I met a Venezuelan Ex-Pat on the train yesterday

This weekend, I went to Boston. A friend of mine is visiting from the West Coast, and she got us tickets to the Enrique Iglesias concert. Concerts are not my thing, but if someone invites me, I usually go, especially to hang out with one of my soul sisters.

We went, and it was fun. I danced and realized how much I dislike concerts unless someone is sitting on the stage singing with a guitar and no pyrotechnics or crazy fancy lights.

However, it was fun, as I love Latin music.

Since I write, which causes a lot of self-reflection, I have always been one to take in my environment and notice little pieces of my life and how they connect, and this weekend was no exception.

Living outside of the US has made me more curious and observant. However, I have always been curious.

I don’t think it is something you wake up one day and say today, let’s be interested; you either are or you aren’t.

Asking questions is critical thinking, and I enjoy talking to people. Getting someone to talk is easy, plus it was always a defense mechanism; if someone is talking about themselves, they don’t have time to ask about you.

After spending the weekend with my friend, she and I do the same things; we look at life and those around us and wonder what they are mirroring and how we attract that person, typically in relationships, friendships, good and bad.

Naturally, if I have drawn someone into my circle who is not my ideal person, I have to look within myself and see what that piece I am still holding on to and how it is manifesting in my external world.

I love this game; it’s like a clue and solving a puzzle. Have I cracked it yet? No, no, of course not.

Life gave me some breadcrumbs since we always ask, “ Am I on the right path¨? (or at least my tarot clients do!)

First, I do not believe in right or wrong paths; the way is the way.

The way you choose is your way, and you will learn something along the way if you pay attention. One thing I often know from these paths is my direction in life, and yet again, it shows up over and over in mysterious ways that what I desire is possible and available.

Since I have been here in the US, I get asked a lot about where I am going next, and when people find out I spend the majority of my time south of the border, I often get a look of surprise, and then, of course, they all say nice things, but the initial shock is what always interests me.

I don’t ask them anything; I just take notes. The facial expression, the look of fear that crosses their faces for a split second.

Why?

Of course, we only see the bad on the news, designed to fire up both sides of the story.

Plus, I have noticed most people stick to those inside their bubble, their box. Especially on the train, no one talks to anyone, and Bostonians, in general, are not the friendliest people.

My mother was from here, and my entire family on my mother’s side is here; I have lived in Boston and have been coming here since I was born.

I love the city; it is beautiful, but the cold winter I find leads to cold people, of course not all; nothing is absolute.

I know where my rambling is going.

Yesterday, I got on the train to come home; this is how my world always unites and feeds me breadcrumbs.

A young man sat next to me, and I knew he and his friends were not from the city; he was Latino, as well as all of his friends; they were all speaking Spanish, he was holding a vest from his job, as they all just got off shift and were headed home.

He asks me ¨Que hora es?¨ I responded ¨cinco y media¨, or whatever the time was.

Then, I began speaking to him in Spanish, asking him if he spoke English and where he was from. If you are unaware, a Latino is the best person to talk to about anything or practice your Spanish.

They love to talk and are some of the most friendly people you will ever meet. So we began talking.

He also told me I could write about his story, as it was fascinating.

We began talking since none of us had tickets for the train, and he asked if it was free. I said if they don’t ask me for a ticket, I do not pay.

He said he heard the weekend was free; I think it was since I did not pay Saturday or Sunday; no one approached me to purchase a ticket, so it was perfect.

He then asked me where his stop was, one before mine. I said I would tell you, don’t worry. I then decided to probe into how he got to Boston and asked where he was from.

He was from Venezuela, and before coming to the US, he was in Peru, making money for his trip here and filing his papers to enter the US as an asylum seeker.

He was adamant that he did everything the legal way. He left Venezuela in 2018, and it took him five years to earn money, file his papers, and make his way up north.

He arrived in Boston only a week ago and already has a job and a place to stay. He met an American traveler in Peru, who happened to be from outside of Boston, so he and his brother made the trip together.

His mother lives in Colombia, and the three of them left Venezuela due to the economy there. The immigrants’ route and how it is done have always fascinated me.

They start in Necoli (Northern Colombia) and have a guide that takes them halfway through the Darian gap. He also told me this was the most beautiful jungle he had ever seen and most dangerous, full of tigers, puma, snakes, and the smell of dead bodies decomposing.

Thousands crossed daily, and he did not even know how many did not survive, but it took him 2.5 days until he was out of Panama.

Crossing central America, they continued through the jungle with help from locals, hitchhiking, and such; however, he told me Nicaragua was the ugliest place he had ever seen, with an economy close to Venezuela's.

However, they continued, and once they made it to Mexico, it was the most dangerous part of the journey because of all the cartels. He said many died at the hands of the Mexican mafia or starved and dehydrated.

The Mexican people fed him and gave him water, as it was the most dangerous and compassionate.

He told me he took a train for two days by laying on the top of it, holding on in the hot sun, without eating or drinking for two days. And this was not the worst; then they got to the river, the one we all see on TV.

They woke up at 2 a.m. to cross; 8 started, three turned around, and out of 5, only four survived; their one friend drowned because the current was so strong and dangerous.

He said that it was sad since it was their friend they began with; luckily, he and his brother were fine. They did not have cell phones, and I think only the clothes on their back.

So I asked what happened at the border, and he said we had all our papers, and since they had a sponsor and a job in Boston, he was flown here, so all he had to do was make it to the border.

It was a crazy story, and I am sure I did not catch it all. It was my first conversation in Spanish for about six months, but like all Latinos, he was flirting with me; it is their nature.

I then asked him what his plan was. Isn’t it too cold here? He said no, loves the weather here, and has friends and a job.

He plans to learn English and work to create a better life for himself and his family. In five years, he wants to return to Venezuela and buy his mom a home, that is all.

If your only choice is to risk your life to survive, you will do whatever it takes, even if it means you could die.

We need to talk to people in the US more and learn their stories. So many are quick to judge and have strong opinions, and this goes for both sides, not just one or the other.

So many people these days are hypocrites; they will preach something, but it’s only for them to save face and act entirely differently.

Or place one of the 100 flags we now have hanging outside our houses, seriously fuck the flags, and be a good human.

Please don’t say you are a good human by showing the world you are a good human; show it. Talk to a stranger on the train, even if you think they ¨look different¨.

When he got off the train, he told the girl behind us he liked her hair; instead of saying sorry, I don’t understand you, she gave him a nasty look and walked away.

My sister said people hate it when anyone talks to you on the train; we talked the whole way.

We are a country of immigrants; when my family came here, they had to start over with nothing to learn a new language, and it has never been easy.

Plus, I am sure my Spanish-speaking skills help me connect with those not from here anyway. I welcomed him to the US and told him I was headed south, so it goes both ways: we immigrate there, others immigrate here.

Or shall I call him a Venezuelan ex-pat?

Why can’t it go both ways?

It is not just an American thing; other countries also complain about too many Americans, and people complain about too many Latinos. The world is changing, so don’t be a dick.

XOXO

S