The next stop is Anabella's house, to drop our bags off and get acclimated. The Zubillaga/Zuloaga compound is situated comfortably in one of the more prestigious neighborhoods in the city: "The Caracas Country Club", in the Chacoa district. A mixture of colonial and modern mansions hide behind high walls and gated driveways. These stately homes and foreign embassies line the winding, shady streets that surround the Caracas Country Club golf course. Anabella's house, like all others, has a name rather than an address - a practice quite common in Venezuela. The plaque on the gate reads "San Tome".

A huge, complex fica tree fills most of the small front yard between the semi-circle driveway and the front edge of the property. Once inside, smooth, checkerboard terrazzo floors stretch from room to room. Dark parquet wood covers the living room and dining room. Each room is beautifully furnished with ornate family heirlooms of unquestionable antiquity. Passing through the living room and dining room, you step out on to a large veranda that wraps around the side and runs the entire length of the back of the house. Tall, trimmed hedges and beautiful, tropical shade trees line the edge of the back yard, which contains a trampoline and small swimming pool. The master bedroom is on the ground floor. There are three children's rooms upstairs. A doorway exiting the kitchen leads to the laundry and the domestic workers quarters. Nobody is home when we arrive.

What immediately captivates me most of all is the family photos. Frame after frame of the Zubillaga and Zuloaga women. Generation upon generation. I have never seen so many portraits of alluring, regal brunettes in my entire life. All those dark eyebrows and long dark hair. The entire collection brings to bear a matriarchal mystique that demands your respect and awe. I went nuts snapping photos of every detail I could. This was my first glimpse in to the family history of my good friend Anabella - a history I had thus far only speculated about. Despite her aristocratic legacy, Anabella is very down to earth and an extremely cool human being. I fear my voyeuristic ogling of her family roots is bordering on embarrassing and/or just plain bad form, but she is, of course, cool with it.







The historical facts I have pieced together so far are this: Both her father's family (Zubillaga) and her mother's family (Zuloaga) come from the Basque town of San Sebastian. They began emigrating to Venezuela as early as 1680. The Zubillagas established a prosperous trading company around 1720. Since then, the family history on both sides is littered with industry giants and legendary politicians. These figures come to light during random conversations or simply as we drive through the city.
We drive past the Caracas power plant and Anabella off-handedly remarks "Oh yeah...my great grandfather was the guy that brought electricity to all of Venezuela".
When I ask why in the hell the clocks here are half hour off the rest of the planet, she tells me it was her great uncle (or some such relative) that wrote the law getting Venezuela IN synch with the world. Chavez, however, recently changed it back, OUT of synch - for what reason, nobody can quite figure out.

To tell you the truth, this is the closest I have ever been to real aristocracy, and, as embarrassing as this is to admit, I find it all profoundly fascinating. It is doubly embarrassing that I know ever fewer details about my own ancestors. Let me hereby add that to my list of things to do in 2008.





Anabella's sister Mariana comes home. This is the same sister that arranged the entire trip for us. She is the eldest of the three sisters. The middle sis, Ana Maria, is vacationing in South Africa, and will be for the duration of our visit. Mariana seems extremely sweet. She speaks English with virtually no accent, the result of going to boarding school in the Northeast, no doubt. Mariana has two children, but we will not meet them until later in the evening.

We hang around the house for a bit longer, decompressing and being briefed on the details of the impressive itinerary that has been prepared for the four of us. In short, this is the plan: Caracas, Canaima National park, The Orinoco River Delta, back to Caracas, and finally, Los Roques. Not too shabby.



Anabella's mom, Ana Maria, shows up for the formal introduction. She seems lovely, and exudes a grace and confidence that leaves no doubt about the matriarchal presence so evident in the family photos. She runs a non-profit foundation that provides wheel chairs to people in need. Her English is also very good.

