Celebration of Summer

The long, holiday weekend – which many consider the official start of summer – commences in just a matter of hours. The temperatures are rising, the stores are stocked with BBQ supplies, the malls are braced for bargain hunters, and the highways are primed for the mass exodus that begins today. It’s been several months since we’ve had an extended weekend and it seems that everyone is making plans. It doesn’t really matter that school is still in session and that spring officially comes to an end on June 20, Memorial Day weekend has arrived and with that comes the celebration of the summer ahead.

From Memorial Day until Labor Day, we’ll be at the pool.

Growing up in the Midwest, the opening and closing of the local swimming pool was the best indicator of summer. It didn’t matter if the temperature reached 100 degrees a week before Memorial Day or three weeks after Labor Day, that pool would stick to the late-May-through-early-September schedule and we just had to deal with it. After living in Venezuela for many years, I came to appreciate the warmer climate and year-round swimming pools. When you live with eternal summer, it is hard to remember what season it is and the passing of time is ever so subtle. I think it takes a cold, dreary winter to make one appreciate the summer and celebrate it for all its glory.

This may be the reason why summer is savored in Finland. After so many months of darkness and cold, the Finns take every opportunity to get out and enjoy the warmer and longer days of summer. Many people take time off from work and their responsibilities to escape to a lakefront summer cottage or sailboat for the duration of the summer. I didn’t fully appreciate this practice until I endured two weeks of winter in Turku where we saw only four hours of daylight every 24 hours. In the Land of the Midnight Sun, you never go to bed in total darkness during the summer months and the farther north you travel, the longer the days become. I remember the first time I traveled to the Arctic Circle. It was incredibly hot and since our car did not have any air conditioning, we had to turn around and retreat back to Tampere. It didn’t make for a very good travel tale. Who would ever believe that it was too hot at the Arctic Circle!?

The midnight sun has interfered with my internal clock on more than one occasion. I was returning home from Luxembourg in May and decided to take advantage of a layover in Iceland. The plan was to spend 24 hours in Reykjavik and then continue on to New York. Even though I had requested a wake-up call, I decided to set my alarm clock as a back up just to be certain that I didn’t miss my flight. Well, I woke up in a panic at 12:00 and realized that both the wake-up call and alarm clock had failed me. I dashed around my hotel room putting the final items into my carry on bag and rushed to the lobby to request a taxi. In my panic and overall sleepiness, I didn’t notice that the lobby area was somewhat dark and quiet. Despite the daylight out the window, the receptionist assured me that it was midnight and not midday. She suggested that I return to bed and await my wake up call, as I turned away horrified at my stupidity.

Summer is a time for wearing flip-flops, shorts, and tank tops. In Venezuela although skimpy clothes are the norm, shorts are not usually worn outside of sports clubs, swimming pools or the beach. While short skirts and stilettos are quite common, you would be hard pressed to find a Venezuelan woman sporting shorts on the streets of any metropolis. Despite the summer-like weather, I rarely wore sandals around town because my feet would end up black from the pollution on the streets by the end of the day. I never forget the time my parents came to visit us in Caracas in early March and my mother called to inquire about what clothes to pack. She knew about the “no shorts” rule but wasn’t sure if she could wear white. For a girl from Ohio this made perfect sense, but it was completely lost on the Venezuelans who were not aware of the unwritten rule in the U.S. that you never wear white before Memorial Day or after Labor Day.

In the early 90s, I spent a very enjoyable summer in Bern, Switzerland where I never ate a bad meal. How could you when the mainstays of the Swiss diet are wine, cheese and chocolate? The food was fabulous and I was eager to try many new dishes, but I was not prepared for the rebuke I received when I inquired about fondue. As I quickly learned from my friends, fondue has a season and is not eaten much by the Swiss during the summer months. In fact, I was told that only the “dumb tourists” ate fondue in summer. So, when I was among my Swiss friends, I obeyed this fondue rule lest I be the ugly American and embarrass them. But you can be certain that on several occasions, I became a “dumb tourist” when my American friends came to visit just so I could sample this tasty treat.

Summer sure has its quirks no matter where you find yourself, but since this season of longer days and ample sunshine is so fleeting, I hope that you will get out there and enjoy it.

Our Bundle of Joy

When you know someone who is about to have a baby, you are often transported back in time to when you had your own children. I realize now that my birthing experiences are very different than most of my neighbors and friends, since both of my children were born abroad. Not only was this life-changing event conducted in a foreign language, there were many traditions and customs of which I was unaware. When that is your reality, you don’t really stop to think of how it could have been a different experience somewhere else. It’s only now when we ladies gather and share our “war stories” that I realize how unique my experience truly was.

