version of the DMV to wait in the long lines and wade through the sea of red tape to solicit my cedula. Luckily, I had a palanca (a family friend just who happened to be the Vice Minister of Justice at the time) to facilitate the process and secure me not one but two ID cards in a matter of 15 minutes. I had one cedula to use and another to lose! I learned very quickly the benefits of being well-connected.

The Spanish word palanca means lever and much like a lever, a palanca is a personal connection who can open the door to opportunities that were previously unavailable to you. In a country where personal relationships are such a vital part of daily life, cultivating palancas is essential and becomes second nature from a young age. Maintaining close ties with former schoolmates, neighbors, colleagues, family friends, etc. is critical because you never know when they may become useful to you in facilitating transactions. And in such a relationship-oriented culture, you never want to burn any bridges. I remember being surprised when one of my corporate clients entered my personal data into her cell phone after our very first meeting. We had only just met and I wasn’t ready to move her into my contacts list just yet. She, on the other hand, considered me another connection that could prove beneficial some day in the future and added me to her ever-expanding address book. Venezuelans maintain and utilize all the contacts they have as the situation warrants.

Palancas are essential in the business world and are a great resource to have at your disposal. They can help bend the rules, move your proposal from the “reject” to the “accept” pile, and often supply useful insider information. I’ve always felt that it takes a certain amount of self-confidence (dare I say arrogance?) to use palancas and not everyone is skilled at doing so (myself included). When I approach someone I know to ask for a favor, I often feel a bit embarrassed and almost apologetic. I don’t want to overstep the boundaries of our relationship. After all, if we are not that close, do I dare ask for a big favor? What will the reaction be and how would I respond if the roles were reversed? What happens if the referral I provide does not live up to the expectations? Does that somehow damage our relationship? In my experience, I find that Venezuelans are not at all afraid to state their requests and redirect if they don’t get the response they were expecting. Using palancas effectively means that you refuse to follow the rules as they are written, you are above waiting in long lines, and will not take “no” for a final answer. They forge ahead with a sense of entitlement and apologize after the fact, if it is even required. Attitude is half the battle and those who rely on palancas usually get their way because of them.

Palancas will often recommend a trusted gestor (agent for hire) who are known for making things happen, executing tasks, and cutting through the red tape to deliver results. They frequently facilitate the types of tramites (transactions) that are time-consuming and cumbersome, such as going to public offices like our DMV to solicit personal documents, like ID cards, passports, birth certificates, permits, etc. In Venezuela, as in other places, government functionaries are not known for their productivity and innovation. And since they are not well paid, many of them associate with gestors to supplement their incomes. Compensation is not necessarily required when using a palanca, but if they recommend a gestor, you should be prepared to cough up some remuneration. It could be a cash fee for service, a gift of some sort, or perhaps a favor that you will return in the near future. For example, if you travel abroad to the United States, you may be asked to bring something back for your contact (this is otherwise known as an encargo) as a way of returning the favor. You might offer some sort of special food or beverage as well. Scotch whiskey is always welcome, but be prepared to purchase a good quality one that has been sufficiently aged and costs more than you would normally spend on yourself.

While it may seem unfair or even illegal from our point of view, greasing the palms in some manner is really the most practical and efficient way of getting things done in countries where red tape is the norm. The whole societal system in Venezuela has been set up to foster this type of end run that there is no incentive to actually follow the rules. Why stand in line when you can contract a gestor to take your place? If you are lucky, he may be so well-connected that he will walk you to the front of the line, on the other side of the counter, and into the back office to get what you came for in record time. Sadly for those who do things the proper way, their wait times increase exponentially with each gestor who breezes past them to the head of the line. Even a chronic rule abider like me learned the value of using gestors in Venezuela.

Gestors are essential to getting things done in the most efficient manner possible. Companies often hire them to take care of tedious details and make problems disappear. I remember a time when our small company was tasked with being compliant with a series of new government regulations within a very short deadline. We simply didn’t have the time or manpower to wade through the policies, devise compliance strategies, and build the relationships required to breeze through the impending audits, so we were forced to hire a very costly gestor to take care of the obstacles and allow us to continue to provide services to our public sector client. It also allowed us to keep our hands clean so to speak as we were using a third party vendor for this all important service. Some companies have found that putting a gestor on the payroll is a way to get around some of the strict policies around bribery while still getting things accomplished. After many years of living and working in Venezuela, I’ve learned that “fair” and “legal” are relative terms.

So, as I venture off to the DMV soon to renew my driver’s license, I will have all my documentation in hand, a recent eye exam complete, and nerves of steel. Hopefully, I will be successful on my own, but if I encounter any road blocks along the way, I will definitely consider reaching out a palanca.

 

Roses are Red…

I wore a red dress the other day and realized that I have come a long way over the past seven years in my relationship with that very vibrant color. It’s incredible to realize that I avoided it for so many years during my tenure in Venezuela. I don’t think I owned one article of clothing or accessory that was red in the decade from 1998 to 2008. Red, the color of love and passion, is also the color of revolution and was so closely associated with the Chavista movement in Venezuela, that any incorporation of it into your wardrobe or personal possessions could be misconstrued as support for the Socialist regime of Hugo Chavez. Being an interculturalist, I have studied the significance of colors across cultures and found it to be really quite fascinating. For example, white may be the color of purity in the United States, but it associated with death in China. Brides in Cincinnati may seek out the perfect white dress while their counterparts in Shanghai dream of a scarlet bridal gown. Red has traditionally been the color of good fortune and prosperity in China and is an integral part of any celebration there, including weddings, birthdays, and the Chinese New Year celebrations.

I have always associated purple with royalty, but it’s interesting to note that it is the color of mourning in Thailand and a sign of wealth and position in Japan. Yellow conjures up taxicabs and school buses in the U.S., but I had no idea that it signified sadness in Greece and jealousy in France. And the mere mention of envy makes me think of the green-eyed monster. Even Kermit the Frog lamented how “it’s not easy being green.” Many people associate green with spring, rejuvenation, and the environment. In Ireland, it is the color of the landscape and the Irish’s beloved St. Patrick. My mother-in-law frequently called my firstborn “mi pricipe azul” (my blue prince), as it was associated with royalty in Spanish culture. Blue is often seen as calm and tranquil, but it can also stir up feelings of melancholy. I wonder why the United States Postal Service painted their mailboxes this hue? Orange is not a color that looks particularly good on me, but we would not be able to celebrate Halloween or Thanksgiving without it. In the Netherlands, it is considered a national symbol, dating back to the Dutch War of Independence and the rebel Prince of Orange. If you are a college football fan, you will undoubtedly associate orange with either the Clemson Tigers or Tennessee Volunteers.