A list of family telephone numbers in the kitchen indicates that there is an unmistakable trend of incorporating the name "Ana" in to as many Zuloaga names as possible. Let me break it down for you:



And these are only the ones I know about...

Cheo takes us for a quick drive around the city before sundown. The air is filled with thunderous BOOMS! - fireworks exploding in every neighborhood, all over town. We stop by Annabella's Aunt Emiliana's house to meet two of her cousins, Carlos and Emiliana. We also pick up some Venezuelan landing gear to ease our transition to this new longitude and latitude. Our two hosts, of course, have thought of everything.

We drive around the city a bit more before heading home to prepare for Christmas dinner. We meet Anabella's father John. They pronounce his name just like the American "John", since it is a western name (no Y for J thing). He is also called Johnson and Joncito and a million other nicknames. He wears a wide, welcoming grin, but seems a bit reluctant to speak English. Anabella scolds him for his reserve. His English is far superior to my Spanish, I can assure you.

There is no rush getting ready for dinner whatsoever. From what I can tell, evenings in Caracas run very late. Christmas dinner at Cheo's family house is not until ten or eleven, then another family gathering at Anabella's great aunt's after that, then maybe some clubbing for us after that. So, basically, we're still on NYC time, which suits me just fine.



Cheo's family apartment is in the Southeastern part of the city in a neighborhood called "El Cafetal". His mom, Egilda, his father, Jose Luis, and his sister, Geicce, greet us upon our arrival. Cheo's mom is adorable - as cute as the tiniest little figurine that you find once you have opened each layer of those Russian egg-people dolls. Matrioshka nesting dolls I think they call them. You know the ones I mean. Like that, but cuter. Jose Luis the elder gave us a warm, smiling welcome. They both seem immensely proud of Cheo and ecstatic to have him back home. Geicce is an eye-surgeon. She has a very pleasant demeanor and seems constantly on the verge of a giggle. She is the most fluent in English, so she leads the conversation.




I gotta say, I really feel like such a loser in these situations. Everyone speaking English for your benefit. This happens with Anabella and Cheo in New York all the time. Anne and I, in a room full of Venezuelans and Colombians all speaking English, simply out of courtesy to us. Ugh.

This is the apartment where Cheo grew up. Just like Anabella's house, it is such a treat to get a glimpse of somebody's real childhood bedroom. They're like those rooms you seen in museums, when they re-create some famous person's studio. Perfectly preserved time capsules. Cheo's room is a frozen moment of his youth. Stacks of CDs and cassettes. Crates of salsa records. Old keyboards. Samplers. Drum machines. Sports trophies.

Like Anabella, Cheo lived at home until he moved to the States. Almost all Venezuelans live at home until they marry or move away. It's a very Catholic country. Besides, living in an apartment in Caracas is considered somewhat dangerous for single people. Especially women.

I must admit, I am curious to see just how dangerous Caracas is. A guy I used to work with, who was born here, seemed to be terrified of the place.
"Dude!" he would say "They don't just rob you in Caracas. They rob you.....then they STAB you....just for the fun of it!".
He tried many times to convince me that a visit to Caracas would result in my immediate stabbing. Step off the plane? BOOM! Knife right in the gut! This always sounded a tad alarmist to me. Cheo has long insisted that Caracas is dangerous, but quite manageable if you keep your wits about you. I suspected as much. I live in Brooklyn. I ain't scared of shit.

After getting acquainted over a few glasses of wine, it is time to open presents. They are opened one at a time, with much fanfare. None of them are wrapped. Anne and I give out some Jacques Torres chocolates. Cheo's Dad gives us a bottle of Venezuelan eggnog. Geicce gives us two sets of towels embroidered with the logos of the two opposing Caracas baseball teams: The Leones and The Magallanes.
"Like your Yankees and Mets" she explains.
"The team you like, this towel is for the face. The other? The ASS!"
Brilliant!

