I call Caracas the city of hanging string. There are many sculptures consisting of some form of (usually) metal strings hanging to the ground, usually in some sort of cube pattern, and creating shadow illusions by the way they are positioned.
I felt completely replete after the beer and alone-time to write. When I got back to S's apartment, she was home and had brought with her another couchsurfer, J-L. He came to exchange money with me but his card wouldn't work in the ATM machines and it was finally barred, so no exchange from him. S's dad wrote me another cheque instead.
S had problems getting home this evening due to delayed trains, which caused such overcrowding that someone felt free to yank one of S's earring out of her ear. So she walked to M's and she and J-L had dinner and beer with M. Tonight she and J-L called couchsufers in Cumana and Isle Margarita to help host and find tours for me. I'll be off tomorrow evening on a night bus.
My pimples have finally faded and no new ones arrived, my face is tan and my hair is great in this humididty - curly and neither dry nor greasy. I'm finally feeling attractive again.
And this brings me to the end of notebook 1, where I am writing on the inside back cover now - farewell my fine red friend.
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I hear you on the hair thing. I had the best hair days of my life in Ecuador. And my Nicaraguan friend with curly hair complained that it always got frizzy in North Carolina compared to when she was at home.
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