In July 1977 the boyfriend and I landed in a world so alien
to me I felt numb. I'd been to Mexico City. I'd experienced the density,
rhythm, and flavor of a huge Latin American city. Still, Caracas in the late
seventies was running on oil boom fever. You could feel it in the air, smell it
on the winds blowing through the city, see it in the construction cranes
dotting the skyline. The city is in a valley and at the time maintained rigid
laws limiting the growth on the surrounding mountainsides. With nowhere to go,
the city built skyward.
We stayed in the boyfriend's family home, and I landed a job
right away at the British Embassy school - with a name like Arleen Feeney, I
managed to exaggerate my Irish-ness. Before returning to his studies in Santa
Cruz, the boyfriend arranged for me to live with his sister and brother-in-law
in one of the many new residential developments at the limits of the city. The
commute was dreadful. I took shared cabs, small vans crammed with ten to twelve
commuters. You had to shout your stop over the heads and voices of the other
passengers. I'd spend the hour plus commute rehearsing what I'd have to say and
worrying I'd forget when to shout it.
As dreadful as the commute was, the family life was worse. I
felt I was under constant surveillance and scrutiny. In all fairness to the
boyfriend's family, I imagine they felt they needed to take care of me. But I
wasn't used to being taken care of and wasn't liking it much at all. I remember
once getting a deep cleansing facial - a gift from one of my wealthy students
at her favorite spa - and the boyfriend's mother insinuated the ensuing
redness and rash was caused by the unshaven chin of someone other than her
beloved son. What do they say about living up to others' expectations? I
suppose I figured if they'd already condemned me for something I hadn't done,
maybe I should consider doing it.
Salvation came from the same lovely student who gifted me my
first spa visit. She was recently married and owned a vacant downtown condo.
She insisted I'd be doing her a favor by living there. I'd never known such luxury.
The servants' quarters seemed as large as any of my prior apartments. There was
an ornate iron balcony overlooking a large park, the view and peace marred only
by construction cranes and noise. The condo was fully furnished, complete with
linens, kitchenware, and a stocked liquor cabinet.
When I told the boyfriend's family I would be living alone
downtown, they were horrified. And then, they quickly washed their hands of any
assumed responsibility for my physical or moral well-being. I was ecstatic. I
certainly hadn't found home, but I loved teaching and filled weekdays with
embassy classes and weekends with outings. The other teachers were largely older
British and Australian ex-pats who knew how to have a good time. I took
lessons. I'll never forget slurping oysters and lime in a narrow canoe as fast
as the local fisherman could catch and shuck them. Where was that? Who was I
with? Did it happen with the colors and fragrances I am now sensing as I write
these words? Memory has a veiled dreamlike quality. I had no camera. This was
before computers or cell phones. Memory consists of what I still hold or took
the time to describe in a notebook. Connection with the boyfriend was limited
to the occasional letter.
Six months later I returned to Santa Cruz to find that the
boyfriend had left me behind in much the same ways I had abandoned him. Maybe
the tiny studio with the bright blue swimming pool was where he took his flings
when I was in his homeland. But who was I to point fingers? After all, I had
indeed lived up to expectations thrust upon me. Returning to campus was another
challenge. I heard too many whispered stories of the boyfriend's adventures in
my absence and felt too much remorse about my own.
We tried to make a go of it, even renting a different
apartment. I lasted about a month with him. I didn't find home in Caracas, in
Santa Cruz, or with the boyfriend. I was so busy looking for a sense of
belonging elsewhere, instead of within myself, my first love ended without
finding home.
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