We don't sit down to dinner until almost midnight. The meal includes roast pork, platanos, chicken salad, another moist, white cheese (more like salty brie), and a cornmeal tamale filed with chicken and olives.



We finish around 1am and make a hasty exit. Next stop is the Christmas eve gathering of the Zuloaga clan, taking place at the penthouse abode of Anabella's great aunt.

On the way there, we pass a huge tree growing right in the middle of the street. They simply paved around it.
"What the hell is that tree doing in the middle of the road?" I ask.
"It's nothing" Cheo assures me "That happens all the time. Roads in Caracas....man....they crazy!"
I also ask him why he is running every single traffic light.
"That's just how we drive here!" he explains. "You just slow down a little bit....you don't see a car....you GO!"

This is true. Every intersection is a negotiation. Sometimes there is an honor system in play of 'who arrived first'. Other times, it is simply about who is least willing to slow down. Anabella adds that this practice has become more and more standard as car-jackings increased throughout the city. I do notice that all the doors are locked. All windows rolled up. Clearly, they are always aware of the danger.

An armed guard lets us in to the lobby of the great aunt's apartment building. We wait in the elevator until called up from above.

The elevator opens in to a sprawling carpeted apartment with so much discarded Christmas wrapping paper on the floor, you'd think you were at the going-out-of-business sale of a 14th St. appliance store. Anabella's cousin, Carlos, dressed in a rather sharp looking suit, leads us through the apartment, up to the rooftop terrace.



It is 1:30am and the open-air, penthouse terrace is in full swing. It is full of elegantly dressed revelers of all ages. I really feel like I am walking in to one of those fabulous Central Park West parties you see in Woody Allen movies. It is all a bit surreal. A man in a white tuxedo is serving drinks behind a small bar. Everyone knows him by his first name. A long-time employee, no doubt. He keeps his eyes downward and says almost nothing. The fancy elder ladies hold court on the couches, tending to weary grandchildren and engaging in civil conversation. The men stand by the bar, drinking whiskey on the rocks. The 35 and under crowd gravitates towards the open terrace at the back, smoking cigarettes and chatting loudly. Wait staff maneuver silently through the crowd, picking up empty glasses. An elaborate manger scene is sandwiched between a table of booze and a long banquet array of silver trays. We have just missed dinner, apparently. Caracas is in a fireworks frenzy of earth-shaking explosions every few seconds. Nobody seems to notice.

Anabella warned us prior to our arrival that the two American visitors were to be the evening's entertainment. We are the very first of their Gringo friends to visit, and they get few American tourists, so we are a rare species indeed. We can barely get past the bar because, one by one, everyone is stepping forward to welcome us. All in attendance are fluent in English, many with almost no accent whatsoever. It seems as though the entire party switched to English the moment we entered the room. As facilitating as this will undoubtedly be to our participation in congenial conversation, it has made me keenly aware that the entertainment has begun, and that entertainment is US! This is not to imply that we feel ill-treated. On the contrary, every member of Anabella's family is extremely gracious and welcoming.

Both Annabella's mother and father are in attendance. Her father, John, intercepts me by the bar for a scotch on the rocks. Scotch is just about the only drink that men consume here, from what I can tell.

John is an odd bird, for sure. He is always in a good mood, he doesn't say a whole lot, and he always has a big, wide grin on his face that makes one think something about you is immensely amusing to him, but he has no intention of telling you what it is. He is very cool with me, and doing his best to ease my transition in to Venezuelan culture.

We chat with Anabella's uncle Tommy. He moved to Caracas from Prague just after World War 2, marrying her great aunt. He tells me he started the first ad agency in Venezuela.
"What brought you to Venezuela?" I ask
"The women, of course!" he says, with a sly smile.
This is a wise man.





I wander in and out of several conversations. Almost everyone, it seems, has been educated and/or lived in in the United States at some point in their lives. Boarding school. College. Whatever. Most seem to know New York City rather well. And the women....what can I say? each woman I meet seems more beautiful than the last. Good genes, these Basques. I try to contain my "WHOA!" reactions and focus on the topic at hand.

