Tag Archive | travel

Jesus Buses

Good things come, and I’m not just referring to riding the buses. ~ Lionel Blue

It’s been a few months since my last post.  I feel like so much has to be said because so much has happened, but I’m just too tired to repeat the story over and over.  In truth, I’ve been quite sad and depressed about what has happened in Venezuela since the fraudulent elections took place on April 14th.  It’s exhausting to live here on a daily basis even without seeing the most blatant display of corruption. So with the encouragement of my father, friends and a fellow blogger named Shelli (an expat writing great tales about living in Canada) I decided to put my thoughts down once again.

Post election has been a time of great  uncertainty.  Not only has an increase of  Venezuelan military presence been seen and felt, but the Cuban military has their presence known as well. There are a lot of people (including practically every South American country) vying for power, for money, the status, and the “perks” from a country that is one of the largest producers of oil in the world, and a valiant few trying desperately to walk the right path, to repair a country in the wake of being subjected to 14 years of a seriously fucked up “Social Revolution”.

In times of crisis (and there is a serious crisis here) people cling to things like hope, family, and God. Venezuela, as a Catholic country, is no different. People here don’t just believe in Jesus and God, they also believe in prophets and mystics when it suits them. I understand their need. People are desperately struggling to find answers and solutions to every day problems such as  food shortages.  Even the Church is complaining that it doesn’t have the wheat to produce the wafers for mass, nor do they have enough Holy wine. Isn’t it just a tad ironic that one of the richest countries in the world is quickly running out of food and toilet paper?  Why?  Well the answers are as numerous as grains of sand.  I think I’ll leave my theories for another post.  But what I will do is tell you about how Catholicism is celebrated here.

First let me tell you what I think of Jesus.  He’s like any other prophet that walked the Earth. I never grew up learning his stories, just like I never grew up learning Allah’s, Buddha’s , the Indian gods or countless others. Religion wasn’t in our home.  And although my parents never practiced religion, they allowed us to explore it and come to our own conclusions about what we believed. I always respected that about them. The same cannot be said here.  Catholicism is “the religion”.

Mary and Jesus,a larger than life road statue.

Mary and Jesus, a larger than life road statue.

Jesus (and sometimes Mary) is every where!  I can’t help but think of him as “Big Brother”.  It’s kind of unnerving to me on so many levels. I see him on bumper stickers,in government offices, in grocery stores, and even as graffiti.  Canadians don’t generally broadcast to the world, let alone to ourselves, that we believe in “God” in any form. People quietly go to church. So if I had to describe the enthusiasm of Catholicism in terms of color, I’d say Canadians would be on the beige side of things and Venezuelans would be on the neon color spectrum.

Maybe the overwhelming public display wouldn’t bother me so much if I really believed that people took it (God/spirituality) seriously, sincerely.  I think there is a real, tangible level of hypocrisy.  I would think in a country that has this many Christians in it, the people would be more, uumm Christian.  They’d adhere to the 10 commandments a little more, maybe starting with the You Shall Not Kill.  With one of the highest murder rates in the world, not many people are observing this. Or how about Do not lie?! The last election showed the world how far and deep lies go. Do not steal. HA HA HA, I can’t help but scoff out loud at this one. Besides the most obvious theft of money (I’m talking individuals that have stolen billions, yes billions of dollars), the theft of the last 2 elections, plus the current government is stealing people’s rights and freedom of speech. I think one of the other 10 Commandments is to Put God First.  That does not exist here. It’s come down to looking out for yourself.  God isn’t first. In fact, I think he’s quite close to last.

There are many true, pious believers, but the general feeling I have about what they believe is how I view my horoscope.  If it’s good and it suits my mood, I accept it.  If not, I think it’s silly and don’t really pay any attention. Or maybe another way to view Him is that he’s a good luck charm. I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe it’s all a facade, but in a country where they actually name their children Jesus and Mary, plus a plethora of other saints, you’d think they’d keep in mind who they’re naming these children after.

