My notorious neighborhood
Today it happened twice that people asked where I’m staying and when they heard I live at district „23 de enero“ they threw their hands up in horror. One of them was a random woman I asked for directions and we started chatting (“23 de enero es muy malo, muy feo”) and another one was a German girl who has been living in Caracas for one year hence she fell in love with a caraqueno. “What surprises you about me living in 23 de enero? -You hear stuff about that area, you know. It’s in the papers. – Has anything ever happened to you? -No, but that’s because I’m a chicken. I don’t even take the underground.” And now I was surprised. Not taking the underground really is a sacrifice. That way she will never experience how clean the underground of Caracas is, how frequently they commute, how polite people are by offering seats to anyone who seems to need it and how cheap it is. With my multi-journey-ticket, I pay around fifteen cent each trip. Unbeatable.
At home I talked to Roy, telling him how people react when I mention district “23 de enero” and asked him what he thinks about it. “Of course it is dangerous. Caracas is dangerous.” “Has anything happened to you?” „No, never. Maybe because I’m black. Maybe because I’m tall. Maybe because I’m lucky.“ “And to people who have been staying with you?” “Yes, many times. The last one was a couple. But guess what,” and then he jumps up and gets excited like a little kid “there was a guy, who was 2 meters and 17!” He is putting his arms in the air showing me how high 2 meters and 17 are. “Do you know how tall that is? Do you know???” “Yes, I do.” “This giant of a man! Guess what happened!!! He got mugged!!!!!” he screams and totally cracks up. “Really funny, Roy. Really funny. So what’s your point?” “I guess he got mugged because he was blond. By the way people would call you blond as well. But he was really blond.” “Did it happen around here?” “No. None of the people staying here had problems in this neighborhood. Hey, I have something for you.” And then he gets excited again, runs in the kitchen and comes back with a pot in his hands and a big smile his face. “It is soup. Eat it.” he says proudly as if he wanted to prove my comment on the first night wrong about him being a little machismo: “I made it.”