Ana Helena, a second cousin, lives in New York City on Riverside Drive with her husband. She attends Columbia. He is a sportswriter covering Venezuelan major league baseball players in the States.

Baseball, to my surprise, is the number one sport in Venezuela.
"Not soccer?" I ask. SIlly me, I thought South America = Soccer.
Cheo explains that there is a distinct lack of enthusiasm for the national soccer team. This is because of the division they are in. In order to get to the world cup, they must defeat both Argentina and Brasil - a virtually impossible feat.
Cheo tells me "They once scored a single goal against Brasil and the whole country partied for a week!"
Hilarious.

I am eager to discuss Chavez, but it seems pretty apparent that most of Anabella's family is either weary of him, angry at him, embarrassed by him, or all three. Pretty much exactly how everyone I know feels about George Bush.
The most I get out of anyone is a succinct statement from Carlos: "We are paying the price for years of decadence".

The party starts to break up around 2:30am. Every single family member comes over to say goodnight. Venezuelans, from what I can tell being here less than 24 hours, are extremely polite. Social etiquette seems ingrained in every person we meet. We leave the party with two of Anabella's gorgeous cousins, Emiliana and Ana Helena, heading for "a rock n roll bar" where some friends of Cheo's will be playing live.

Emiliana is a piece of work. Hanging out with her is a battle inside your head, deciding if her hotness trumps her coolness, or if it's the other way around. On the one hand, she is a successful model/actress with a dreamy, casual grace that is most enchanting. So, HOT wins. Then she tells you, in her downtime, she base-jumps (urban skydiving) from local sky scrapers. Wow! COOL! Then she slowly turns her head away from you, as a newly-lit cigarette dangles from her flopped-over hand. Pow! HOT! Then she mentions that the last time she base jumped from a local radio tower, the cops started shooting at her, and she found a bullet lodged just behind her spine in the driver's seat of her jeep. Damn! COOL! Then she speaks to you in this crazy, lazy manner, through her teeth, like those starlets imitating Greta Garbo in the old Looney Tunes cartoons ("dahhhhling"). Ouch! HOT! Then she mentions that she was once the equestrian champion of Venezuela and, for some weird reason, even that is COOL. And it just goes on like this.

The rock n roll club is crowded. It's about 3am. We drink "Polar" beer and attempt light conversation with the cousins over the DJ's loud, 90s rock soundtrack. Nirvana. Spin Doctors. Rancid. Some Latin rock. Crowd is very East Village-looking. The live music hasn't started yet. I go backstage to smoke a joint with the band. They are nice enough guys. They introduce themselves, following their name with "pana", just as the guy did earlier at lunch. It seems hanging with Cheo has rendered me everyone's pana. I expected nothing less.




We drink more beers and wait for the band. They finally get on about 5:15am. They are a popular Caracas rock band, but tonight they are doing a special Christmas-Eve set, performing their usual rock songs in a more traditional bachata style. Bachata is the Latin guitar-based music that originated in the Dominican Republic in the 60s. It has plodding, mid-tempo beat that can almost sound like some kind of slow polka if you're not paying attention. It is immensely popular all over Latin and South America, though it never did much for a gringo like me. Basically, the band is having a bit of fun and trying to change shit up for the holidays. They open with a bachata version of Iron Maiden's "The Number of the Beast". Kick ASS. After that, they do their own songs, but the crowd seems a bit bored. The girls are weary of the place, so we only stay for about five songs before calling it a night.

As we drive back through the Country Club neighborhood in the pre-dawn light, there are still several huge parties going in. Streets lined with cars. Stumbling socialites. Reggaeton blasting from sprawling, gated estates. We drop Emiliana off and finally get to bed around 7am. So far, this is my kind of town.