I’m confused by the display of Jesus everywhere because people are lacking the Christian values He spoke of.  It’s hallow.  I don’t ever feel neighborly love.  Sure people will speak to you on the bus, but even that has a falseness about it because you’ve become cynical and suspicious of their wants. Maybe the closest I can compare to in Canada is someone who goes to church every Sunday because that’s what they were raised to do. They go through the motions, but don’t ever really feel anything.  They attend all the important masses like Easter and Christmas and that’s the extent of it. There is no real connection. A disconnect. So maybe the difference of display in Canada is people dress in their Sunday best and here people decorate buses. I call these Jesus Buses.

Bus fees, plus a saint or two tacked up for good measure.

Bus fares, plus a saint or two tacked up for good measure.

Buses, in general, are something to look at for various reasons, such as the age (some go back to the 50’s), the color, the guy, who I call the Town Crier, at the bus stop yelling where the bus goes to, the interior decor (curtains included) and the size of speakers.  We’re in Latin America and music is a large part of life here. Reggaeton is generally the music of choice, although the slow sappy stuff is sometimes played.  We’re at the mercy of the driver’s preference.

Professional speakers and a back door. Not a common sight.

Professional speakers and a back door. Not a common sight.

One of the shabbier buses we've been on.  Speakers are nicely set up.

One of the shabbier buses we’ve been on. Speakers are nicely hooked up.

Most of these older buses are, let’s say, well-used.  They’ve been around for decades, the floors are worn, the window tint is peeled back and some (more than you’d think) with curtains are covered in a layer of very visible, allergy inducing dust.

The grungy curtains I was telling your about.

The grungy curtains I was telling you about.

I’m ALWAYS curious when we go on a Jesus bus.  There usually something interesting to look at.  The seats are so narrow that there are times when I think I can barely fit my skinny butt onto one.  People cram in and those who don’t get a seat usually have to commute with their heads bent.  Being short is an advantage here.  I’ve never had to commute in a bowing/praying position.  Another thing that fascinates me is the fact that the bus door never closes.  People stand in the stairwell holding onto the bar while the driver takes his route.  I don’t know how they don’t fall off!  I can hardly sit on the seat across from the door for fear of falling out, but people here have no fear of that.

Well, now you have to opportunity to see what I’m talking about.  Put on some loud music, sit back and have a look at the gallery.  Soak it all in.

Most seats have covers such as these.  My guess is they don’t get washed often. The headrest is frequently on the glossy side from hundreds of heads rubbing against them.

Bus seats: The King of kings.

Bus seats: The King of kings.

It appears like the same art is used and a different message is passed along.

Back of a seat: Scared Heart of Jesus.

Back of a seat: Sacred Heart of Jesus.

The art work is either hand-painted or it’s a decal.  One thing is for certain, even in Venezuela, Jesus is white.  I never understood that.  I mean, how could he have been white?

Sacred Heart of Jesus in Your honor.

Sacred Heart of Jesus in Your honor.

What can I say?

What can I say?

Jesus, I trust in You.

Jesus, I trust in You.

I particularly like Jesus and the palm trees.  That’s a nice touch!

Let's not forget about the Virgin.

Let’s not forget about the Virgin.

I should point out that there is more than one virgin and numerous female saints.  This one happens to the the Virgin of the Valley.  Personally, I have no idea who She is.

I also find it’s interesting, or again maybe ironic, that the art work is on the back window of the bus.  Perhaps if they were decorated on the inside people would reflect.  Or maybe it’s on the outside to remind drivers not to be selfish or be assholes when they’re out on the roads, you know consider the 10 Commandments. It could also serve as a reminder to ask for protection.  I’ve seen countless people make the sign of the cross before mounting a motorcycle.  Funny, because they’re the ones who take the most unnecessary risks. Me, I pray to my god to protect me from numerous things while in the car.

Well, whether this population really believes in Jesus or not, I can say with absolute certainty that Venezuela is in need of one very large miracle.   If the people took back what they valued instead of going against everything they were taught, some real changes could be made here.

The 7th Circle of Hell

Government! Three fourths parasitic and the other fourth stupid fumbling. ~ Robert A. Heinlein

I needed to renew my ID and the prospect of this filled me with a profound sense of dread, 100 times more dread than filling my taxes.


Bureaucracy, no explanation needed.

Whenever we have anything to do at the start of the day I have to mentally prepare myself.  I repeat a mantra that goes goes something like, everything will be fine, be patient, try to remain calm, and limit your swearing.  But when we have to go downtown I need a little something extra, like donning a super hero type invisible shield.

