STREETS OF CARACAS

I stared at my cup of mud wondering what it could possibly be.  Paul had a strange look on his face and he didn't pick up his cup.

"Ah, Leenda, you do not like expresso?"

So that's what it was! "Ah, no, sir.  I find it to be a bit too strong for me.  I guess it's a man's drink!" 

 Paul gave me a thunderous look.  Now his very manhood was at stake!  Why did I always say things without thinking?  He didn't want to drink black mud either!

But he did.  And he studiously avoided looking at his wife who had betrayed him. I prayed he would not throw up.  At last our luncheon was over and Paul was glad.  Back down the mountain we went at death defying speeds.  Our generous hosts wanted us to see the city.  They drove us through the very wealthy part of Caracas first and all the         homes were large and very beautiful. I       asked why all the windows were barred.

"There are very poor people in Caracas, so poor that they will reach into an open window and steal things off the dresser.  Naturally,    the wealthy must protect themselves."

As we entered the city streets, Caracas became a different world.  Groups of people surrounded the car, speaking rapid Spanish and handing flyers and pamphlets through the open car windows.  The car slowed as we made our way through the city.  Our hosts seemed unconcerned about the intensity of the crowd, but I was upset.  I looked at Paul.

  "They want change," he said in a low voice.       "They are desperate."

I couldn't take my eyes off their faces. I    can still see them, sweating in the intense     heat, begging us to notice. 

       Suddenly, I wanted to go home.