A sea of red at a Chavez rally

In Venezuela red is the color associated with Chavez’ revolution and it is frequently visible in the clothing people wear, the murals and signs that adorn the cities, and the flags and banners displayed in public. Never before have I seen such a dedicated effort to transform a single color into a national battle cry. Anyone attending a protest march or rally for the now deceased ruler would don the brilliant hue from head to toe so that there was no doubt about whom this individual supported. Public employees were often forced to join these mass street rallies as a part of their work duties. I remember witnessing human resource officials of a government agency located in our office building handing out the red shirts to employees as they filed out the front door en route to a march. It didn’t quite matter what their political persuasion was, public employees who wanted to keep their jobs obediently played the part of diehard Chavez supporter in their crimson uniforms.

In the training organization where I worked, we had a number of government entities as our clients. It was fascinating to see the number of their workers who would come to class dressed in the prerequisite red, the rojo rojito as they became known. This dress code was a constant reminder that any discussion of politics was not to be broached in the classroom. Needless to say, there were many conversations about the weather or sports. In response to the use of the color red for the Chavista movement, the opposition chose to dress in black during their protest marches, protests, and rallies. This was particularly appropriate when several marches were organized to mourn the deaths of opposition protesters who were gunned down by the National Guard during peaceful demonstrations. Black seemed to best express the sadness and powerlessness that many on the opposing side felt in response to Chavez’ dictatorial way of ruling.

To remain somewhat neutral and outside of the political debate – something that I feel that as a foreigner was prudent to do – I removed both red and black from my wardrobe. Politically, I certainly identified more with the opposition, but I realized that dressing in black from head to toe would invite scrutiny and unnecessary confrontation from my governmental clients. It was a bit more of a challenge to encourage my young employees to choose less confrontational hues as they selected their work apparel each day. We even floated the idea of issuing uniforms to our staff, a common practice in Venezuela, as a way of ensuring a consistent professional appearance across the ranks.

Fast forward to 2007, I arrived in North Carolina and it was time buy a new car. I didn’t really care much about the features or the style, but I was dead set against a red car and finally settled on a nice Honda Accord in a lovely shade of blue. Before too long, it was time to go back to school shopping for the boys’ new clothes and shoes. Again, my only requirement was that they not select anything apparel with a scarlet hue. (Wouldn’t you know it that my brother in Ohio would send them bright red Buckeyes jerseys for their birthdays!?!) Slowly but surely, we settled into our new home and I acquired pieces of furniture a little at a time as I toured the great furniture stores and bargain basements with my mother. Number one on my wish list was a comfortable yet affordable couch that would be able to endure the wear and tear of two young boys and their rambunctious friends. I looked everywhere and finally found “the one” that met all the criteria….but it was bright, cherry red. How could I possibly live with this daily reminder of the Chavista regime we had escaped? What would my Venezuelan friends and family think?

Some seven years later, I’m so glad that I took the plunge, bought the couch, and started reincorporating red back into my lifestyle. I realize now just how much I missed it. Christmas is a lot cheerier with the crimson shade. My red dress brightens up my face and reminds me just how far we have come in our personal journey. It also reminds me how polarizing colors can be and the opportunity that exists to further bridge the differences that exist across both cultures and the color wheel.

Wishing you a red letter (memorable and joyful) day!

Everything Old is New Again

My kids have an unusual fascination with antiques and have begged me to take them to a number of local antiques shops and flea markets this summer. I find it all quite amusing because the items that most interest them are not ancient relics but everyday objects that were a part of my formative years. First, my 11-year old decided that he wanted to spend his birthday money on a manual typewriter and he quickly located one on e-Bay that cost only $1. Even though it was listed as a “portable” typewriter, it set him back $45 to be shipped to our North Carolina home. The child was thrilled with his purchase and quickly became the envy of his friends for this one-of-a-kind treasure. The sounds of clacking keys and the carriage return bell floated throughout our house from his upstairs bedroom and it transported me back to my first office job when I was still in high school. The struggles I had with carbon paper and “White Out” are now distant memories as I sit at my MacBook Pro typing this blog post. Funny, I don’t feel that old.

The second object of my sons’ desire was found at an antiques emporium in Columbus, Ohio while on vacation with family. With only about $12 between them, the boys struggled to find that one item that would be both brag-worthy and within their price range. All at once, they saw it – the black rotary telephone with big, square buttons along the bottom for multiple lines – for the bargain price of $10. They quickly completed their transaction and ran to show their cousins this amazing find. Oddly, I can barely recall the last time I had a telephone that was connected to the wall. With all of today’s technological advances, it make me chuckle to see the thrill my kids get from obsolete hardware.

Antique store treasures look like something out of a 1970’s office

As the old saying goes, “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” With the proliferation of TV shows like American Pickers and Pawn Stars, I believe that this adage has never been truer. Consignment shops are springing up around town like never before. There seem to be yard sales in our neighborhood every weekend. And even before the waste management folks have a chance to collect the bulk pickup items at the curb, there are scavengers in pickup trucks sorting through people’s junk in front of their homes. It’s funny, but I can’t remember a time when I lived abroad that I saw a garage sale, much less bulk pickup. I have a hard time picturing my former European neighbors throwing out or selling any antiques that may have been in the family for years. It’s even more difficult for me to imagine them sifting through someone else’s refuse and making them an offer. With the way the Germans, Swiss, and Luxembourgers guard their privacy, this practice seems a bit extreme and intrusive. In my experience, it was a rare occurrence to be invited into someone’s home, much less go through their junk.

They say that “everything old is new again” and I see evidence of that fact when reading through my collection of women’s magazines that promote repurposing old furniture or household items for new uses. It’s very trendy to reupholster a worn-out couch or chair in a fun, new fabric and colorful paint to give your home a facelift. And this renaissance is not just happening to household items, but to clothes, shoes and accessories as well. Thrift shops have become the cool place to shop, according to my kids and certain popular rappers. Who knew that I had been hip my whole life and never knew it?! Again, I don’t remember seeing this type of DIY project while I lived abroad. In Venezuela, it was very affordable to pay someone to refurbish your household items or alter your clothing. I found an amazingly talented tailor who helped me salvage my whole wardrobe after losing some post-partum pounds. There’s not a lot of incentive to do it yourself nor are there resources and supplies, since stores like Lowe’s, Home Depot, and Michaels are absent from the market.