I had the most wonderful doctor and a great team of nurses as well as a birthing coach. I knew that I was in good hands. We had had the routine monthly exams throughout the 9-month pregnancy. One of the perks of having a child in Venezuela is that there is an ultrasound at every appointment and it really became something of a show, as we brought our videotape (this dates back nearly 12 years now!) to each appointment to record the images for posterity. Pity that no one we know even has a VHS player anymore! We did the 3-D ultrasound and got to see pictures of my child’s face being covered by his arms. Even then, he was uncooperative! It was great fun to be pregnant in a country that celebrates children and family.

My due date was during the first week of September, at the tail end of the summer vacation. My doctor had been monitoring his patients while planning his extended vacation ahead of the busy birthing month of October. At our weekly check-up, he would provide us with an update on the babies yet to be born and hint that he was not going to let this pregnancy go past a set date, not because he had concerns about the child’s health, but because a later delivery would interfere with his travel plans. One day, we got the news that he would induce the birth on the following morning. I found it very ironic that I went into labor on Labor Day, but in a country where this holiday is observed on May 1, I was alone in my amusement.

As with any first-time parent, I was nervous about the whole birthing process and was dead set against a C-section, which is very common practice in Venezuela as many women opt for the procedure to avoid a lengthy labor and the uncertainty about the date of the child’s birth. I didn’t want to have unnecessary surgery if at all possible while my husband didn’t want to pay the additional cost of a C-section. My doctor was fully aware of our wishes and promised me that no matter what, Pedro would be able to be at my side during the delivery. Unfortunately, he was not with me when they whisked me off to insert the epidural. I had a moment of panic when I realized that my Spanish might not have been as good as I had thought it was. Even though I was able to successfully sell language and cultural communication solutions to multinational corporations, make small talk at parties, and navigate a restaurant menu in Spanish with ease – when the anesthesiologist told me to move my “lomito,” I was stumped as to which part of my anatomy was most like a tenderloin.

People warned me that the celebratory spirit that most Venezuelans bring to other life events would certainly not be absent at the birth of my child. I knew that friends and family would be at the hospital, waiting to see my baby and me once we were released to our room. Thankfully, we had a private room because el gentío (the crowd) of people would never have fit into a shared room. There were people everywhere and most of them had a glass of some alcoholic elixir in their hands ready to toast the new addition to the family. I was told to drink as much water as possible and the kind nurse brought me a pitcher, insisting that I start replacing the lost fluids immediately. Being a good patient, I tried my best to keep up my water intake, but every time I reached for the pitcher, it was empty from all the Scotch and waters being served.

Our first-born son came into the world around noon, but the party continued well into the evening hours. To my amazement, pasapalos (hors d’oeuvres) appeared out of nowhere to accompany the cocktails and before too long, the distinct smell of tobacco (both cigar and cigarette) could be detected in the room and down the hallway. Then I heard the announcement on the intercom system, scolding the visitors in Room 115 to keep their voices down and to refrain from smoking in the hallways. That was the moment that I realized that I could end the party by closing my eyes and feigning sleep.

Visitors receive a "recuerdito" (favor) from the baby, saying "gracias por venir a conocerme" (thanks for coming to meet me).

In Venezuela, all babies are subjected to a bit of pain on their first day of life. Girls usually get their ears pierced while boys are circumcised. There is an assumption that blood will be drawn, so if you have any objections as parents, you need to voice them ahead of time. Parents are also expected to supply diapers for the baby and it seems that whatever you bring, it is never enough. Who knew that recien nacidos (newborns) grow out of newborn-sized diapers before they leave the hospital? We brought several outfits with matching blankets to the hospital so that he would be well dressed to receive his many visitas. Parents in Venezuela go to great lengths to find just the right recuerdito (favor) for the visitors who come to the hospital and your home.  I’ve seen everything from iced cookies in baby shapes to picture frames to stuffed animals. And as with other celebrations in this very image-conscious country, one-upmanship is the norm.

Once we took our bundle of joy home, we were blessed to have had two grandmothers, lots of friends, and a live-in nanny to help us take care of this tiny creature. I enjoyed a very lengthy maternity leave before returning to work and once I was back in the office, I was able to spend my two-hour lunch each day at home with my baby. I realize now that not many of my friends or family in the United States had it so good. It sure was an experience and as any parent will tell you, it is one that you will never forget.

