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.

Have Smartphone Will Travel

I’m afraid that I sound like such an old person as I recount to my children memories of my life when I was their age. It eerily reminds me of the unbelievable tales my grandfather told about the difficult childhood he endured. There were rarely any happy stories. His life seemed to be marked by great pain and sacrifice, such as walking barefoot to school through deep drifts of snow. I can remember tuning out his endless lectures because I couldn’t quite understand the relevance of these life lessons to my very pampered existence. Was he trying to make me feel guilty or proud or grateful?

Fast forward some 30 years and I feel like my kids are tuning me out as well. I suppose it shouldn’t come as any surprise. It has been said that kids today belong to the “entitled generation” and as a result, they are very spoiled. While that may be true, I’m not sure that explains it entirely. You see, my kids and all of their contemporaries have grown up in a society that is more globally interconnected than at any time before. I watch in amazement as my boys “FaceTime” both their friends across town and their cousins in Maracaibo, Venezuela. This was just the stuff of science fiction when I was a kid. (Remember the Jetsons with their video phones?!) My earliest experience with international communication involved writing letters by hand on very thin, blue air mail paper to the various pen pals I had in Germany, England, and Finland. It truly was “snail mail” because the responses could take up to a month to arrive in our mailbox.

During my first overseas experience in Finland at the age of 13, I remember trying to coordinate phone calls with my parents back in Ohio given the 6-hour time difference and the high cost of international telephone communication. I don’t remember exactly how we determined who would call whom at what time and with what frequency, but I do recall quite clearly how rushed the calls were as I was reminded just how much money each minute was costing. I remember a thrifty strategy we employed while I was living in Luxembourg in which I would place a collect call to my parents and they would refuse to accept the charges. This was a signal that I was home awaiting their call. Some enterprising university students in Luxembourg discovered that there was a pay phone back on campus in Ohio that would allow collect calls to be accepted, saving them and their friends hundreds of dollars. Today we have Skype, Vonage and FaceTime that not only remove the cost but also the complication from the process of keeping in touch. Text messages, emails, and voicemails are such an integral part of our daily life. My, how they would have been useful to me during my time abroad!

Today’s SmartPhone apps greatly enhance overseas travel

I can’t imagine traveling with a smartphone and all the functionality it would provide from GPS and Internet searches to email and Facebook. In my day, we had to carry guidebooks, a camera, an address book, newspapers, a calendar, phrasebooks, maps, an alarm clock, and a Walkman on our weekend trips. Verifying my checking account balance or reporting a lost or stolen credit card required a trip to the post office (during business hours) to place a phone call to my bank back home. Lodging at a youth hostel or bed and breakfast often required a phone call (back at the post office) or a fax to check availability and/or place a reservation. Frequently, the information found in guidebooks or phone directories would be outdated by the time you arrived in a new city. Travel required a lot of research and planning. We usually started making our weekend plans a full week in advance and tapped into all of the resources at our disposal. Having a smartphone would have streamlined and enhanced that process immensely.

Before the arrival of the digital camera, I shot rolls and rolls of film without any assurance that the photos were at all decent. Because of the high cost of prints in Europe, I remember taking the rolls home with me to be developed at the local pharmacy. This made sharing photos with friends I had made during my travels next to impossible. Social media certainly would have revolutionized my overseas living experience, as I would have been able to upload photos in real time to keep everyone abreast of where I was and what I was doing (like the time I sprained my ankle in the Black Forest). The WordPress app on my iPhone would have allowed me to blog about my intercultural experiences as they happened instead of sending weekly letters and postcards to family and friends.

When I think about all the time and energy I wasted walking in the wrong direction in a new city because I had misread the map or the scary moments of being completely lost with no bearing at all, I wonder how I survived my youthful years of European travel. Just having a phone that I could use to make an emergency call (such as when my sprained ankle swelled up and we could not see any passersby to help carry me out of the Black Forest) would have put my mind at ease. So many of the challenges of overseas living could have been alleviated with today’s technology. I wonder, though, how much it would have changed the experience for me and lessened my resourcefulness and self-reliance. I truly believe that we are shaped by the trials that we endure and feel that I have earned a certain degree of “bragging rights” that my children may never understand.

