The coffee there is not the best, but there’s another place right across the street called Cafe Arabica (which I will write about soon) that supposedly has the best in all of Venezuela. This was my breakfast this morning…

Another nice thing about St. Honore is the eating area. It is surrounded by commercial buildings and traffic, but the entire outdoor area is covered with trees and plants and somehow you feel like you get away. So much so, that I can actually get a good 30 minutes of reading my Kindle while there.

Obviously one of my favorite places in Caracas, St. Honore continues to get my stamp of approval

Yes, a new American family has moved in and this guy didn’t waste any time getting comfortable. Granted, he was heading to the pool, but that is just something you never see done here. From my first trip here, I noticed how the people on my flight – mainly Venezuelans – were dressed casually, but chic. The men wore nicely fitted jeans with loafers and the women also spruced up their outfits with blouses (as opposed to t-shirts) and accessories. This was a welcomed change because I’ve traveled with Americans who wore pajamas and never understood the rationale behind that.

Which brings me to something people, especially Americans, should be prepared for when visiting Caracas – the effort Venezuelans put into their appearance. Aside from the excessive plastic surgery, Venezuelans look nice everywhere they go. At the supermarket, I never see a woman who looks like they are making a quick stop because they forgot something. Everyone looks as though they got ready to go to the store – makeup and all. It’s nice to look at, but a pain in which to have to take part.

I don’t think I was at all a slob before coming here, but somehow my regular jeans and t-shirt made me stick out like a sore thumb. I didn’t change my entire wardrobe, I just re-coordinated my outfits. For instance, if I am going to wear jeans, I pick a nice blouse and add some accessories. I will never be one to forgo comfort for style, but these changes have been relatively easy and I always feel like I’m a little dressed up.

So, even though the clothes are tighter than what I’m accustomed to, Venezuelans are always impeccably put together and there’s definitely wrong with that.

Photo credits: Selenademi920 and NeoGaboX via Flickr

This, my friends, is my favorite juice. The fruit it comes from is called parcha here in Venezuela (and I assume most of Latin America). Apparently, it’s in the same family as passion fruit, also known as parchita.

In Haiti parcha is called grenadine. I know in English grenadine refers to a totally different fruit, but that’s what I’ve been calling it since I was a wee young lass; hence the bizarre title of this post

Yes, those are seeds floating at the top. You can remove them or swallow them whole – it takes some getting used to. They are coated with the fleshy substance of the fruit and they are very much like watermelon seeds, so you don’t want to chew on them.

I can’t really tell you what other fruit that it tastes like because its flavor is unique to me. It has a mild, nutty sweetness and as you can see a thick consistency. It is so viscous that I sometimes drink it as a mid-morning snack. If you’re not into heavy juices, you can always run it through a sieve before drinking it.

All in all, good stuff!

Me: You have to eat your breakfast quickly this morning because we’re going out.

Daughter: Where are we going?

Me: We’re taking your brother to the doctor.

Daughter: Why?

Me: Because his eye is swollen.

After about two minutes…

Daughter: I remember one time in Florida my eye was swollen and you didn’t take me to the doctor.

Me: I don’t remember that.

Daughter: Yes, and remember you gave me ice to put on it.

Me: Remembering Oh yeah, now I remember.

Daughter: Well, I didn’t get to go to the doctor, how come he gets to go?

At this point, I’m feeling torn between how a Haitian mom would handle this and how an American mom would handle this. I know that my mother would have stopped me somewhere after she told me why we were taking him to the doctor and when I brought up my swollen eye incident. She would’ve given me this look of “You’re being disrespectful.” And if I had the misfortune of not picking up on the first cue, she would’ve scolded me in a way that felt worse than being sent to my room.

I assume the American mom would tell her that she was just as special/important as her brother and the next time she had a swollen eye, we would definitely take her to the doctor. I, quite frankly, am irritated by her reasoning. At almost seven years-old, I think she should be comfortable in her position as older sister and no longer feel threatened by the new kid in the house. I have to remind myself that she is a VERY sensitive child and her reasoning is often dictated by her emotions.

Me: You had a swollen eye for one night that went away with ice. He has had swelling for two days now. We are not discussing this anymore, now hurry up and finish your breakfast so you don’t make us late.

I’d like to think I have compromised between the two cultures

If you can’t forgive and forget, pick one. – Robert Brault

I definitely don’t think, so. I could not imagine holding on to a grudge forever. It would eat away at me until I shriveled into a miserable person. But, I can hold on to a grudge for a little while.

Like when I’ve had some trivial argument with my husband and I just KNOW that I’m right and he’s wrong, but neither of us will back down. Then we go through the whole day speaking very cordially to each other, and I feel as though I have to force my words out of my mouth because that’s how wronged I feel. I feel so righteous that I think I will never be able to forgive him until he does some serious apologizing and admit that I know everything and without me he’d be completely lost.

I actually fall asleep thinking about how even when he does say “sorry”, I’m not going to forgive him immediately. I’m going to recite this speech that I’ve been practicing in my head for the past few hours and until I am convinced he understands why he is just so WRONG. The next thing I know, it’s morning and he’s telling me about some crisis going on  some part of the world (he’s a news junkie) and I can’t recall why what we argued about the day before made me so mad.

Now, we weren’t always this way. Staying mad was a sport for me early on in our marriage, but that got old when I saw that neither of us won in the end. I know that there are people who never let things go (fortunately, none of them are my friends) and  I can’t imagine how they carry such a heavy weight around for so long. When someone I care about has upset me, I feel completely consumed by the issue. I know that once we’re able to talk about the problem and get past it – either by one of us apologizing or agreeing to disagree – I will breathe easy. So, why wouldn’t I be eager to forgive or forget?

I’m assuming for those who are able to carry grudges, they aren’t affected like me. However, there has be a part of you that’s being eaten away or dominated by the problem. I also get a sense that people like this feel that by forgiving and/or forgetting, they are sacrificing themselves. On the other hand, aren’t you sacrificing your inner peace by consciously staying mad?

Are you able to forgive or forget without letting your pride get in the way?