A Matter of Trust

The weather has been so unseasonably warm over the past few weeks that I have been enjoying taking my husband’s convertible Mini Cooper out on the town. It’s great fun to tool around in this sporty car and it tends to attract a lot of smiles and waves from the passersby.  I am not the best parker in the world, but I have to say that I rarely miss the mark in this miniature vehicle. The challenge for me comes in whether to put the top up or not while I pop into a store. The caraqueño in me has little faith in people and feels that I need to put the top up, lock the doors, and prepare to be robbed. This is not because I live in a particularly dangerous community, but rather a habit that has been cultivated by living in a country like Venezuela where theft is very common. You learn to leave your valuables at home, become überaware of your surroundings, and take a defensive position as you go about your day-to-day life. Unfortunately, these are hard habits to break.

At the heart of the matter is a difference in the conception of trust between the two cultures. When I lived in Caracas, I felt as if my word was never enough. I was constantly being asked to sign documents for very simple transactions, such as a receipt for the delivery of a good or service or my commitment to comply with the rules. Sometimes signing these documents did not mean much because the rules were so rarely enforced. I suppose that in many ways, this practice should not have surprised me because in our very litigious society, waiver forms have become a part of daily life in the United States. If there is any potential risk involved, you have to sign away your rights to hold someone else responsible. Perhaps it was that these documents were required for quite trivial interactions that they impacted me. I soon came to realize that all these procedures were put into place to prevent fraud and corruption. It’s amazing how we are not trained in the U.S. to think like a criminal while in Venezuela this mindset is quite helpful from a proactive point of view.

For example, I always wondered why people rarely rented cars in Venezuela until I learned that a sizable sum of money was blocked on the renter’s credit card because some people would exchange the parts from the rental car with those in their own cars. This is something that I would have never thought of, but some enterprising person did and the car rental dealers had to come up with a contingency plan as a result. With this suspicious mentality, it may be incomprehensible that the “honor system” is still alive and well in the U.S. While I was picking up a take-out order at my favorite sushi restaurant last week, I had to chuckle at the box of peppermint patties they had for the taking at the front door. The sign indicated that they cost $.25 each. All I could imagine was a Venezuelan taking off with the whole box and perhaps leaving only a few annoying pennies from his pocket as a gesture of gratitude.

I’m a big fan of technology and I understand that people of a certain generation who perhaps have not been exposed to computers may not be so inclined to use them for their financial transactions. After all, when it comes to money, we all exercise a great deal of caution. I was surprised, however, to learn that many people do not fully embrace automated banking services in Venezuela, such a web banking or even ATMs, despite the convenience they provide due to the general lack of trust and recourse when things go wrong. I believe that this apprehension often comes from the poor service culture that you find in the country. It is often easier and even less time-consuming to physically enter a bank, stand in line and talk directly with a human being because you are able to supervise your transaction and leave with a paper receipt that provides a bit of security that the transaction was conducted to your liking. Conversely, when I spot a problem with my bank balance here or an online shopping transaction here in the United States, I have a certain amount of confidence that any error will be corrected swiftly and courteously because that is the level of service to which we have become accustomed.

In Venezuela, many people are comfortable living in the “gray” zone; they don’t tend to see things in black and white as we tend to in the U.S. This means that lying is acceptable and even encouraged if it spares someone you care about unnecessary pain or harm. Fons Trompenaars in his groundbreaking book, Riding the Waves of Culture, presented 7 dimensions that separate cultures, among them how a society applies rules of morals and ethics. Venezuelans, according to this study, are strong Particularists, who believe that relationships take precedence over rules. These cultures contend that circumstances and the nature of one’s relationship determine what is right in a given situation. There are no hard and fast rules; everything is fluid and ever changing. Contrast this view with the more concrete and well-established rules of the Universalist cultures where truth and honor are valued and protected at all costs. In the event that someone does offend and then lies about it, the Particularlists will focus on the sin while the Universalists will obsess over the lie. It really comes down to a matter of trust…and your point of view.

So, as I make my way around town in the convertible, I’ll continue to raise the top not so much out of fear or mistrust, but to keep out the nasty pollen which fills the air from the blooming flowers, trees, and grass. Happy Spring!

The Joy of Travel

Like many people, we celebrated the holidays away from home this past Christmas and spent a good amount of time in airports. I’ve never been a big fan of traveling over the holidays, particularly across international borders, because of the larger than normal crowds, the often-unpredictable weather and the general stress that is the holidays. I kept telling my kids that we had to “pack our patience” and be prepared for lines, delays, and perhaps a bit of running to our next gate. All in all, the multiple trips went off without a hitch and during the many layovers I had time to reflect on cultural differences.