I never fully understood the expression, “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” but I knew full well that my family was very thrifty. During my childhood, I would have characterized us as serious penny pinchers, bordering on being tight wads. I remember the horror I felt when my mother proposed that the 7th grade cheerleading squad wear whatever pair of navy blue shorts they had instead of investing in new, matching outfits. Did I mention that I never had my own clothing until I left home to go to college? Everything I wore was a hand-me-down and not necessarily from my only sister (I had 3 older brothers, too, who had some very ugly clothes!). My mother has a museum-quality collection of clothing spanning several decades in her attic. It does not really matter if the articles fit her current frame, as she is ready with her sewing kit to make alterations the moment these clothes come back in style…and they always do. My father is no better, but his obsession is not clothing but nails, screws, pieces of wood, and bubble wrap. He can tell you a long and detailed story about every item he has nestled away in the crawl space beneath the house including when and where he acquired it.

One of the oddest memories I have of my grandparents is that they only flushed the toilet after each of them had used it.  I suppose that having started their married life together at the time of the Great Depression made a huge impact on them and how they economized. They rarely threw anything away and loved finding a good bargain. My grandmother would even document her savvy shopping in her diary entries, “saved 30 cents on Clorox at the A&P.” After all, “a penny saved is a penny earned.” How many times have we used that expression to encourage thriftiness in our families and community? In today’s disposable society, where everything is plastic and it is common to simply throw things away when they no longer serve their purpose, is it any wonder that our kids feel entitled to upgrade to the latest and greatest whether a pair of trendy shoes or a smartphone. That’s why I love it when my boys seek their grandfather when things break because “Grandpa can fix anything!” And it’s true most of the time, including the kids’ sized umbrella he stitched back together after it was blown inside out during a blustery storm.

In my family while growing up, this sense of frugality was ingrained in us at the dinner table, as it was taboo to throw out food. We were, after all, charter members of the “clean plate club” although I think they tried to revoke my membership on several occasions. I knew every trick in the book to avoid eating the food on my plate – hiding it in my napkin, storing bit and pieces in the crevices of the dining room table, or spitting it out in the toilet when I was granted a bathroom break. Dinnertime was a struggle for me as I stubbornly sat alone in the darkened dining room, after everyone had finished their meal, with chipmunk-like cheeks full of food I would not swallow. I couldn’t help but think about how horrible China must be since their poor children were desperate to eat this food that was making me gag. Leftovers were a staple at my house and seemed to be the most frequent dish on the menu rotation. As a mom today, who is not the best cook, I understand the challenges of producing a stellar meal night after night and the need to serve leftovers every now and again. In Venezuela, any leftovers were incorporated into a hearty soup or a brunch omelette that was often tastier than the original meals.

Recycling in my community today is strongly encouraged and there are many programs set up to make it convenient. I’ve got bins to store my recyclables and even a rule book of sorts about what can and cannot be recycled. The waste management truck comes to my home every two weeks to pick it up. In Venezuela, I don’t recall anything being recycled, unless you count the treasure-seekers who may go through your trash after you throw it out as a recycling program. Most people of means understand the incredible need that exists among the masses for clothing and household items and those items are often given away instead of being tossed. However, plastic, glass, and newspaper is all thrown in the trash and I find it a constant challenge to get my Venezuelan visitors in the habit of separating out those recyclables at my house. At the opposite end of the spectrum was my experience in Switzerland in the early 1990’s, where my roommates took the idea of “reuse, reduce, recycle” to a whole new level, recycling everything that passed through their kitchen. Newspapers, cans, paper, glass, and even the aluminum tops from their yogurt cups – it was all sorted in distinct plastic receptacles around the apartment. It was so foreign to me and a bit overwhelming that I’m afraid I was non-compliant at times because it was a lot to internalize.

I suppose that moderation is the key to finding the right balance of holding onto the antique while embracing the modern. Certainly, we can refresh and repurpose to make that which was old new again. And I suppose to a certain extent this feeds our inner cheapskate while being quite trendy. So I’m off to the antiques store to see what other treasures we can find. Perhaps a record player…

“Like Me,” Please!

OK, I admit it…I’m pretty addicted to my iPhone. Every beep, ring, and vibration causes me to grab the handy device (that is rarely more than a few feet from my side) and excitedly read the alert on the screen. I’m just too curious to let it go without at least a glance. It could be an important message about that job I applied for that will forever impact my future or it might be a notice that the price of Lay’s potato chips has been lowered at the local Harris Teeter store. Regardless, I like being connected and up-to-date on everything that’s going on in my virtual world.

While I enjoy keeping up with family and close friends online, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I’m a social media junkie. In fact, I find the practice of pouring over Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter on a daily basis a complete waste of time. Life is just too busy to allow the luxury of watching pet videos, reading the pros and cons of Common Core, or the latest diet program endorsed by Oprah. Additionally, my life looks so messy and sad comparatively when I view all the fun vacation photos, spousal anniversary shout-outs, and adorable TBT shots that my “friends” post. I overanalyze every photo I share, wondering if it could possibly embarrass my image-conscious teenagers and impair their social standing for the duration of middle school. I don’t tweet because I can’t imagine coming up with anything witty that people would actually want to read. Pinterest doesn’t make much sense to me and it makes me chuckle when people start “following” me based on my one single pin from several years ago.

It’s amazing how much the nature of friendship has changed in our current day Facebook-obsessed world. When I scroll through my list of Facebook “friends,” I’m often puzzled by who exactly they are. Certainly, there are the friends, neighbors, colleagues, and family members who are close to me and share in my real, face-to-face life. Then there are the friends whose names sound foreign to me and I wonder if we have ever met. Others are vaguely familiar from high school, college or perhaps my hometown. In some cases, I have to ask myself, “were we ever really friends to begin with?” I remember once responding to a friend request with an embarrassing, “do I know you?” Upon learning her maiden name and making out the familiar face of my childhood friend now aged some 25 years, I accepted the request. Funny, I think she may have “unfriended” me since then, as I don’t recall ever seeing any of her posts.