I’ve written before about the parking lot effect of commuting in Caracas.  I can not clearly express the insanity of it all, so when we have to go downtown we usually opt for public transit.  I wouldn’t say that it’s the better option, but it’s less stressful for Juan to have to concentrate so hard while listening to my colorful commentary while trying to take over the horn.

Rush hour.  Can you see the organization with traffic going in three directions at the same time?

Rush hour. Can you see the organization with traffic going in three directions at the same time?

After hopping a mini bus (I think I need to write about these soon) and riding the subway we arrive in the center of the city.  Downtown is a world of its own.  Juan’s mom tells me that it used to be beautiful and people would go out of their way to walk in the plazas, shop and have coffee on the terraces. Now, it’s skid row.  People are loud, shifty, untrustworthy, and always trying to hustle their wares. The threat of violence is always present and palpable.  I’m quickly learning to look without watching. The grime is thick and the smell of piss is sharp. It’s a very poor area of the city. People wear years of sorrow and struggle on their faces and show their pride of Chavismo on their shirts. The irony of this is not lost on me. This is where the government office is. I call it the 7th Circle of Hell after Dante’s 7th Circle.

Dante's Inferno

Dante’s Inferno

I would really like to say that government offices here are organized chaos, but sadly I cannot.  They are absolute chaos.  The process went something like this:

Join the already super long line outside of the building. Listen to the people on both sides of us complain.

Wait around an hour to get to the front of the line, only to be told which line I need to go through once inside.

Argue with the “doorman/bouncer” to allow Juan to escort me and be my translator. His answer, no! Juan explains I don’t have a bank account to pay my fees and that he needs to pay on my behalf.

Doorman tells Juan he cannot pay for my fees and I that need a voucher that can only be paid for at a bank. Juan heads to the bank to purchase said voucher.

I go inside and try and find the line that I’m supposed to be in. It’s beyond confusing because there are 3 separate lines that occupy almost all available floor space. My line is making a perimeter around 100 sitting people.  The line is almost a complete rectangle, reaching back to the entrance.



I don’t want to generalize about all Latinos, but my experience with Venezuelans is that they’re a very loud bunch. The cacophony of raised voices was deafening.

I ask (yell at) the woman in front of me if the seated people are the people ahead of us. Yes, was her response.  I let out a low sigh and mumble dios mio (my god) knowing the day was going to be a long one.

Juan apparently demands to be let through the door (to give me my voucher) and finds me in the immobile queue. Once we start moving we discover that my line is actually two, one for foreigners and the other for Venezuelans. Another hour later, I have my ticket.

My paperwork is whisked away (being checked for something) and returned. I get to keep my ticket. I only had to wait for 35 more people to take their turns before mine.  I was slightly hopeful that time would pass quickly, but my hopes weren’t high.

The queue moves slowly rotating between foreigners and Venezuelans. By 11:30 we noticed that the foreigner’s numbers are no longer being called. So for an hour we waited while a skeleton staff dealt with the Venezuelans. Don’t misunderstand me, there was staff milling about, texting on their phones, talking to each other in small groups, but not working. For some unknown reason, I wasn’t the least bit fazed.  I totally expected this. Ha!  Maybe my mantra worked.

Juan took the opportunity to go out and find a snack.  Work “resumes” and I have about 15 numbers ahead of me. At 1:45 my number is called and I go to the assigned booth.  I sit down and say good afternoon and the guy looks at me like I have 3 heads.  I think he was offended.  Whatever, I maintained my smile. The guy spoke so fast that I understood about 3 words. Thankfully Juan translated.  That done, I get shuffled to another line.

This department was called Supervision. I laughed out loud. Juan says it’s a make shift job.  She essentially printed out a slip telling me the date I was to pick up my ID.  The last guy could have done this. Anyway, the date?  The following day!  I couldn’t believe it.  I thought, wow, it’s all worth the wait if I can have it tomorrow. We leave a little after 2pm.  Not bad, almost 6 hours.