It had been a while since I had traveled to Venezuela, but I was almost immediately reminded of how anxious Venezuelan passengers can be as we waited to board our flight in Miami. The airline staff had not even gotten into position yet when the lines started to form at the gate. Despite repeated announcements that boarding would not begin for another 15 minutes, the passengers jockeyed for position in the hopes of being the first in line to board. After a few minutes, the exasperated gate attendants made another announcement reminding the passengers that boarding would commence with first class and business class passengers followed by those seated in one of four zones starting with Zone 1. They went on to explain where the zone numbers could be found on the boarding pass in a futile attempt to reconfigure the lines that now blocked the gate. No one surrendered their position, even when the announcements were made in Spanish.

I just had to laugh as the gate attendants tried their best to muster up a smile amid all the chaos. In Venezuela, it pays to be proactive and assertive in situations where a sizable crowd needs to fit within a limited space. You find this behavior in the bank, at the deli counter in the supermarket, and at intersections of major thoroughfares. To be successful, you must be your own advocate. You need to establish your position, assert yourself and never give an inch to those competing with you for a place in the line. The systems in Venezuela are not set up to fairly provide service to those who patiently wait. There is no reward for being polite and waiting your turn. The honor system does not work there; it’s every man for himself.

It was then that a second set of announcements commenced reminding passengers that there was a limit to the number of carry on items that could be brought on board and that if they exceeded the size limitations, they would need to be checked at the gate. As I looked around at all the enormous bags and boxes, I could tell that the plane would never depart on time. I’ve often said that the reason Venezuelan families are so large is so that they can take more luggage (both checked and carry on) onto planes. If you are a family of four but your children’s ages are 18 months and 6 days, you will certainly check 8 suitcases and carry on as many bags as you can manage. I’ve seen children wearing backpacks that literally dwarf them with the final compras (purchases) that didn’t fit in the suitcases that are already busting at the seams. I have yet to meet a Venezuelan who has never purchased an extra suitcase or large duffle bag stateside to supplement the luggage with which they arrived.

Venezuelans have a knack of taking full advantage of baggage limits.

It’s not so much an issue of poor planning or binge shopping that causes this puzzling behavior. Since so many products are no longer available in Venezuela or that they cost up to 3 or 4 times the US price, there are real incentives to buying abroad. Many people stock up on underwear, cold medicine, swimming diapers, and salad dressings to tide them over until their next vacation in the States. It reminds me a lot of squirrels, storing their nuts for a long winter. Once you have these “treasures,” you have to conserve them and consume them wisely so that they will last. It is a true honor when someone shares one of these hoarded items with you.

Another explanation for the excessive baggage is the fact that very little of what you bring back from the States is actually for your own consumption. The encargos really make the difference. If you are on the receiving end, this is probably one of the most anticipated moments of the year. If you are on the giving end, it probably makes you want to run and hide. I’ve always been amazed with how easily and even shamelessly the Venezuelans can request an “encargo,” something that they would like for you to bring back for them. The encargo system works in a couple different ways:

1. The requestor could ask you to simply receive an item that they have pre-purchased. This could be something that a family member or friend living in the States could deliver to you or something that may have been ordered online. All you need to do is pack it in your suitcase and get it through customs once you arrive in Venezuela. This is generally a low impact encargo in terms of time, effort, and money outlay.
2. The requestor could ask you to purchase a specific item for which they have given you sufficient cash to cover the bill. They usually will provide very detailed information about the product with some options in case your first choice is not available. They may also suggest which store would be the best place to start for your search. While this requires some legwork on your part and perhaps some checking in with the requestor, it is a minor nuisance.
3. The requestor could ask you to purchase an item with very limited information and some money that may or may not cover the expense. They may not want to burden you with too many restrictions so they leave the details to your discretion. Since they have not done the research themselves, they have no idea how much money you will have to outlay from your own pocket. You will be required to do some online research, visit a number of brick and mortar shops, and exchange some messages with the requestor to be sure that what you are about to purchase is indeed what was desired. This is the kind of encargo that makes you say, “I think I’m going to say ‘no’ the next time someone asks for a favor of this type.”
4. The final and most fastidioso (annoying!) encargo is the one in which the requestor gives you no guidelines and no plata (money) with which to work in an effort to make the hopes and dreams of their loved one come true. You may find yourself spending half of your vacation shuttling between Best Buy, Walmart and Target, trying to find just the right thing and putting items from your own shopping list back to make room for the encargo.

Over the years, I have learned that there are a few basic truths to the practice of encargos.