Times have changed and technology certainly has shrunk our world. Just think, in 1750 it took 12 days to get a message from New York to Boston. A century later, it took 12 hours. Today in 12 hours you can fly from London to Tokyo, and you can send an email to the other side of the world in fewer than 12 seconds. I’m not sure what the future will hold for my children and grandchildren, but change is the one constant we can all count on no matter where we journey.

Happy Trails!

Open Your Heart and Home

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a fascination with foreign cultures and languages. I have vivid childhood memories of many international visitors who spent time in our home, sharing a bit about their way of life over a delicious meal. Over the years, there were business associates of my dad’s as well as a parade of exchange students from such diverse countries as Guatemala, Denmark, Syria, Japan, New Zealand, and Argentina. I would sit spellbound listening to the many tales of life beyond the borders of the small Ohio town where I grew up. With my atlas in hand, I would ask questions and absorb all the knowledge I could. Through these brief encounters, I traveled vicariously until I had the opportunity to venture out on my own overseas exchange at the age of thirteen.

Looking back, I marvel at my parents’ openness and generosity to these travelers far from home. With five kids and one nephew living under their roof, they had a lot of mouths to feed, but they always made room for one more when international visitors knocked at the door. I remember that our dining room table had two long benches running along each side where it was easy to add another seat. I watched with great anticipation as my siblings each hosted students and then traveled abroad to visit those students on their own summer exchange programs through CISV (Children’s International Summer Villages). I couldn’t wait for my turn! As luck would have it, our “no pet” household made us a perfect match for Virva, an exchange student from Finland with severe allergies. We became fast friends during her stay with my family during the summer of 1981 and I soon discovered the joy of showing her around the town that I always assumed was the most boring place on earth. Her delight with each and every sight caused me to see the hometown that I took for granted in a whole new light.

Making friends as an exchange student in Finland (1982)

We would ride our bikes to the pool, which I always hated, but Virva was fascinated by the rural scenery with cows and horses adorning the route. She loved the cookouts and sleepovers and fireflies that summer vacation brought. Despite her many food allergies, she enjoyed my mother’s wonderful cooking and identified her favorite treats to take back home to share with her family. One particularly funny memory was of an incorrigible kid we babysat together, who made a deal with us to go to bed provided that we would never return to babysit her again. That was an easy promise for me to keep because I knew that I never wanted to set eyes on her again and Virva was quite certain that she would not be back to Troy anytime soon. Our summer was marked by so many great memories, including a brief flight in a hot air balloon, roller coaster rides King’s Island amusement park, and waking up before sunrise to watch the royal wedding of Charles and Diana.

After so many years, the memories of those fun times and the deeper cultural understanding we discovered along the way endure today. This first hosting experience for me was truly the spark that ignited a life-long passion for other cultures and I had the wonderful opportunity to reunite with Virva and her family several more times over the years to follow. On one occasion while I was living in Luxembourg, I took the very long train journey to Finland to spend the Christmas holidays with my host family. Along the way, I visited with Anders, a student my family had hosted some 12 years earlier, who lived in Copenhagen. We had planned to meet in the train station and I was hopeful that my memory of the very blond, blue-eyed boy would be sufficient to find one another. After all, there can’t be that many blue-eyed blonds in Denmark! Since Anders was looking for the tween that he knew back in Ohio, it’s a miracle that we ever reconnected! So much time had passed since our last meeting and while we had changed so much physically, that sibling bond remained. I greatly enjoyed getting reacquainted with my “older brother,” meeting his family, and exploring his amazing city.

I’m thrilled to be in a position now to open our North Carolina home and our hearts to a foreign exchange student because I firmly believe that such an experience can be life changing for everyone involved. I want my kids to further develop their generosity as they share their home, their mom, and yes, their video games with a virtual stranger from a foreign land. I know that by the end of the school year, they will be greatly enriched by the experience and fired up to journey abroad in search of their own overseas living experience. I’m excited for my neighbors and friends to learn a bit about another country while they build a relationship with a young man under our collective care. And certainly, we are overjoyed to be in the position to be the surrogate family for a young international visitor to our community and honored to show him all that is good about our nation.