I’m always amazed at the degree of disclosure that occurs on Facebook. Did you really mean to tell the whole world how much you loathe your husband or dream about quitting your job? I’m not sure I feel that comfortable reading your intimate thoughts when I’m having trouble remembering how I even know you. Could it be the sense of voyeurism that social media provides that is part of its appeal? You tune in each day to find out if your cousin’s toddler made it through the night without wetting the bed or if your college roommate changed her relationship status after the big break up. No wonder soap operas are a thing of the past…there’s too much drama on social media!

I often feel that our human need for validation motivates so many of the posts on Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube. I’d like to say that I’m immune to it, but that would be a lie. We all know the drill…you position your loved ones for a “selfie,” choose the shot in which you look your best, post that photo for the world to see, and then anxiously wait for the “likes” and “comments” to roll in. Why do we seek the approval of others? Does it really matter if they like your “selfie”, particularly if you post the same pose every day as you head off to work or your morning run? And what does it say about your online friends who have nothing better to do with their time than to click the thumbs up icon every time you post something? Does that gesture make you any closer as friends? I sometimes wonder if it wouldn’t be more meaningful to pick up the phone and engage in conversation or meet for coffee to catch up on lost time.

As I ponder these virtual relationships, I’m reminded of the intercultural interactions I have had with friends and colleagues around the world. When crossing cultures, it takes a lot more effort and engagement to reach a deeper understanding of differences. The nature of friendship is just one of those concepts that is not easily comprehended from a superficial, “above the water” view. (If you’ll remember my post about the Iceberg Conception of Culture, there are many more issues that make up the nearly 90% of culture that lies outside of our awareness, underneath the surface of the water.) I remember being chastised in Luxembourg for calling a close acquaintance “friend.” Surprisingly, she felt that such a term was too intimate to describe our relationship and furthermore complained that “Americans are so superficial, immediately labeling as ‘friend” everyone they meet.” Contrast that view with the overly friendly Venezuela that I came to know and love, where everyone spoke to me in the familiar “tu” and I felt like the most popular girl in school.

Yes, there are significant differences in the nature of friendship across cultural lines. And I wonder what impact social media plays in widening or closing that gap. In Finland, so much of our free time was spent visiting with family and friends. It was all about “being” and not at all about “doing.” We would spend hours and hours engaged in conversation and in some moments, sitting in complete silence, but still being present. Today, I find it hard to get a group together without heads being bowed in dedication to the almighty device. It feels as if we no longer can carry on conversations with genuine eye contact and without the interruptions of our gadgets. I can’t imagine the addition of social media (and the resulting distractions of the virtual world) on my intercultural experiences over the years. I’m afraid I would have missed out on so much of the richness of the interaction, including the non-verbal cues, the meaning communicated through silence, and the bonding that transcends language. I wonder if our world would be a little less mixed up if we all took a collective technology break and tried to engage in real life friendships for a change.

Before you log off, feel free to like me, please!

In Sickness and Health

I picked the chupon (pacifier) up off the floor and quickly shoved it back in my son’s mouth, while casually scanning the waiting area in front of our gate to see if my glance would be met with any disapproving eyes. Certainly, the five-second rule applied in a situation like this. If these fellow passengers only knew the filth we endured living in the capital city of a third world country, they would undoubtedly understand that my standards of hygiene had been knocked down a peg or two since leaving the United States some five years earlier.

It makes me shudder to think about the quantity of germs that my kids were exposed to in Venezuela during their most formative years. Like any large metropolis, Caracas exudes a toxic cocktail of dirt, foul odors, and viruses. I remember being ill most of my first year there as my body slowly became accustomed to all the new pathogens. Since the water that flowed from the faucets in our apartment was not potable, the simple act of washing fresh produce or brushing my teeth caused alarm. And during the spring drought when water rationing was routine, the tap water turned cloudy and brown. Imagine my horror when my young children made a habit of drinking their bath water! I wonder if that early practice kept them immune to stomach bugs and other illnesses today.

As the youngest of five children, I had to be near death to warrant a trip to the emergency room. My busy parents simply didn’t have the resources – financial or time – to make a fuss over every injury and illness. They were very practical and frugal, and our home was certainly a “no drama” zone. As a child, I don’t remember getting sick that often. I’ve never had allergies or been stung by a bee, and aside from an eye injury at the age of 7, I’ve never endured a hospital stay.

I do recall, though, that the summer following my high school graduation, I hurt my thumb while joking around with my boyfriend. After arriving home in so much pain, I begged my mother to take me to see a doctor, but seeing as it was “after hours” she assured me that I was fine. When I awoke the next morning with a swollen and throbbing digit, she urged me to go to my data entry job and work through the pain. “After all,” she said, “you don’t really use your left thumb when typing on a computer.” She figured that I could certainly muddle through and, like an obedient daughter, I tried to do just that. By quitting time, I was in agony and pleaded with my mother to take me to a doctor. Just hearing the diagnosis of a “clean fracture” was medicine enough for me. I milked the “I told you so’s” for the rest of that summer.

I suppose that my mother learned her tough love stance from her mother, who in my memory was a fearless woman. After all, she caught and killed bees with her bare hands. Grandma would berate us for crying over minor aches and pains, like the horrible sunburn I would get each year when vacationing at her home on Florida’s Gulf Coast. She would aggressively slather fresh aloe (thorns and all!) onto my blistered skin and scold me for flinching in pain. If I complained about her tugging on my tangled, knotted hair as she brushed it, she would hit me with the hairbrush and tell me to “hush up.” Legend had it that Grandma Maisch once stuck her scalp with a hatpin and left for church with blood streaming down her forehead. Ouch! She was not a cruel woman by any stretch of the imagination, but one who was short on pity and patience for the tearful.

Why is it that the simple application of a bandaid has a way of making a boo boo feel so much better?

Given my family history, I take a pretty no-nonsense approach to health and well-being in my own home. As long as there is no blood or broken bones, I figure that my kids can survive any ailment with a few loving caresses, healing kisses, and a hearty sip of water. Not unlike the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, who believed that Windex was a cure for everything that ails you – I tend to be calm in a crisis and certain that everything is going to be alright. The human body has the amazing ability to heal itself if we would just let it work its magic. During my world travels, however, I encountered a number of health myths and home remedies that were counter to my inherited, commonsensical view.