• No matter what they tell you, the item that you will be asked to bring back is never as small or as lightweight as promised. I remember a time when we agreed to bring a Little Tikes car back with us in an enormous box that was larger than our entire luggage put together. It was dumb luck that our flight was cancelled and we had to spend the night in a hotel. Luckily, we were able to leave the encargo in the airport because I cannot imagine trying to load it into a taxi and then into the hotel lobby, elevator, and ultimately the room.
• The people who request encargos are usually not your closest friends or family members and they may never be that close to you again if the encargo turns out badly. It’s amazing how quickly people find out that you are planning a trip to the States and they seize the moment by texting, emailing, or calling in their requests. You may be on the plane getting ready to take off or may even have arrived at your final destination. Thanks to technology, there is nowhere to hide.
• Those who seem to take advantage of your generosity and goodwill never seem to travel or if they do, they travel so stealthily that you can never ask that they return the favor.

So as I boarded the plane full of my encargos with all the other Venezuelans loaded down with theirs, I just had to chuckle. Venezuelans have been this way for as long as I can remember and while I am blessed to be living in the land of consumer opportunities, the encargos will continue. I just hope that I can count on receiving my encargos of Platanitos (plantain chips), El Rey (chocolate), Café Imperial (coffee), and Cocosette (coconut wafer cookies) from Venezuela.

¡Buen viaje!

I Resolve…

As I watch the month of January come to an end, I must sadly admit that I have not made any significant progress on my New Year’s resolutions. My diet and exercise routine have not improved, I haven’t slept more than 6 hours a night this past month, and I haven’t written a blog post since Thanksgiving. At this point, I might as well adopt the Chinese calendar and celebrate the New Year on February 3^rd. I certainly hope that this year of the rabbit fulfills its promise of being a less stressful year for us all.

I wonder, why is it that we feel compelled each year to make these promises to better ourselves? Could it be that the excessive holiday indulgence leaves us feeling a bit disgusted with ourselves come January? Certainly, there is something very cathartic about starting the New Year with a clean slate and the goal of living a better life in the 12 months to follow. However, I lament that sense of failure that I feel when these objectives have already been abandoned within the first 30 days of the New Year.

At the very heart of the New Year’s resolution is this innate belief that you control your own destiny. You have the power to make changes in your attitude and behavior, which will improve your quality of life. As an American, I have always been told that I am in control of my future. Every decision on the path from adolescence to adulthood was mine to make from my field of study and career path to the person I would marry and number of children I would have. In fact, I often worried, perhaps needlessly, if the many decisions I was making along the way were the right ones and how one misstep would impact my future.

It’s interesting to contrast this controlling worldview with the fatalistic belief to which many cultures around the globe adhere. In these cultures, it is believed that man has little control over his life. One is born into a certain status and position in the society, and it should not be one’s mission to change the natural societal order. In these cultures, people accept their fate and they would be reluctant to challenge what destiny has in store for them and their families. The practice of making resolutions at any time of the year is a very foreign concept in these fatalistic societies.

I’m reminded of a friend of mine from Nepal, who lived for many years in the US and became quite acclimated to American culture. For nearly a decade, he resisted the urging of his family to return home to Katmandu because he knew that it meant he would have to marry. Not that he was against marriage per se, but he clearly understood that he would be expected to marry the woman that his family had selected to be his bride. Although influenced by the American belief that man should control his future, my friend came to accept the possibility that an arranged marriage could be the best thing for him.

Imagine my delight, some 15 years later, when I reunited with this friend and his beautiful wife and witnessed their happiness. They talked very openly about their marital challenges, particularly since they wed only a few days after meeting one another for the first time. I loved hearing the stories about how they got acquainted in the months and years that followed their wedding as they traveled from Nepal to Mexico and back to the US. Although you would expect their experience to be so different from a more “traditional” marriage, I found common themes in their marital journey and my own.

This experience was so eye opening for me. It made me realize that maybe it doesn’t matter much how much control we have or what steps we take to better our lives. The best course of action may be no action at all. Just let life happen and have faith that things have a way of working out for the best. So tomorrow, as we change the calendar to February, I resolve to beat myself up a little less about not fulfilling my New Year’s resolutions. Perhaps I’m just destined to procrastinate!

‘Tis the Season

Our Venezuelan Thanksgiving feast grew in popularity and size each year.

It started today…the Christmas music started streaming across my favorite radio station. It’s not that I have anything against holiday tunes. In fact, I have more than 300 on my iPod. It just seems that at this time of the year there is such a general rush to launch the Christmas season while I still have carved pumpkins on my front porch and Halloween candy in my kitchen.

