Why, you ask, do I have a picture of the quintessential American chain restaurant leading off my first post from South America?

Good question.

Simple answer.

I never turn down a free meal. 

I arrived in Caracas following a nearly 24 hour travel day thanks to a backtracking Frankfurt connection and an engine leaking fuel.  Not that I’m complaining…when the alternative is running out of fuel halfway across the Atlantic, then by all means, take your time, Lufthansa.  It’ll take 5 hours to get us a new plane?  Knock yourself out. 

By the way, now that I’m a good 15 flights into my trip, it’s probably a good time to tell you…I hate flying.  I mean hate it.  I’m the guy next to you having a near seizure every time some turbulence rattles the plane.  Well, our new plane–while not leaking fuel–had the structural makeup of orgami.  The thing was shaking and creaking like it was going to fall apart with the slightest touch of turbulence.  And then, just as I finally come to terms with the creaking, one of the stewardesses sprints by and disappears behind the curtain separating us from first class. 

There are a lot of sights that don’t usually bode well, and a stewardess bolting toward the cockpit has gotta be one of them.  As I waited for the pilot’s annoucement that we were about to pull an Oceanic 815, I looked across the aisle at the woman seated near me.

“She was running, right?”

“Looked like a run to me.”

“Can you think of any good scenario where a stewardess needs to run up the aisle?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

Seeing as I’m writing this, nothing obviously happened (sorry to have built that up and not given you the payofff of a plane crash or at the very least, me peeing my pants), which is good.  But still.  It should be rule #1 in flight attendent school.  Never Run.  I mean, I’m sure the dude in first class needed his fresh baked chocolate cookie ASAP, but you just scared the crap out of about 50 coach classers, lady.   Maybe a purposeful stride could do the trick next time?

But back to TGIFriday’s. 

Soon as I got in from the airport, I called this couple who were friends with my parents back when they lived in Caracas.  We set up a time to meet the next day and then the husband, David, asked where I was.  When I told him, he said, great; there’s a TGIF about three blocks from you.  I’ll tell them you’re coming.

Uh, okay.

Twenty minutes later, when I walked in the door, the host asked if I was Carlos Hill. 

“No, but close. ”

“But you’re friends with David?”

Friends is a bit of a stretch seeing as I hadn’t even met him yet, but I said, sure. 

As it turned out, David and Arlene own a couple Friday’s franchises in Caracas and I got the Friday’s VIP treatment as I watched the Venezuela-US World Baseball Classic game.  (I think I just found my next bet by the way).

There are obviously some serious safety issues around the city because everyone is constantly telling you to watch out and to stay off the streets at night, to the point that David had told the manager to have a valet guy walk me wherever I was going. 

I said I was fine, but they insitsted.  Once we were a couple blocks away I told the valet guy I was set and he could go back, but I noticed he kept following me, just now from about 20 feet back.  Boss said follow.  He was going to follow.  He didn’t want a mugged gringo on his watch.

Which is a good segue I suppose to this…

I saw my first ever knife fight today.  I was in line buying a bus ticket for when I leave Caracas, and right next to me two guys start yelling at one another.  Ho-hum.  Seen it before, right?  Someone probably cut someone and-

 All of a sudden the guy whose back is to me edges to his right and I see the knives (or more like shivs).  No exaggeration, this is at most ten feet away. 

Suddenly one guy lashes lightening quick and jams the blade into the other guy’s arm.  Immediately the latter is in shock…he doesn’t even try to yank it out.  He just sort of stares at it while the stabber starts sceaming something in Spanish, looking around at the rest of us, as if to ask if anyone else wants some.

I good; thanks for asking though. 

No cops in sight and the stabber walks off.  Five minutes go by and still no cops.   By this point the stabbed guy is on the ground and has a group of people around him trying to offer help, but no one dares–I guess–to pull the blade out. 

As I’m watching all this, the guy who was behind me in line and had seen me struggling with my Spanish trying to find out where the bus would be leaving from, offered to show me where the gate was that I needed.  It’s a weird dynamic here…to a person everyone talks about the dangers here, but then go out of their way to show that there’s another side to the city.  Even the Air France woman that I met on the minibus into the city from the airport insisted on getting me to the subway (bought my ticket even!), then took the subway past her stop to make sure I got off at the right stop, before she then she backtracked.

—

Sorry, got off on a few tangents.  I’ll tell you about meeting David and Arlene and their recollections of my parents in the next post.  

Here’s my parents’ apartment building though from back then.

And the view across the street….

I’ll be here in Caracas a few days.  My itinerary after that will depend on whether I can score the flight I wasn’t able to book back in the states.  Hope so.  I keep thinking of Warren Zevon…

I was gambling in Havana/I took a little risk/Send lawyers, guns and money/Dad, get me out of this.

First things first though…Tonight I have a shabbat to go to. 

Who’d have thought I’d have to come all the way to Caracas for my first shabbat. 

And to be perfectly honest? 

I really don’t know what one is.

I could look it up, but I hate ruining surprises.