I encountered similarly puzzling wives’ tales in Venezuela as well. When my firstborn was just hours from being delivered, my mother-in-law informed me that it was recommended to wait at least 40 days postpartum before bathing because it could endanger my health. Furthermore, during this period of “stench,” as I imagined it, the new mother was expected to subsist on a diet of soup. “Qué?!” I asked and then proceeded to promptly take a shower as soon as I was able.

The next culture clash came when my son was a newborn. Among the disposable diapers, wipes, and burp clothes assembled in the nursery was a virtual buffet of food stuffs that my mother-in-law was convinced would keep my child clean and healthy. Gone were the handy baby wipes that I so cherished and in their place was a cup of chamomile tea, which she applied with cotton balls when cleaning my baby’s bottom. While it was meant to have a calming affect on his skin, this tepid tea seemed to prompt little Pete to urinate all over everything in the nursery. To make matters worse, his Venezuelan grandmother would then sprinkle my poor baby’s bottom with yucca flour to absorb any excess moisture in his diaper. Hadn’t she heard that P&G had invested millions in R&D to improve the absorbency of its Pampers line?

Yet another conflict occurred when my children wanted to play in the rain one afternoon despite protests from both family and friends. They reasoned that these gringo children would surely contract a horrible cold by morning from the soaking, but in the land of perpetual spring that is Caracas, I failed to understand the alarm over playing in the warm downpour. How was this any different than taking a shower in a steamy bathroom in Maracaibo and then stepping into a cold, air conditioned room to get dressed? This tropical city where my mother-in-law lives is considered one of the coldest places on earth because of the powerful AC and yet when visiting North Carolina in winter, she avoids washing her hair when sick because she is convinced that it will worsen her cold. If this were true, then the entire northern hemisphere would spend at least four months of the year sniffling and sneezing.

Whether you say “Salud,” “Gezundheit,” or “Bless You” – you subscribe to certain health practices that have most likely been passed down from generation to generation. Things can often get tricky, though, when crossing cultures and encountering different standards of cleanliness, perceptions of wellness, and kooky home remedies. As with any intercultural encounter, I urge the traveler to come with an open mind and an adventurous spirit. And when all else fails, you might try a spritz of Windex!

Prayers for Venezuela

It has been 7 years this week since I returned to the United States on a house-hunting trip as part of our “Plan B” preparations. Back in 2007, everyone I knew in Venezuela was putting together his/her alternative plan to leave the country should the dismal situation there worsen. Some looked to settle in Spain or Italy where they had family and carried the all-important European passport to facilitate their relocation. Others considered Miami their potential temporary home where they had bank accounts, contacts, and even residences. Still others took refuge in Columbia, Panama and Costa Rica, which were close to home and shared both the language and relative culture with Venezuela. Being American citizens, my children and I leverage that advantage and relocated in North Carolina to be close to my parents. In very short order, what was first considered a “Plan B” turned into a “Plan A,” as I realized it is financially irresponsible to buy a house and not live in it, employers will not hire you if you cannot commit to a starting date, and school registration requires that you reside in the state.

As I watch the sad news coming out of Venezuela of the on-going street protests and violence, I am reminded of why I decided to leave this beautiful country, that had been my home for 11 years, when I did. I was so scared about my future and that of my children. I didn’t want to live with shortages, make do with the deterioration of civil liberties and personal security, and settle for less of a life than I knew was possible elsewhere. This is essentially the immigrant perspective and it is what drives people to risk peril as they cross oceans or deserts to reach a nation that promises something better. I think all parents want the best for their kids and will do anything to ensure a better future for the next generation.

I honestly believed that I would live out the rest of my days in Venezuela when I arrived there in the pre-Chavez era of 1996, but life rarely goes according to plan and sometimes we are forced to take action. After so many years of protests, violence, and worsening conditions, I had given up hope that things would get any better. I somehow found the strength to change our destiny. Today as I watch the news reports and Twitter feeds, I feel a certain separation from it all, a sense that there is not much I can do to change the situation at this point from such a distance (both physical and emotional). There is enough to worry about in my own backyard and we are not directly impacted. I can offer support, prayers, and well wishes, but it is no longer my fight.

I have always admired the unique ability of Venezuelans to shake off adversity and forge ahead in the face of so many setbacks. It surely has helped them weather many storms over the years, but I think a sense of complacency builds up when you continue to gracefully accept repeated injustices with a positive attitude and self-deprecating humor. This flexible stance, while noble, often paralyzes them from taking a stand and not backing down no matter the costs. This time, it appears to be different and that is the main reason that many people have reengaged. There is a sense that this is the moment to see this struggle through to its eventual conclusion. The students leading the protests today have known no other system than Chavismo their entire lives. They are inspiring those who have doubted the possibility of change to join the fight and dare to hope for a better future for Venezuela.

The hardest decision of my life was to leave Venezuela and not a day goes by that I do not thank the Lord for giving me the strength and opportunity to do so. I have rarely spoken about this decision, as it was a painful one for me personally that has raised self-doubt and even second-guessing over the years. While I know that my country is far from perfect, I so value the freedoms and opportunities it affords to both citizens and immigrants alike. As I go about my daily routine, I feel an overwhelming sense of peace and security that is in stark contrast to what I remember from my life abroad. When I see the violence, uncertainty, and injustice in Venezuela, I know that for now, we are better off here. It certainly came at a very high cost, but when I look at my kids and how well they are doing here, I know that it was worth it. I hope that they, too, in time will realize it was the better road for us.

Tonight, I’m saying a prayer for Venezuela and for all the Venezuelans (in both name and spirit) that their mejor camino, full of peace and prosperity, is just a few steps away.

There’s No Place Like Home

The Winter Olympics begin this week and the entire world is focused on Russia and their preparations for the Games. As I watch the news coverage from Sochi regarding the substandard conditions of the hotels and other facilities, I’m reminded of the week I spent in Moscow in the summer of 1992. I was leading a group of university students on a tour of the capital city and attending a series of seminars and field trips on the business climate in post-Soviet Russia. What was most striking about the visit was that our accommodations, in the former Olympic Village where athletes were housed a mere 12 years earlier, were in complete and utter disrepair. I’m not sure if these were considered luxury accommodations by Russian standards at the time, but this particular venue seemed to be lacking at least 4 or 5 stars. Trash was strewn throughout the hallways, windows were broken out, holes were punched into the walls, and there was a fowl odor permeating throughout the high-rise structure. I’ll never forget entering our room after a tiring day of travel and being terrified to set my luggage down let alone sit on the any of the furniture. The walls were literally crawling with a variety of bugs, including rather large roaches, and within minutes my skin was crawling with the image of the many sleepless nights I could expect in the week ahead. (As it turned out, we slept with the lights on all week, hoping that the light bulbs would endure, keeping the creepy crawlies at bay.)