I have to admit that when I was a kid, I didn’t care all that much for Thanksgiving. It was just that boring holiday, sorely lacking in treats and presents, in between the headliners of Halloween and Christmas. I remember the very uneventful get-togethers with our extended family where the highlight of the day was “pop time,” the affectionate term we coined for that mid-afternoon snack featuring a variety of soft drinks. The distinct sound of ice cubes clinking in the drinking glasses and the whoosh of a pop bottle being opened let you know that the holiday was nearly over and you were one step closer to Christmas.

I was never that crazy about the food of Thanksgiving either. Aside from the turkey breast and dinner rolls, I didn’t eat much else until the pumpkin pie made an appearance. I actually enjoyed being seated at the “kid table” because it often meant that I wasn’t under pressure to clean my plate. Needless to say, I was not too thrilled with the post-Thanksgiving leftovers that seemed to reappear on a weekly basis until about Easter. Why didn’t the first settlers make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or send out for pizza? I lobbied for a change of menu unsuccessfully for many years.

It wasn’t until I moved abroad and spent several Thanksgiving holidays away from my family that I realized how special it really was. Not only is it disappointing to not get to take the day off because it has no significance in your host country, but it is hard to feel connected with loved ones back home when there is a difference in time zone and/or schedule. I remember several holidays when I felt so alone, knowing that I was missing out on the celebration that hadn’t meant that much to me until then. Thanksgiving is such an American holiday; it is deeply rooted in our history, culture, and faith. Every child knows the story of the first Thanksgiving and is prepared to share the things he/she is thankful for when prompted. Sometimes the absence of those “things” can make you nostalgic and homesick.

Over the years, my husband and I found ourselves celebrating Thanksgiving each year with our American friends and family living in Venezuela. Although it was a challenge to find all of the ingredients for the traditional meal, we always managed to put together a feast that satisfied not only our hunger but also my longing for the familiar. When our kids started school and our social circle expanded to include school friends, we began a tradition of hosting our closest friends and their children in our home on Thanksgiving Day. It became one of our favorite annual events and provided us all an opportunity to reflect on our many blessings of the past year.

We Americans are really so fortunate to have such a unique tradition of giving thanks each fall. I’ve seen enough of the world to know just how blessed we are. So I, for one, plan to find a new radio station and will avoid the mall for just a few more days so that I can give Thanksgiving the attention and respect it deserves. No matter where in the world you may be this year – I wish you a safe, happy, and enjoyable holiday.

Ode to Chocolate

At this time of the year when Halloween treats are everywhere to be found, I find it hard not to indulge my chocolate addiction. I really cannot remember a time in my life when I didn’t love chocolate. As a child, I remember how the promise of one of my mother’s chocolaty desserts got me though the torture of being a member of the “clean plate club.” Mary Poppins may have sung the praises of sugar, but I have always known that chocolate milk helps the green beans go down.

Chocolate makes the world go 'round!

Over the years, my travels abroad have allowed me to fuel my addiction in the name of “tourism.” How could I not sample the chocolates of Switzerland and Belgian while visiting these countries where chocolate shops abound? The people I met along the way were only too happy to supply me with new varieties to try and would engage me in lively debates about the merits of each one. You’ve gotta love a country where a daily dose of chocolate is considered part of a healthy diet. While my tastes have changed over the years –from the sweet and creamy Cadbury of the UK to the bitter, extra dark El Rey of Venezuela – I still have a great appreciation of chocolate and the way in which its aromas and flavors can trigger a memory of an international experience in my past.

Many people who live abroad understand the strong connection between feelings of homesickness and a longing for certain comfort foods, especially chocolate. While I was living in Luxembourg, I remember the giddiness I felt upon receiving a care package from home filled with blue boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese and blue bags of Oreo cookies. Venezuelans visiting my home go wild when I bring out the Savoy chocolate goodies, including Cocosette, Suzy, Ping Pong, and Toronto. I can only imagine the excitement the American troops abroad will feel when they open care packages with our leftover Halloween candy.

Is there a cultural connection to chocolate? Claro que sí. Every country I have visited claims to have the best chocolate in the world. As such, it is a symbol of national pride. Chocolate has universal appeal, evokes smiles, and makes people feel good. While I was traveling in Eastern Europe in the late ‘80s, the simple act of sharing chocolate treats had a way of bridging cultural, language, and political barriers that seemed otherwise insurmountable. Chocolate – whether it is eaten, drunk, or used in baking – has a way of bringing people together in fellowship. I know that for me personally it always cheers me up at the end of a hard day.

Celebrations

In my family, this is a week of many celebrations – including a wedding, two birthdays, and an anniversary. Additionally, given the beautiful weather and colorful autumn leaves, this is my favorite time of the year.  We always seem to be planning a get together of some sort and this week is no exception.