The following morning we decided to drive downtown. We know that picking up my ID should take less than an hour.  Traffic?  Beyond horrible.  We have no idea what happened, but whatever it was affected the entire city.  Gridlock like you wouldn’t believe. Sigh. We got close enough that I could walk to the building while Juan  searched for parking. We met, I pushed my way past the “bouncer” (I knew from the previous day that I could get away with it if I asserted myself), entered a new lineup, and waited. While waiting all I could think about was, if it’s too good to be true, then it probably is.  Not 10 minutes later I leave empty-handed.  No ID.



The bottom line is that I have to return in 20 days.  I guess the woman at the “Supervision” desk had it all wrong.  Not surprising.  We chalked it up to another day of trying to get stuff done in this city of madness.

A Lesson in Patience

Patience is something you admire in the driver behind you and scorn in the one ahead.  ~Mac McCleary

You’ve heard me talk about it before, so it’s not the first and probably won’t be the last time I mention traffic. It’s a monster.  It’s a being all of its own.  I’ve tried describing the cars like marching ants, but most times they’re like the snakes on Medusa’s head.  Everybody is going in every imaginable direction, including the wrong one.  It really is a form of anarchy.

A pretty calm traffic day.

A pretty calm traffic day.

Although the horns blare, mostly as a form of warning from approaching motorcycles, people here really just go with the flow.  There isn’t road rage like you’d expect.  Tempers flare, mine included and I don’t even drive here, but drivers have learned not to take things personally and they let whatever has offended them pass.  This is a lesson I need to apply to my life.

There is never a great time to run errands here.  Pretty much every hour is rush hour.  I normally have to mentally prepare myself if I know we’ll be in the car all day.  It took us 1/2 an hour to get through 3 traffic lights on Monday.  Are you starting to understand my pain?

Today Juan and I went to try to look for a car to buy.  It’s a next to impossible feat.  Buying a used car is very expensive, almost 3 times the price of what you’d pay in Canada.  There is no rhyme or reason.  Can you imagine paying $14 000 for a 15 year old Chevy? I think not. Crazy, isn’t it? There are two main reasons for this: the price of gas is practically free (we pay about $0.26 for a tank) and there is a mafia that controls the market. People list cars, the mafia buys it, repairs it (they have their own mechanics) and then they inflate the price.  It’s frustrating as hell.

I know what you’re thinking, just go to a dealership and buy a new or used one there.  Here’s the thing: if you can find a dealership that actually has cars in it (hard to picture isn’t it, but we went by 5 or 6 today and not one had a car in it), you order a car (which takes up to a year to arrive), only to find out that what they have for you isn’t at all what you’ve ordered.  In this most common scenario you have one of two choices to make: buy the car or walk away and wait another year.  10 times out of 10, people buy a car they don’t even want.  It’s a serious problem on many, many levels.


Although it felt like it, we didn’t spend our entire day in the car.  We stopped by a fruit and veggie market to pick up some fresh herbs (which cost pennies) for tomorrow night’s pasta and then we went to a fruit stand to have some juice.  There I tried a fruit I have never heard of; it’s called nispero.  Nispero has the same skin color as a kiwi, without the fuzz.  The favor was sweet; almost like a pear and the texture was a bit grainy.  I liked it.  Juan tells me that people here make ice cream with it, now that I’d like to try.

Nispero, the strange little fruit.

Nispero, the strange little fruit.

A large bag of long cinnamon sticks at the market.

A large bag of long cinnamon sticks at the market.

I’m pretty big on giving myself rewards if I’ve had a great day (meaning my swearing wasn’t at full capacity).  Today’s reward was a plant.  We stopped by a florist and picked up the cutest little fern (not entirely sure that’s what it is) and some flowers for Juan’s mom. Plants make me happy.  Once we move to the island, our place will look like a jungle!

My reward

My reward

A small bouquet for Juan's mom.

A small bouquet for Juan’s mom.

My other reward for being patient today?  A Campari!  Salud

The Ants Go Marching……

I need the sea because it teaches me.  ~ Pablo Neruda

It was early morning on January 1st and we were packing our bags to go to the beach.  This was such a far cry last year when we were getting ready to fly out of Miami, hung-over.  Well, I was hung-over; Juan, on the other hand, being the designated driver, still had his wits about him. I don’t think I slept for 3 hours that night/day.  Alas, this is a new year.  I was still wiped from my trip from hell, but knowing that the beach was a few sweet hours away I was up to the task.