I’ll never forget opening the curtains upon arrival to inspect the view from our window and being doubly shocked. The curtain rod fell off the wall and the curtains came crashing down before I had the chance to notice the miserable sight of what appeared to be a trash dump directly across the street (did I mention there was an odor?!). We left the dusty curtains and the partially upright rod right where it had landed since this particular lodging did not afford a concierge who would do anything to fix it. Customer service did not seem to be a part of our tour package. I pulled out the excessive supply of bottled water that filled my suitcase, lined up bottles on the desk supporting the fallen curtain rod, in front of the window with the horrible view, and took a picture. No one would believe my tale otherwise. The dwindling Evian bottles and growing number of bug bites on my legs marked the passing of time as our week came to a close. Never had I experienced such uproarious applause during takeoff, but there were many happy passengers on the Aeroflot flight leaving Moscow that final day.

The line up of water bottles along the window served a dual purpose, covering up the hideous view and counting down the days until our departure.

It’s true that we Americans have it pretty good and because we tend to be spoiled, we are quick to complain when the standards abroad don’t meet our high expectations. I think the best part of this trip was the realization of just how much we take for granted in our day-to-day lives. In the United States, we overlook so many of the “luxuries” that make our lives easier – lights that turn on with the flick of a switch, mail that is delivered to your front door, supermarkets full of fresh and safe products, clean water that flows freely from the tap, and a feeling of security as you go about your daily routine. During my travels, I have taken more than my share of cold showers, sometimes in bug-infested bathrooms, with a less than steady flow of water. I remember showering against the clock in Luxembourg where a timer would cut the water supply off when a pre-set time limit was met. Why is it that water rationing usually goes into effect just when you have a head full of shampoo or the baby has a dirty diaper?

I remember living in Venezuela where food shortages made it hard to shop, let alone cook. My son begged me to make his favorite pancakes for breakfast, but without eggs and milk it was next to impossible to deliver. Imagine traveling to six different grocery stores, fruit stands, corner markets, and abastos in order to fill your pantry and refrigerator for your weekly meals. I’m not sure how Venezuelans can start the day without a reliable supply of coffee, milk, and sugar. “No hay” has become the catchphrase of late and it is often easier to simply state what is available than showing a menu or list of what used to be.

During our stay in Moscow, we were warned not to drink the water (thus the bottled water) or any fresh food that may have been washed in tap water (salads, fruits, etc.). As a precaution, we drank either hot tea or bottled beer in the hotel restaurant, neither of which tasted very good, in order to keep hydrated. It’s true in many places around the world that the tap water that may be perfectly fine for the locals to imbibe could make a visitor sick. The water is not necessarily dirty, but it does contain certain parasites that our bodies are not immune to and as a result, upset our digestive system. I remember being very ill during my first months in Venezuela as my body was adjusting to these new “germs.” My kids seem to be immune to all stomach bugs today because of that early contamination in Caracas. The news reports over the past few days from Sochi have shown glasses of cloudy, brown water that came from the tap. Yet another reason to not drink the water! This was the same way the water looked in my Venezuelan apartment after rationing had ceased and the supply of water started flowing again.

What I discovered during our Moscow adventure so many years ago was that when your surroundings are in such disarray, there is very little incentive to truly take care of them. As a child, I was taught to cultivate a habit of always putting things away as I had found them. It was considered good manners to do so, particularly if those items did not belong to you, such as toys or books at school or perhaps a friend’s house. I later learned that putting things back in their exact place was a way to cover up a wrong doing, such as petty theft. In other words, if you are going to steal a chocolate Kiss from the lidded crystal candy dish without being detected, be certain to leave no evidence behind. This means moving the other chocolates around to minimize the hole that the stolen Kiss had previously occupied, carefully and silently replacing the lid of the candy dish, and never leaving any evidence behind (throw those wrappers away!).

Littering is one of my pet peeves. I grew up watching TV commercials of a tearful Indian chief encouraging Americans not to litter and took it to heart. My parents were sticklers about putting any refuse in a trashcan and NEVER throwing it out a car window. I suppose this is why I really enjoyed my time living in immaculate Switzerland where littering is rarely practiced. It always makes me laugh when Venezuelans remark about how clean and tidy the United States is while they litter their own country. Tidiness doesn’t happen by accident; people have to make a conscious choice to take care of their surroundings. Certainly, laws and fines help dictate compliance, but it’s a general mindset that involves national pride, respect for others, and a can-do spirit. When I look back on my daily life in Venezuela, the general disorder and filth on the streets seemed to derive from an overwhelming sense of defeat. There was so much wrong – whether it was trash piled high on the sidewalks or potholes in the streets or armed robbery committed in broad daylight – and so little being done to alleviate the problems. The efforts of a few determined to affect change did not seem sufficient enough to turn the tide.

This was the same defeated feeling that my fellow travelers and I felt after just a few days in that miserable hotel that once was home to some of the world’s Olympic athletes. Littering became a daily ritual, disparaging remarks were heard at every turn, and even that lopsided curtain rod remained in the same position throughout our stay. We lost the incentive to be good guests on our best behavior and fell into disruptive habits that left the place worse for the wear. Looking back on that experience, I realize now just how grateful I am for all the little conveniences that I enjoy. I also feel blessed to have had the opportunity to journey beyond my homeland to learn first hand that the grass may not be greener on the other side. In fact, there may not be any grass at all!

Como te llamas?!

