They say there are four stages to living abroad: the honeymoon stage, the rage stage, the understanding stage, and the acclimation stage. After three months of wandering awestruck and cheerful through Caracas (remember that January post about becoming a real Caraqueña?), my honeymoon phase came to an abrupt end this week as I hit the rage stage like a car hitting a tree. Lots of little things that I'd laughed about or shrugged off before suddenly had me wanting to tear my hair out in frustration or punch a Caraqueño in the nose.
I will preface this rant by saying that I still have nothing but respect for this country and its people. That being said:
Leave my flip-flops alone! Back home in NC, everyone wears flip-flops. I have friends who wear flip-flops in the dead of winter. These aren't - normally - little plastic bathroom flip-flops, but Rainbows: super nice $45 brown leather sandals. So popular around where I live that I just discovered that Rainbow makes custom sandals for my university (baller!) - NCSU Rainbows! Anyway, color me thrilled when I get to spend eight months in a country where EVERY day is Rainbows weather! Thrilled until I realize that nooo one here wears normal looking flip-flops outside on the streets (as they've been permanently categorized as bathing shoes or something). Sure, they've got plenty of ridiculous looking sandals with all sorts of flowers and/or rhinestones stuck to them, but flip-flops? Noooooo.
So, when little 'ol me rides the metro or walks the 25+ minutes to work every day, I usually walk in my Rainbows with my heels tucked in my purse. Cue the judgy looks from pedestrians and fellow metro users, 1. because I'm not wearing my work shoes and 2. because my footwear of choice is flip-flops. One day last week, just for kicks, I decided to do the whole commute in heels. I arrived at work convinced that every woman in this country is absolutely nuts for walking in their ridiculous stilettos up and down the uneven streets of the city. I AM going to wear my flip-flops thank you, and if you even think about judging me for wearing my spectacularly comfortable, worn, Rainbows (which cost a whole lot more than your skanky ho heels), we may have to throw down.
Hey, you with the face-paint! I came to the shocking realization this week that I rarely leave the house without make-up anymore.* Back home I'd wear it going out, or going to work. When I came here, I started by doing the same. However, you leave the house here without make-up and people stare at you in a way that reminds you of that nightmare where you accidentally show up to school having forgotten to put on clothes. As much as I LOATHE the catcalls and hisses (actually correction: I did find make my peace with the hisses after awhile - reminds me of cicadas on a summer night in NC), what one of my guy friends told me is true: if I DON'T get a catcall, I feel like I've got spinach in my teeth. I've been living in the city too long.
*The notable exception is working-out. I will never, NEVER, adopt the Venezuelan habit of working-out in full make-up and a matchy-matchy outfit (at times including a shirt I'd only ever consider wearing the club). Sure I get looks when I run by in Soffe shorts, an old T-shirt, and crazy hair, but some of us actually try to break a sweat when we work out.
Looking for the Feminine Mystique, Venezuela Edition This country is about thirty years overdue for a feminist movement. I'll never consider myself a burn-the-bra radical feminist, but I'm starting to lose it with the female obsession with obtaining the most Barbie-like figure. At least in the parts of Caracas I frequent, it isn't an exaggeration to say that 50% of women in a given setting may be sporting breast implants. I'm also getting super good at identifying butt implants as well (the key: if it defies gravity, it ain't real). Young girls get surgeries for their 15th birthday present (like Sweet 16 in the US) - doesn't it matter that you don't finish growing til your early to mid-twenties. Women who are married and have kids get them, women with children my age get them. I have met Venezuelans who are ambivalent towards implants, but I've yet to meet more than one or two who share the view that most of us female Fulbrighters have, which is: this is the most ridiculous thing we've ever seen! There is no voice in the decision-making process that says 'no, why would you get invasive surgery - you look fine the way you are!' In the States, breast augmentation and plastic surgery in general is still - in my opinion, at least - viewed somewhat critically. Here it's the norm. The Venezuelan obsession with beauty* is downright exhausting.
*For women, anyway...
Okay that's my rant...I could go on, but I'd rather not be TOO judgmental or grumpy over the World Wide Web. As you can see, Honeymoon stage DEFINITELY over. I'm not worried though; Venezuela and I have a healthy foundation to our relationship. It's a beautiful country, with some awesome people, a great take on the Spanish language, and a lot to see. Give me another week or so and I'll be just fine. Looking forward to the Understanding and Acclimation stages.
It seems to me that most of your rage is stemming from how you think others are perceiving you. Are you really going to let the fact that some fat dude on the bus didn't hiss at you get you angry? By becoming self-conscious about it and deciding to wear make-up more often, you're buying in to the subservient female culture. Stop trying to impress the fat guys who you'll never see again, ignore the glares from other women who are probably just jealous and wish that they had the guts to go outside without make-up and heels, be confident in yourself, and start the feminist revolution. You go girl.
ReplyDeleteMuch appreciated!
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