Globos de deseos.  Paper  wish balloons are lit on New Year's Eve.

Globos de deseos. Paper wish balloons are lit on New Year’s Eve and sent sailing into darkness.

Travel time is always taken into consideration here; there are no exceptions.  It is expected that you will wait in some kind of line, whether it be in a store, a bank or traffic. If by some miracle there is no line, a million questions arise as to why, or as to how long it will last.  This is what happened on our way out of town. It was smooth sailing.  Our reasoning was that people were just getting home from celebrating New Year’s or they weren’t out of bed yet.  Whatever it was, we appreciated the break.  Knowing that all good things must come to an end, the break was short lived.  A third of the way into a tunnel, the smooth  traffic flow became a parking lot.  The only reasonable explanation was an accident.  This didn’t come as a surprise.

A passing motorcyclist with Juan's reflection in the mirror.

A passing motorcyclist with Juan’s reflection in the mirror. See how close he is?!

Traveling by car in Venezuela is an extreme sport; one in which knowing the rules are a must.  The first time I was here I thought I was going to die 5 times over just from the airport to the condo.  I’m not sure how to really describe it.  A two lane road can quickly become 3 lanes for cars and 2 or 3 extra lanes for motorcycles.  Include a few vendors dodging the traffic and you have a kind of organized chaos.   Motorcycles, of course, have their own set of rules and an incredible sense of entitlement.  By entitlement I mean, if a car does not make way for an approaching motorcycle, the driver will be sure to damage your car just as a way of showing his “right”.  How does one know if a motorcycle is approaching? By the use of the horn, of course.  The cacophony of noise is startling. The speed in which they pass between cars is mind boggling. I’m always in a state of awe, shock and horror.

A less tense moment in traffic.

A less tense moment in traffic.

Traffic here is a living, breathing organism.  You can see the inhalations and the exhalations, the expansions and contractions.  Maybe a  better way of looking at it is by thinking of it as a colony of ants marching to its own beat. If something is in its way, the collective group makes way and when an ant misses a step or gets pushed to the side, accidents occur.  That’s just what happened in the tunnel.  The risks are high and the outcomes are never great.  We slowly crept by the scene and, sure enough, motorcycle parts were everywhere and the victims were pushed along the wall waiting for the ambulances to arrive.

A vendor on the highway. These are very poor people trying to eek out a living.

A vendor on the highway. These are very poor people trying to eek out a living.

Driving along the coast reminded me of driving near Malibu along the Pacific Coast Highway.  The view was spectacular and never ending.  We were supposed to stay in a house of friend of a friend out in the country near Todasana.  It was described to us as “rustic”.  And rustic it was.  Getting there proved to be a challenge because parts of the road had been washed out during some recent rain. After one look at the place we decided not to stay overnight.  Instead, we’d to go to the beach and head to a friend’s condo after dinner.

The beach at Todasana.

The beach at Todasana.

People here take beaches for granted, much like Canadians take trees for granted. A so-so beach for a Venezuelan is a superb beach for me!  I’ve been waiting all year to hit the beach.  My desire to be in a teeny bikini, soaking up the sun and frolicking in the waves was granted.  I was the only one within our group who went swimming.  Why, because the waves were too high, and the wind a bit strong for my Venezuelan counterparts.  I don’t think any sane Canadian would have let those become deterrents. Todasana is a mini paradise.

A great place for reflection.

A great place for reflection.

I connect to the ocean, the salty air, and the sound of crashing waves.  Months of work and stress wash off of my skin.  My senses sharpen, almost like a kaleidoscope coming into focus and I eventually become calm.  I needed this to reflect on this past year, what I’ve learned and what I’ve gained.  All I can say is that it was well deserved and definitely worth the wait!

An Assault on My Senses…….

A traveler without observation is a bird without wings.              ~Moslih Eddin Saadi

Flying into Venezuela is something to behold.  For some reason I forgot about its beauty.  Either that, or the last time we flew here was at night, and, therefore, we couldn’t have seen anything.  How do I describe the mountain ranges here?  Ummm, it’s like a huge green piece of paper was crumpled up into a ball and then laid flat in order to have been made into a gigantic fan.  Maybe it’s best to look at it like the folds of a long pleated skirt.  The deep green is contrasted with the blue sky and turquoise sea.  It’s breathtaking.  The closer you get to Caracas “the skirt” becomes speckled with color.  The color happens to be the barrios or slums. I had contradictory feelings when I saw that. It was beautiful and sad at the same time and then I thought of the contrasting monetary value of waterfront property.