As we finalize the preparations for my son’s 8th birthday party, I am reminded of the elaborate birthday parties, or piñatas, that my children enjoyed in their early years in Venezuela. We had a pirate pool party with a hidden treasure chest, a safari party with a wild animal scavenger hunt, and a Halloween trick or treat party with lots of candy. No matter how creative and over-the-top we took our party theme, it seemed that there was always another parent ready to one-up the rest of the class. I remember the amazingly elegant birthday party at a five-star hotel for my son’s friend from Kindergarten. It looked more like a wedding than a piñata, but everyone sure had a good time.

Then there was the mom who spent a month transforming the party room in her apartment building into a beach scene. She brought in truckloads of sand, planted palms, beach chairs, and shells to create a unique, yet messy party venue. There were surfboards for tables, tropical cocktails all around, and each kid left with a cooler filled with beach essentials including a bathing suit, sunglasses, sunscreen, and a towel. It was a great party until one especially rambunctious kid was rushed to the emergency room because he couldn’t get the sand out of his eye. I always wondered how long it took that mom to clean up the beach and restore the party room to normal.

There are usually piñatas at a Venezuelan birthday party, but sometimes the children cry and refuse to take their turn trying to break it open. Why would you want to hurt Barney?

Birthday parties in Venezuela are a very big deal. The piñata is the one social event to which the guests arrive punctually because both children and parents have a lot of fun. Kids usually dress up in their Sunday best regardless of what the theme may be and often go home disheveled and with stained clothes. That’s the sign of a great party! Nannies accompany the kids to give their moms a break so that they can catch up with their friends and enjoy a few drinks. Entertainment – in the form of a magic show, band, games or puppet show – is provided by a team of energetic party coordinators (often called payasos or clowns), corralling the kids and attending to their every need. If this were not enough, the parents are treated to their own parallel, adult party with waiters serving wine, whisky, and pasapalos (h’ordeuvres). Parties can go on well into the night and every guest leaves with a cotillion or recuerdito (party favor) related to the party theme.

It’s a lot of work and pressure at times to get the affair just right. When the kids are about 7 or 8 years old, the piñatas fall out of fashion and the kids have smaller, more intimate birthday celebrations until they reach the age of 15, which is  when the one-upmanship returns. The quinceñera celebration is often as elaborate and expensive as a wedding. There are dancing lessons, bands, limos, flowers, and caterers to pay for, not to mention the hired help. The dress code is formal and the party runs late into the night.

Birthdays in general are celebrated with much fervor in Venezuela. The cumpleañero/a (birthday boy/girl) usually starts receiving phone calls at midnight from friends and family offering their well wishes and these calls continue until the day comes to a close. Cards are not usually sent since the postal system is not widely used. Families usually come together to picar la torta (cut the cake) and sing the Spanish version of the “Happy Birthday” song. On your special day, you may be celebrated with multiple cakes throughout the day as you move from your home to the office and then to the homes of your loved ones. And for good luck, it is customary to scream on the first cut of the cake.

So for all those who are celebrating another year this week, I extend my best birthday wishes. ¡Cumpleaños, cumpleaños, cumpleaños feliz!

Silence is Golden

How is silence used in your culture?

This message flashed on the screen at the movies this weekend and it made me wonder, is silence really all that special? Maybe when you are trying to watch a movie or read a book or perhaps listen to a sermon at church on Sunday. Aside from these key moments in life, how many of us actually enjoy complete and utter silence? Admit it, after a few relaxing moments, we would all get a little batty without at least some background noise, like a radio, TV, or arguing kids.

All of this reflection begs the question, what is silence? Is it merely the absence of communication? Or can it be an effective form of communication? Just ask anyone who has effectively used the “silent treatment” on a spouse or child to communicate their feelings of frustration and anger. I have been known to use it with my husband and it can be pretty powerful when used correctly.

The use of silence varies greatly across cultures. Americans are not that comfortable with silence. In conversation, we tolerate only enough to separate one speaker from another. Much like in a tennis game, Americans will converse in such a fashion where one speaker picks up the conversation just as the other has finished his point. It’s like returning the ball over the net, very orderly and predictable. If we were to examine a Japanese conversation, however, we would observe greater use of silence. Speakers pause frequently and wait before responding to let their conversation partner know that they are carefully considering what has been said. Ultimately, the silence communicates respect for the speaker and their relative position in the hierarchy. You could liken this form of communication to a golf game, where there is a lot of silence (walking) between the spoken words (strokes).