The Sixth Sense

My son and I had the opportunity to watch the 1999 Bruce Willis movie, The Sixth Sense, a few weeks ago and it’s still on both of our minds. As an amateur filmmaker, Pete was blown away by the surprise ending and how many assumptions he had made about the plot as the story came to its suspenseful conclusion. I enjoyed watching the flick with the full knowledge of what was real and what was imagined. Watching the final scene of the movie certainly causes you to question what you thought to be true and in Pete’s case, he felt the need to talk through all of his questions over subsequent days. This reminded me of just how unsettling intercultural interactions can feel when you assume too much.

I’ve often been in situations when I knew the gist of what was being discussed, but I either tuned out momentarily or didn’t have enough Spanish (or German) vocabulary to truly follow the conversation. My attempts to contribute anything of substance were futile because my understanding of the context was way off. Why is it that we are so afraid to admit our shortcomings when crossing language or cultural boundaries? There are other times when we think we understand a situation and fail to pick up on the subtleties of the language or culture that tell us that we don’t quite have it right. As I watched the movie, I realized that even when all the cues are there and we might even be told quite directly (i.e. “I see dead people”), we don’t always listen to our inner voice.

I’ve always been an information person. As a kid, I loved reading encyclopedias and reading news magazines. My favorite retail establishments were office supply stores where I would purchase and then hoard notebooks for journaling and making lists. I absolutely love words and cherish a greeting card over gift any day. I’m a whiz at taking meeting minutes and I’m known for a “quick draw” on my iPhone, producing speedy results to Google searches. Certainly I’ve heard of this thing called “intuition,” but I have not been that well acquainted with mine throughout my life. No matter how many alarm bells are going off in my head, as long as the data proves otherwise, I’m inclined to turn down the volume.

I can think back to many intercultural interactions in my past where my intuition rang out loud and clear, serving me well. I remember traveling with my Eurail Pass as a college student, escaping one dangerous situation after another by turning away from the suspicious man at the train station or keeping my pockets clear of the gypsy kids’ grabbing hands. My inner voice told me that the “kind” purser on the ferry, who offered me a free stateroom for the long journey between Italy and Greece, was up to no good. I soon learned to trust my intuition, having realized how much trouble I could have been in if I had not, and found that it became an internal compass leading me instinctively through my travels. How else could I explain the ability to know without consulting a map the route from the train station to the heart to town?!

Through my intercultural studies, I have learned that some cultures are more in tune with their sixth sense than others. As Americans, we tend to rely more on facts and figures, science and logic. Gut level reactions are considered impulsive if not backed up by evidence. I wonder, though, if we choose to deny our intuition when it doesn’t serve our needs, such as when someone you care about lies to you and acceptance of that betrayal is just too much to handle. Or when we forge ahead with a plan that we fear will not succeed due to a sense of pride and the need to please others. Or even when we fail to communicate with words and hard evidence what instinctively does not feel right. It is in these situations that we would be well served by listening to our inner voice, which is calling us to move beyond what can be seen, heard, felt, smelled and tasted. It may be that the sixth sense is the most important of them all.

Honeymoon’s Over?!

My boys have been away at camp this week and although they are seasoned international travelers and have spent previous summers far from home, this has been a new experience for us all. I sensed that their quiet demeanor on our drive up to camp had little to do with their fears about being away from mom for a week and everything to do with being disconnected from technology for longer than their worst punishment. I’m confident that they are having a wonderful time at camp, but I have to admit that I scan the daily photos posted on the camp web site to see if I can discern contentment in their smiles. Are they making new friends? Do they feel homesick? Did they brush their teeth today? These are the questions that plague me as I track their camp journey in photos.

And since kids today are so connected, it seems odd and even a bit “old fashioned” that we have been unable to speak with one another in nearly a week. Yesterday, I received a card in the mail from my eldest. My mind immediately flashed to the stories of pitiful letters and cards from miserable campers who literally beg their parents to come and rescue them from camp. Hoping for the best, I held my breath as I opened the card and read the first line. “I LOVE camp!” was all I needed to read to put my fears to rest. Camp is such a rite of passage for a kid and a great opportunity to experience some independence from mom and dad, but it comes with certain aches and pains, among them sunburn, bug bites, and homesickness.