I’ve always had a fascination with names, particularly those that are unique or have special meaning. In my family, we all have pretty simple names that cannot be shortened and no nicknames. My parents intentionally selected these succinct monikers so as to spare us the torture of people completely botching our names. Despite the fact that my full name consists of only 11 letters, people frequently still misspell mine. They often try to make it more complicated than it actually is, putting an “s” or an “er” on the end of Timm. It seems that Lori is not much easier and often comes out “Laurie” or “Lorie” or the British word for truck, “Lorry.” Surprisingly, so many people in Venezuela thought my name was Doris and despite my futile efforts to correct them, I just surrendered to the fact that I may need to answer to this new designation. Because of this, I make a considerable effort to correctly say and spell the names of new acquaintances I encounter. I, furthermore, find myself repeating them and inquiring about their origin in an effort to try to commit them to memory.

During all of my international travels and intercultural interactions, I have come to know many people with very interesting names. My host brother in Finland was named Jussi, which is pronounced “you-see” and not “juicy,” as everyone in my family joked. One of my closest friends in Switzerland was named Ivo, which often sounds like “evil” and he was anything but. Most inhabitants of the tiny country of Luxembourg have a French first name and a German last name, such as Jean-Claude Juncker, who served as Prime Minister of the Grand Duchy during my time living there. Our Columbian nanny in Venezuela was named Neisy’s (she added the apostrophe for effect), but we always called her “nicey,” (even though she pronounced it “nay-see”) since she was such a kind and nurturing soul. I worked with an English instructor from Chicago in Caracas whose name was Lubega during the time that the song Mambo Number 5 was made popular by the artist called Lou Bega. He couldn’t go anywhere without people asking him about that catchy number.

Venezuela is known for having some of the most unusual names on the planet. Early on, I heard the hilarious tales of monikers such as Stevie Wonder Gonzalez, USNavy (pronounced “oos-navee”) Marina, and even Y2K (pronounced “ee-dos-ka”). Then I met an overwhelming number of guys named Elvis and Jhonny (creative spelling).  There are even rumors that Brucelee, Darwin Lenin Jimenez, Hitler Eufemio Mayora, and Hochiminh are all Venezuelans. Place names, too, like Taj-Mahal and Disneylandia have been said to belong to citizens of this South American nation. I also encountered many people who had completely original names – Yusmairobis, Nefertitis, Yaxilany, Riubalkis, Debraska – made up of bits and pieces of family names, places, celebrities, pets, and household objects. My favorite naming story comes from Dolores, the wife of Pepe Bola, whose married name using the traditional “de” alludes to pain in the groin area.

Listed below are a few actual cedúlas (Venezuelan identification cards) with some examples of creative Venezuelan names:

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When it comes to naming children, I always believe that you should follow the “trinket” rule. If your chosen name appears on a coffee mug or key chain in a tourist shop, you have made a good selection. Otherwise, you might want to rethink it. Your children will thank you!

Money Makes the World Go ‘Round

We have all dreamt at one time or another about winning the lottery or providing all the right questions on the game show Jeopardy! in order to win the big payoff. As a kid, I prayed that the Publisher’s Clearinghouse “prize patrol” would show up at our front door with a bunch of helium balloons and that enormous cardboard check. I remember selling everything from lemonade and cookies to worthless magazine stamps to my kind neighbors thinking that I would somehow strike it rich by the age of 12. As I look at my own kids today, scheming to earn a few extra dollars in order to buy the latest video game, I realize that not much has changed in the desire to acquire from my generation to theirs. Whether you call them francs, Euros, cobre, or greenbacks – money really does make the world go round.

I studied economics in college, but it never really came to life for me until I lived in Europe and learned about the volatility of exchange rates first hand. I can remember watching the daily rise and fall of the rates and waiting for the precise moment to exchange my dollars to get the best return possible. Exchanging money is a lot like gambling and there were times when I would have profited by holding out for another day or two. I’ve never been much of an expert and I suppose it’s because my frugal parents always taught me that gambling was like throwing your money out the window. It wasn’t until years later that I developed a real fondness for the sights and sounds of a casino where I tried my luck at Caribbean Stud Poker.

Traveling in Europe during the late 80’s/early 90’s was challenging on the currency front since crossing national boundaries meant the need to carry multiple currencies. I often felt like a banker in a Monopoly game with all the colorful bills and oddly-shaped coins that resembled play money. We all talked about how great it would be to have a single, European currency to facilitate our cross-border travels and despite writing an A+ paper on the Euro, I never believed that it would ever come to fruition.

Much like a real life Monopoly victory, I have often wistfully thought about a life without any financial worries. Interestingly enough, I was a millionaire during my time in Venezuela and didn’t really appreciate it. In fact, I didn’t live any more blissfully there than my humble existence in the U.S. (a mere “thousandaire”!). In a country where gasoline is cheaper than water, I quickly learned that having a live-in maid/nanny as well as a driver was nothing out of the ordinary for anyone in the educated and professional class. Despite the fact that imported goods were quite expensive in Venezuela, we could afford to travel to Miami or Aruba to stock up on essentials while enjoying a few days of vacation. We lived in a comfortable apartment, had a very active social life, and never felt materialistically deprived.

I had a good job in Caracas and originally was paid a salary in dollars. However, as the local currency devalued, it became increasingly difficult for the company to sustain the incremental salary increases that the rising exchange rate represented. I remember on one occasion being paid in cash instead of by check when cash flow challenges made it difficult for our company to make the bi-weekly payroll. It was like something out of a movie to see our finance manager doling out stacks of cash to each employee. On the walk home, I was hyper-aware of the bolivare stash in my purse and felt like a bank robber looking over my shoulder for fear that someone would jump me. I couldn’t help but hum Tevya’s “If I Were a Rich Man” as I unloaded all that cash on my bed when I safely arrived home with a giddy sense of prosperity.

Buying US dollars on the black market is terribly expensive in Venezuela today, making imported products inaccessible for many Venezuelans.

The Venezuela I knew in the early 1990’s had only a handful of bills in circulation (with the highest denomination being the Bs. 5,000) and no coins. It was often easier to just let merchants keep the change than trying to make transactions precise with such a limited number of currency units. The ticket vending machines in the Metro that were originally designed to accept moneda (coins) sat dormant for years until they introduced the first coins and additional bills of Bs. 10,000, Bs. 20,000, and eventually Bs. 50,000. I had left the country by the time the fuerte had been introduced and despite the name, I always have doubted its strength.

