Everyone has a Thanksgiving they will never forget - this is mine.
She was my Mother, my daughter, my friend - she was Carolina. Within sixteen hours of my arrival, she gave me a speed course in bolivars, proper tipping and conduct in the City of Caracas. Sandwiched somewhere in those frantic hours, she taught me a brief history and culture course of the country that will ever be indelibly engraved on my memory. Her final gift in parting was a small wooden cross, a duplicate of the one she wore around her neck on a small silver string.
We first met the morning after my arrival from New York. I had been told that a companion had been assigned to me by the airline to assist me during the time my husband was in the hospital.
I waited in the lobby and watched the guests arriving and departing through the marble entrance - wondering what my interpreter would be like. An elegant young woman arrrived with her black hair pulled to one side and draped loosely over her shoulder. Her print pantsuit was simple and classic - she was beautiful. It was obvious most of the men in the hotel agreed. I watched her approach the bell captain and saw him nod in my direction. And I knew she was Carolina.
She walked over and reached out for my hand and in perfect English said, "I am here to help."
The rapport was instant. Age seemed to be forgotten, despite the fact that she was the age of my youngest son. I think I started to speak - I am not sure how much I told her of the frantic phone call from the hospital, the quick trip to the airport, the arrival in the dark of night into Venezuela. She listened and said, "We will plan what we must do, and we will also do things that you will like." And that is what we did.
We went to the hospital daily. But, before and after, Carolina showed me her world. Gently, she guided me with decisions - how to express my gratitude to the wonderful nurses in intensive care taking such fine care of my beloved husband. Money was not appropriate, but a special Christmas bread would be - it is a delicacy not possible for those without money. We would go to a village outside the city where we could purchase six loaves.
We began to learn about each other. My clothes were of great interest to her. I had left New York abruptly, packing two inter-changeable outfits, and another I wore. How much would such clothes cost? Did I spend a great deal of money? In the world of bolivars, a shocking amount I learned. By United States standards, a modest sum.
How much money would a woman, such as I, earn? Again, in a country where policemen and street sweepers earned comparable amounts, my earnings were staggering. By my standards, below average.
We talked about families, my children. Her parents, she told me, were divorced and she had a brother. I asked about her education, it was obviously the finest. She spoke six languages and had traveled extensively, yet there was something below the surface. Something she did not wish yet to discuss.
The next day would be November 25th, Thanksgiving in America. As we returned to the lobby, I saw the sign - a traditional holiday dinner would be served in the dining room for American travelers. Impulsively, I asked Carolina to be my guest. I saw her look quickly at the price on the display, hesitate, and then say, "It would be my pleasure."
Each morning she arrived promptly at 9 a.m., and we would travel the forty five minutes to the Clinica. When my husband's lunch was served, we would leave and our time together began. We went into the hills and drove past her home. Set into the hillside, it was a small bungalow, and Carolina needed to travel many miles daily to get into the city. Despite the beauty of the country, the traffic was a nightmare, far beyond anything I had seen, including midtown Manhattan. There was, of course, no public transportation. Shyly, she mentioned that her boyfriend stayed with her often.
She cautioned me about going out alone without her. I was safe in the hotel, but it was unwise to travel elsewhere. Perhaps I would like to do some Christmas shopping. I might not have too much time when we arrived home. There was still much uncertainty about my husband's prognosis. We drove to the outskirts of the city and into a small village where I purchased several of the most beautiful hand painted creches I had ever seen. Carolina was my interpreter, and even without the most basic knowledge of her language, I became aware that she bargained constantly, always anxious to get a better price that the one originally quoted.
The sun had become strong, and we stopped for some passion juice. Carolina assured me it would be good for me, and while we sat in the shade at a small enameled table, she suddenly asked me how I felt about women dating younger men. It was something I had never thought too much about, I answered. I had no strong feelings. But, suppose it was my son, she persisted. I replied that the wives of all my sons were slightly older. Not much, admittedly, but six months or thereabouts. Then, realizing that wasn't really what we were talking about, I asked, "How much of an age difference?" "My boyfriend is nineteen," she replied.
I was quite surprised. This elegant, lovely young woman with a man so young. I could not hurt her. I replied, "I cannot think of anyone nicer than you, Carolina. You will bring joy to any family. But I am certain you have met others, also?" Her answer was brief, "I am divorced."
