At last we arrived at the glamorous hotel and very high up it was. I was pale and Paul was green. We both thanked God for our deliverance and tottered inside. Our gracious hosts were solicitous.
"We drive a little too fast for you, Leenda?" Leenda was weak in the knees and clutched her husband. "Oh, no, not too fast," I lied.
"I'm just not used to mountains. I live in Florida, you know."
"Not too many mountains in Florida," said Paul in a vain attempt to be lighthearted.
Suddenly, both men looked very serious as we studied the menus which, of course, were in Spanish. I realized my three years of Spanish in high school were totally worthless.
"Now, Leenda, a few precautions. Don't drink the water. And no lettuce or raw vegetables, very unsafe. We don't want you to be sick."
I nodded as the list of forbidden foods went on. What could we eat that would not make us violently ill? Paul and the two gentlemen had a lively conversation in Espanol and the three of them came up with a menu. Plates and dishes and bowls and platters of unidentifiable foods were brought. I was at first tentative, but everything was delicious. Juan,the young, handsome waiter eyed me every time he came to the table and smiled most provocatively. Finally, he said something to the men, but looked at me.
"What was that all about?" I said to Paul.
"He thinks you are very pretty, but too skinny. He is bringing you a very rich dessert with his compliments. And he asked if you were married to any of us."
I couldn't help but wonder what would have happened had I not been married? I pictured Juan emerging from the shadows and pulling me into his arms. In this little fantasy Juan looked like George Chakiris in West Side Story. Ah, here was Juan coming toward us in the flesh carrying some unbelievably scrumptious masterpiece. He placed it before me with a shy smile. Did this type of thing happen often in Caracas? Who knew?
"Muchas gracias....Juan."
Then each of us was given a small cup of what appeared to be .... black mud.
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