One view of the Avila.

One view of the Avila.

Like most places in North America, waterfront property is worth millions (well at least in Vancouver), and here the poorest of people live precariously on the slopes with the most spectacular view.  You will learn soon enough that Venezuela is all about contradiction.  Now it would have been nice if I had actually taken a picture of this, but I forgot to whip my phone out.  I know, how absent minded, but in my defense I had been traveling for over 24 hours and I was wiped.

Driving from the airport to Caracas was something that I prepared for.  I knew I would be confronted with a view of one of the largest barrios in Caracas.  As soon as you come out of the dark tunnel into the light all you can see are shelters constructed of tin, brick and painted in all colors imaginable. I have to be honest with you; the first time I saw this I cried.  Having lived in Canada for most of my life and having traveled around Europe and North America I was accustomed to seeing homelessness, but I had never seen poverty on such a large scale.  Again, this is contradictory because Venezuela is an oil rich country.  One has to pause for thought.  How can a country as “rich” as this have millions upon millions of people living under the lowest of poverty lines?  I digress.  Arriving on a Sunday helped ease me into Caracas.  There wasn’t “much” traffic and traffic here means absolute chaos with a noise level that is incomparable to anything in Canada.  So, all was well.  We drove through a few neighborhoods and I was impressed with how much was familiar.

Barrios (slums), where are very large portion of the poor population live.

This isn’t the actual barrio I was talking about. This one is on the other side of Caracas, going east.

For some reason I didn’t feel as overwhelmed as I did the first time.  I saw some obvious changes, like timers for stop lights. These things are fantastic!  They allow drivers to know how time is left on the green light and how much time they need to wait on the red light.  Now they aren’t everywhere, but they’re situated where they are most needed.  I think other major cities in the world should adopt such a system.  I think it cuts down on the stress.

The street light timers.  What a perfect idea!

The street light timers. What a perfect idea!

One thing I noticed was the quality of the streets themselves.  I think Montreal had prepared me for the worst.  Anyone who has ever driven a car or ridden a bike in Montreal will know what I’m talking about.  The infrastructure there is atrocious and is inexcusable.  This, of course, is all due to years and years of blatant corruption.  Sadly (or happily, depending on which side you look at), the infrastructure in a “developing country” is a whole lot better.  Sure there are potholes, etc, but nothing like Montreal!

The heat!  I forgot to mention how warm it has been. You would think I would have mentioned this first considering how much I complain about being cold.  I went from –30 degrees to +30 in 24 hours.  My body is adjusting well.  It likes the non-tense position that it stays in for 6 months out of the year.  My vitamin D levels have been topped up and I have some color in my face.  It’s like a rebirth!!


Before I go, I need to talk about food.  It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?  The freshness of food here is out of this world.  We had red snapper for our New Year’s dinner and it was so good.  I can’t emphasis this through words.  I savored every last bite.  The avocados look like they’ve been given some sort of growth hormone, but no; they just naturally grow to this size.  The plantains are as sweet as sugar and last, but not least are the passion fruit or parchitas. Not only are they super cheap, but they have to be at least 4 times the size of what we import in Canada.  I’ve been spoiled.   Juan’s mom makes the best jugo de parchita (passion fruit juice) and I’ve had a glass of it every morning!


Remind me to tell you about the beach…….

Inconspicuous Angels

“You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you.”  ~John Bunyan

When I was thinking about writing about my journey to Venezuela I wanted it to be light, funny and full of wit and humor   I never really wanted to talk about the little things that get on my nerves, the negativity or the sad bits.

One would think that a week before moving half way across the world, I would have been excited, but I wasn’t   There was a heavy feeling, a non-excitement if you will.  I don’t know if it was because the trip itself was going to talk a long time, or I was working up until the end and I was tired.  I’m not sure, but even as I was saying my last “see ya laters” all of my friends said the same thing, “I thought you’d be ecstatic”.  My mood was anti-climatic even though I really WANTED to be overjoyed. It was strange. I spent a lot of time questioning myself about all of the reasons why, but never came up with anything substantial.