I became instantly aware of the difference in our cultures. The looks accorded this beautiful young woman were different than those given to other young women we saw in the lobby, chaperoned by their mothers. The subtle difference in tone when her name was mentioned by the business associates of my husband. I realized instantly why she had not been invited the other evening to the diplomatic reception. Our conversation ended abruptly. She had not intended to tell me so much. We returned to the hotel and planned to meet the next day for our Thanksgiving dinner.
It was a traditional dinner, so much so that the dining room was relatively empty. I knew Carolina was thinking of the cost, yet I assured her that it would be put on the hotel bill. I was beginning to be aware that I had not brought a surplus of cash, and I did not know how many days before we could return to the United States. The meal was elegantly served and prepared; not really a American Thanksgiving, but closer than I had hoped. I saw her hesitate while the waiter stood quietly as we read the dessert menu. Shyly, Carolina asked if it would be too much - would it be possible - to have ice cream and apple pie. Would it be a social error? This was the first time this incredible young woman had indicated any unease. I told her, "Not at all, indeed, it's an American tradition." She broke into a beautiful smile and said, "I have never had ice cream and pie together."
Oh, my dear Carolina, there will never be another Thanksgiving in my life when you will be forgotten.
That evening, there was good news at the hospital. My husband and I would return home by the end of the week.
All week, I had repeatedly tried to express my gratitude to this incredible young woman. Yet, I remembered her words of caution about giving any monetary gift to the hospital staff, and I was reluctant to offend her in any way. Repeatedly, she refused any generosity on my part, other than the occasional glass of juice or the memorable Thanksgiving dinner.
When she heard I was leaving, she became silent. We drove back to the hotel, and she said she was tired. She would see me in the morning. I was so preoccupied with my own plans I did not think too much about her change in attitude. There was so much to be done.
Early the next morning, once again, we met in the lobby, and I asked her to write her address down in my book. She did so, but cautioned me the mail was not good. She doubted if she would receive anything I sent. Suddenly, she asked plaintively, "Would I be treated as well in your country, as you have been treated here?" I could not, I would not, lie. This woman was my friend. I had been totally and absolutely dependent on her all week. "I don't know, Carolina, I hope you would, but I am not certain."
The traffic was dense, and she seemed preoccupied weaving her little car in and out of the snarls of each backstreet that took us to the Clinica. Suddenly, she said, "I must buy a crib." Before I could ask any questions, she said, "I have a girlfriend; she is pregnant, and she will need help." "Yes," she continued, "I will buy the crib." She had not mentioned her friends before, and I asked when the baby was due. "Not for a while, but my friend is not married, and will need help," she answered abruptly. Then she changed the subject, and we pulled into the tiny parking lot behind the hospital. As I went up the circular staircase to the second floor, Carolina said, "I must speak to the doctor about my friend. I will see you in a few minutes."
I wish I could say I remembered to ask more about her friend, but I became so involved with the instructions for my husband's care en route back to the States that I completely forgot to inquire further. Carolina brought me back to the hotel, and called me the next day to say goodbye. I never saw her again.
Once we were home, and life settled into some semblance of normality, I wrote Carolina and sent her a Christmas gift from New York. I promised once again to return and expressed my sincere hope that one day she could visit. All beautiful thoughts, all happy hopes, but I have never heard from her.
The following spring a business associate traveled back to Caracas. I asked him to please tell Carolina that I had tried to contact her without success. I told him to look for the most beautiful girl in the airport, and he would see Carolina. When he returned, he phoned, and said, "She is no longer there." I could not believe it. "Where would she have gone?" "No one knows," he told me. "She was pregnant, you know, and of course, unmarried. Some young fellow who abandoned her. The people I asked about her weren't too sympathetic."
Could I have done more? Of course, I am certain of that. How much more? I wish I knew. The letters never came back, but I also doubt they reached her. There was never a reply. I think of her often. The little wooden cross is nestled in my jewelry box. I wish I had known. I hope she had a little girl. It might be easier for them both. I wish I had offered to buy the crib. I wish she had told me. I wonder if she did.
There was never a return trip to Caracas. I never took the Spanish lessons I promised I would. I made further inquiries, but to no avail. We all have failures in our lives. Some are insignificant and easy to forget. Others require more to overcome than mere lack of memory, and those should never be forgotten. My failure to listen more closely to Carolina will always haunt me - hers will be the face of every young woman who needs help who crosses my path.
Perhaps that is why we met. Perhaps it is more important than buying a crib.