As I reflect on some of my earliest intercultural experiences, I realize that I was about the same age as my son is now when I spent a summer in Lieto, Finland on a cultural exchange program. Not unlike him, snail mail and perhaps a telephone call or two were my only connection with home during my month-long stay abroad. I remember being uncertain about this new cultural experience and my ability to endure it. Would I like the food? How was I going to communicate with my host family? Did people really go to the sauna naked? It was a scary new world for a 12-year old kid from Ohio.

Whether it’s summer camp, a new job, a change in marital status, or an overseas living experience – adjustments are never easy and it seems like every phase of life provides new challenges to keep our adaptation skills sharp. Cultural adjustment is a natural part of the overseas living experience and many anthropologists have studied it and written about its symptoms, challenges, and cures. Certainly, most people have heard of “culture shock”, but you may not be aware of the different phases of cultural adjustment and the how to identify and navigate each one.

While each individual will pass through the different stages of the Cultural Adjustment Cycle, the timing and duration in each phase will vary.

Honeymoon – As the name implies, the honeymoon phase is the “high” that one feels shortly after arriving in a new culture. Everything is still new and exciting, which stimulates a sense of wonder and contentment. In my own personal experience, it is during the honeymoon stage that I have the most energy for and engagement in meeting new people, trying new foods, and partaking in new adventures. The days seem to stretch on endlessly with all the activity and fun to be experienced. It is in this stage that you try without embarrassment to speak the language and seemly make great strides pretty quickly in mastering key phrases. Everything is rosy and you feel as if you have found your way home. Unfortunately, the honeymoon phase does not last long and what comes next is far from rosy.

Shock – As high as you may have felt during the honeymoon phase, the culture shock stage is at the opposite end of the spectrum where you feel the lowest. The aspects of the new culture that previously delighted you may disgust you at this point. You may choose to withdraw, spending more time by yourself or with people from your own culture during this stage. You may become obsessed with order or cleanliness as you react against the feelings of discomfort that this foreign environment stirs up in you. Your mood, sleep patterns, and appetite may also be disrupted. You might be tempted to pack your bags and return home. All of this is completely normal at that stage of the cultural adjustment cycle. While it may be unbearable, it does get better and with each successive recovery, the low points will be less and less severe. My low point usually hits around six months into my overseas experience. Some of the symptoms of culture shock can resurface around the holidays when feelings of homesickness can invade your otherwise happy existence.

Adaptation – Over time, the emotional roller coaster does level off a bit with less severe fluctuations from a general feeling of normalcy. Granted, this will be a new normal, but you will be able to handle the ups and downs with relative ease once you have reached this stage of adaptation. With greater immersion in the culture comes a deeper understanding and ultimately, a sense of belonging. Being able to communicate in a new language and manage daily life in a different culture can certainly boost your confidence as well.

Re-entry – While many people expect to experience culture shock when entering a new culture, it is the unexpected challenges of returning home that often impact the international traveler the most. After all, what could be difficult about returning home? Intercultural experiences, particularly after an extended overseas stay, yield profound changes in a person and they may not be fully realized until one returns home. You may feel that you no longer fit or belong at home because it seems as if the people and the overall environment there has stayed the same. People’s interest in your photos and stories may begin to wane after a few days, leaving you feeling misunderstood and a bit lost. Re-entry shock will set in and you may feel some of the same sensations that you experienced as you suffered through culture shock. And much like what transpired earlier in the cultural adjustment cycle, you will adapt to this new “normal.”

As I make the journey tomorrow to pick up my sons from camp, I am grateful for the incredible experience they have had and how they have certainly grown from the time away from home. I will also be mindful of their need to tell (and retell!) their camp stories as well as sing their camp songs. Then we will look forward with great anticipation to the next opportunity, whether it is camp, a study abroad program, or some other adventure (another “honeymoon” moment) that we can only dream about today.

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.

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!