On Thursday afternoon I knew the reason.  It was my last day of work and I had some time to visit a friend and get my last haircut.  On my way into my appointment I received a text message from my sister in Ontario that my mom was rushed to the hospital.  She was also on her way into an appointment and didn’t really have any further information. I sent a message to my sister in Germany and we all tried getting a hold of my sister who lives outside of Calgary.  Now, my Dad, god bless him, tries hard to be connected to the world of technology, but doesn’t really understand how text messaging works. With his phone on silent, without vibration (I changed that today) or off, I’m not sure which, made the wait to get any information on the status of my mom excruciating. Angela, my sister from Ontario, called around Calgary and discovered which hospital they were in. Jenny, my sister from Alberta was making her way into the city early Friday morning.  She essentially became a lifeline for my sisters and me.

Friday was a weird day.  Juan and I were relaxing at our friend’s house, preparing and rearranging things in our suitcases etc.  My sister’s updates were worrying and as the day progressed, they became frightening.  There were messages like, mom is not making any sense, and she’s gurgling.  My nerves were frayed.  It was so difficult for me to imagine what she was going through.  We got up early to get ready for our flight on Saturday morning.  While eating breakfast I received a text saying “The hospital told Dad, Mom took a turn for the worst.  She’s unresponsive. I’ll let you know more when we get there!” I crumbled into a heap of tears.   This isn’t the kind of thing anyone wants to hear, ever.

For a few minutes I was in a state of flux.  What was I to do?  Our travel day to Venezuela was a few hours away.  My Dad, not wanting to worry or inconvenience me, thought it would be ok if I continued on my journey, but the thought of being so far away doing nothing for anyone made me feel sick. Even if I could be home to feed the dogs made me feel better.  I knew that I needed to head to Calgary to be with my family, but I wasn’t thinking straight as how to work out all the details.  Thank God for Juan and my friend France.  I had brain freeze. I was trying to process so much at the same time that all I could do was sit.  The drive to the airport is now a blur.  I remember getting into and out of the car.  The drive there doesn’t exist in my memory.

Paulo Coelho that says when you want something the universe conspires with you to achieve it. I was reminded of that every step of my way here.  I wanted to be with my family and the universe made sure that would happen.  Strangers were helping us without even knowing they were.  We were passed straight through to an Air Canada ticket agent when we asked to be on stand by for our flight to Toronto.  We didn’t have to wait in the long line.  We even passed through one of the shortest security lines.  Once we got inside we started planning.  I called the airline and they were gracious enough to put my flight to Venezuela on hold.  Juan kept checking flights into Calgary.  We were trying to see if there was a direct flight. There weren’t any, so we started looking into hotel options. I, of course, just wanted to book the first thing that I saw.  But Juan certainly had a clearer head and knew to be patient (one of his virtues, not mine).  We would book my ticket in Toronto.

At the baggage carousel, Juan flipped open his laptop and bought my direct flight (he’s smart and patient!). We had less than an hour to find the terminal and check in.  Juan and I said our goodbyes at my gate.  I was sad; this wasn’t the way we had planned our trip, departing on different planes, not knowing when we’ll see each other next, but we both knew that this was the right and only thing to do.

My seat must have been one of the last ones because the plane was packed.  I had the good fortune to sit with an off duty flight attendant named Patricia and a really down to earth business man.  I was ok at first and then started to silently sob.  Both of these strangers were angels.  Patricia ensured that I had everything that I needed and at one point came back with a box of Kleenex.   The man was incredibly empathetic and shared a similar story to mine. I was being taken care of by people I had just met.  The universe was conspiring to make this journey less painful.  As much as I thanked them, they will never know how much their kindness means to me.  I will never be able to repay them.

I am happy to be here, happy to help out, and happy to give my Dad some rest and peace of mind.  To say that I am relieved that my mom is stable is indescribable.  To be able to recognize the good things mixed in with the bad is a blessing for me. I need to trust that the universe is till conspiring with me.   So for now, this is my journey, my little detour along the way.

Trusting that everything will work out.

Trusting that everything will work out.