If we were to witness an American interacting with a Japanese counterpart, the results would be quite challenging. The American would do anything to fill the periods of silence, which are very uncomfortable for him while the Japanese would feel disrespected because due silence was not afforded to him and his words. In the 1980s, the Japanese invested a lot of time in studying American cultural patterns and learned to leverage their knowledge of different communication styles to their benefit. They learned that in negotiations Americans would often agree to provisions just to fill the awkward silence.

There are other cultures, including most Latin American countries, where silence is used very rarely. In fact, in these cultures it is considered good form to interrupt frequently and talk over the top of your conversation partner. They somehow have the ability to talk and listen simultaneously. I learned to hone these skills while in Venezuela where speaking up and forcefully expressing your point are a big part of daily survival.  If you enter a café and don’t shout out your order, you will never get served. When speaking on the phone, you need to jump right in and state your main points because you never know when the call may be dropped or your counterpart takes another call. Conversations are fast-paced and lively; there is no room for silence.

If you were to pair a Venezuelan, for example, with an American, the conversation may not be very effective since the American may disengage because due to the lack of silence, he feels he is not being heard. Likewise, a Japanese interacting with a Venezuelan may feel disrespected with the constant interruption. Conversely, the Venezuelan may feel that the others are not showing respect and interest by disengaging from the discourse.

It is in cases like these where merely overcoming the language barrier is not enough. Speakers need to understand the way silence is used across cultures to be a truly effective communicator. Furthermore, mastering the skills of listening, observing, and mirroring behavior can facilitate communication no matter where you travel. I personally have learned that silence can indeed be golden, depending upon your cultural point of view.

Play Ball!

When I hear a baseball commentator on the radio or TV, I am immediately transported back to my childhood when the warm, summer nights were dominated by the sounds of crickets, whirling fans, and the “Big Red Machine.” Not that I was much of a fan, but my whole family followed the season from start to finish with great interest and steadfast loyalty to the hometown team, the Cincinnati Reds. I grew up hearing stories about Crosley Field, the time my dad tried out for the team, and my grandparents’ friendship with Don Zimmer. Imagine my surprise when every taxi driver I encountered in Caracas could name the starting lineup of the 1975 World Series Champs!?! I never imagined that this slice of Americana could be such an integral part of my husband’s childhood, too.

When I met my husband, he was in an ESL (English as a Second Language) program and had pretty limited English skills. I recruited him to help me return my brother’s car to Ohio (from Vermont where we were studying) over Memorial Day weekend. He jumped at the chance to spend a few days with an American family while I worried how we would communicate on the long trip. I know that it was an exhausting trip for him with my whole family speaking a mile a minute while his eyes glazed over. At one point, though, I saw Pedro completely engaged in conversation with my grandfather. Curiosity got the best of me because I knew that my grandfather could not speak a word of Spanish and he was, in fact, a little hard of hearing. It turned out that they had found a conversation topic that they were both passionate about….baseball, and in particular the Cincinnati Reds.

Venezuela's David Concepcion was a part of the "Big Red Machine"

It was then that I realized that most of the baseball terms used in Venezuela are in English. It wasn’t that Pedro had suddenly learned to speak English; he was merely successful at correctly pronouncing the sports terms he had grown up with – such as strike, umpire, fly, and dugout – in a way in which my grandfather could understand them. Whether they play right field, left field, or shortstop, baseball players in Venezuela have a very strong connection to Major League Baseball since many compete in their farm organizations in small towns around country. Likewise, approximately 70 American ballplayers play annually in the Venezuelan professional league, whose season runs from October to January, and then there are the more than 130 Venezuelan players who play in the Major Leagues.

Baseball has always been the most popular sport in Venezuela unlike in other countries where soccer is king. Everyone knows the rules of the game and kids from all socioeconomic classes play ball on the fields and playgrounds in their local neighborhoods dreaming of being the next Ozzie Guillen. Players like Luis Aparicio and Cincinnati’s David Concepcion are national folk heroes and their names adorn stadiums and statues in the towns where they still live today. Team loyalty is strong and while rivals fiercely compete during the regular season, the entire country rallies behind the national team when the Caribbean World Series is played. Just like in the United States, families and friends attend the games together where shouts of jonron (home run), ponchao (strike out), and American cheese, my friend (referring to a sticky, hard, cone-shaped candy on a stick that roving vendors sell) can be heard.

As the Major League season winds down with the playoffs now one week away, it’s certainly a time of transition. The “boys of summer” become the “boys of fall” as the Venezuelan season kicks off. I know that my grandfather, much like my husband, would have certainly enjoyed year-round baseball.