In 2002, the same year that my youngest child was born, an exchange control was mandated by the Chavez regime, and the Venezuela I had known became a lot more like the USSR where I, as a teenager, went on a spending spree to get rid of the worthless, non-convertible currency. Giving it away was so liberating and fun. Now that my son is in middle school, I see that the exchange control originally put into place to slow the exodus of dollars out of the economy has done very little to bolster monetary stability in this oil-rich country. Today, the divide between the “official” exchange rate of roughly Bs. 6 to the dollar and the black rate of Bs. 60 (and climbing!) is just too great to be sustainable. Imported goods cost a fortune and diners at McDonald’s fork over a month’s salary for a simple ice cream treat.

Money really does make the world go around, in both good times and bad. In our world today where global economies are increasingly interconnected, the economics lessons of my past still ring true.

Passport, Please!

There was a tornado warning in our county a few years ago and as I was gathering up my boys to run to a neighbor’s basement for cover, I instinctively threw our passports in my purse for safekeeping. For most of my life, my passport has been the most important document in my possession. Thinking back to the many Eurail pass excursions as a college student or the bus crossing the border from Finland to the Soviet Union as a teenage foreign exchange student or my departure from Venezuela with my two young children to relocate in the U.S. – my American passport has been essential to getting where I needed and wanted to travel. I have often marveled at how lucky I was to be born in a country where so many doors are opened simply by flashing that blue booklet full of colorful stamps. This sense of gratitude was never more apparent than during my travels to East Berlin in the late 1980s just before the fall of the Berlin Wall. I remember so vividly the hopeless expressions on the faces of the people left behind as our train pulled away from the station. They did not have the right documents to escape the despair of their home country.

It’s a funny thing about this world we live in. There are borders everywhere – some visible, some even quite fortified, and others impossible to detect. Just looking out my window, I can see the property line that divides my yard from my neighbor’s merely by the height and condition of the grass (mine is not nearly as attractive as his!). Dogs down the street seem to be amazingly obedient of their boundaries, as they never venture onto the sidewalk or street to investigate a person or vehicle passing by. Could it be that an “invisible fence” is keeping them at bay? I’ve learned through my intercultural studies as well as firsthand experience that people maintain a type of invisible physical boundary or “bubble,” as I like to call it, around them when shaking hands, conversing, and going about their day-to-day business. If you are familiar with Seinfeld’s “close talker” character, you know how uncomfortable it can be when someone invades your personal space. Even my children know that when they come to my comfy bed in the middle of the night that the pillow I leave in the middle of the bed is a boundary that they must not cross or else mom will be grouchy in the morning!!

I used to love crossing borders when I was a college student living in Luxembourg in the heart of Europe. Every country had its unique passport stamp and it became a badge of honor to fill your passport with them despite the fact that the border guards often roused us from our sleep as we transversed a national boundary in the middle of the night. There was a time when visas were required to travel to several Eastern European countries and having one of these gems granted you major bragging rights, particularly if they were written in Cyrillic letters or a language completely foreign to English-speaking youth. Sadly, as the Iron Curtain was lifted and the European Union finally came together, the borders fell away and one could travel across most of Europe without the need to show a passport. Gone were the colorful pages and the corresponding stories of border crossing adventures.

Gone are the days of passport stamps at every European border crossing.

When I think of borders, I’m often reminded of my travels to East Berlin after the fall of the Wall. How odd it was to stand in places that just a few years before were a part of the “no man’s zone” where placing one toe would have gotten you shot. I tried to explain to people how different it felt to be in a city so transformed by the removal of a simple walled structure. To a younger generation who may wonder why the Wall was erected in the first place, I find it hard to provide an answer that satisfies their curiosity. It seemed so pointless to me at the time and especially now. Borders are like that, I suppose. They divide people who may or may not want to be divided. Certainly, borders can provide clearly defined limits, which for some could provide a sense of order and security. I find that as a parent, I have always been a fan of defining expectations and boundaries in anticipation of any disobedience. After having lived in Latin America where it is often easier to go with the flow of the general disorder, I can see how these types of strict limits could feel unnecessary and even confining.

It’s interesting to see how people across cultures manage boundaries in their most intimate abodes, their homes. Despite being back in the U.S. now for 6 years, I still have this instinctive need to lock the doors of my home even when I am inside and expecting guests. That simple lock on the door somehow makes me feel protected from outside dangers, which are plentiful in Venezuela where I learned to put up my guard. It still strikes me today how someone can walk up to the front door of an average American home without crossing through a walled gate, guard house, or fence. In Venezuela, all homes whether they are apartments or mansions are well fortified against intruders with high walls constructed of barbed wire and glass shards. The average key ring is the size of one’s fist since a whole series of keys are required to access the entry points of one’s home (parking garage, elevator, gate, front door, dead lock, etc.). It’s a sad reality in a country with so much violence.

Sometimes these fortifications remind me of the shuttered windows of Luxembourg homes that are often closed tightly, particularly at night, to protect the family’s privacy more so than their security. These outward barriers scream to me “keep out!” and as such, do not encourage a strong sense of community. When I reflect on my three years in Luxembourg, I’m sad to admit that I so rarely had the opportunity to enter a native’s home. I never had close Luxembourg friends and I had no contact at all with my neighbors, not even the obligatory wave and smile. By contrast, in Venezuela I felt instantly connected to everyone I encountered whether they were taxi drivers, shop keepers, or the neighbor walking her dog. People are open and out-going, which makes the visitor feel welcome and included almost immediately. Despite the physical fortifications for security’s sake, there were no visible relational boundaries in Venezuela.

As I watch my children who are now middle schoolers, I’m fascinated to discover that their generation has a completely distinct view of personal boundaries when interacting with others. Technology has certainly played a part in making them more isolated and anti-social than previous generations. I see it in how they interact (or don’t!) in face-to-face situations; there is no eye contact, they don’t speak in complete sentences, and their body language is awkward and often communicates disengagement. Online, however, these seemingly socially adept kids become the most out-going, clever, and focused specimens I’ve ever encountered. They can spend hours gazing at multiple screens on a variety of devices, multi-tasking all the while they interact with the world – playing Wii games, chatting, watching You Tube videos, and commenting on Instagram posts. Having to wait for the next upgrade is the only limitation in their indoor, technology-driven lives. They have never known corded telephones, dial up Internet, and remote-less TV.

Suddenly, I feel like an old person complaining about “kids today!” Like culture, boundaries are in constant flux, shifting as required to adapt to the needs and realities of the world in which we live and the relationships we share. The key to managing them effectively is to be flexible and perhaps leaving your passport at home.