Internet, por fin ... and WOTW #1

Finally, Intercable has come and connected us to the Internet in our house. A day late for an election blog (sigh), but good enough for future writing.

As promised, the weekly features start now, with the Word of the Week.

***

Word of the week: chévere (fine, cool)

I don’t like to trust guidebooks. A lot of times, Let’s Go or Lonely Planet will recommend a “hidden treasure of a bar” or “secluded scenic hideaway”—and when you show up, there are 30 other pasty-skinned, camera-toting, Germanic-language-speaking tourists, each with their own copy of your guidebook, each looking for a place that no longer exists.

Sometimes, though, they’re right on. For example, on page 938 of Lonely Planet’s South America on a Shoestring, the reader is informed that chévere (cool) is a common phrase in Venezuela. I think it’s pretty funny that the book includes common phrases, as if someone who speaks no Spanish will all of a sudden drop local slang into their broken conversations. (Imagine a foreign tourist in New York asking you, “Where is situated the Empire Structure?” and then thanking you by saying, “Dope info, dog. Truly phat.” Then again, imagine anyone saying that, ever. Well, anyone who doesn’t edit at ESPN The Magazine. )

That said, chévere is the word here in Venezuela. I found that out when I was here a year ago, working on a story for The Mag and translating for my friends Scott and Serge. That’s when we met Luis.

I can see him now, pulling in front of the Gran Meliá in Caracas in his rusting, black GMC Jimmy. Before his arrival we knew only that the Phillies were providing us with a driver. We didn’t know what he would look like. We didn’t really know where he was coming from, thanks to my laughable telephone Spanish. All we knew was that his name was Luis, and he was meeting us out front early in the morning.

We were going to be in the Jimmy for a ridiculous amount of time—it was like letting a stranger drive you from New York to D.C. and back several times in one weekend—and I was a little concerned about Luis, if only because neither Scott nor Serge spoke Spanish. Actually, I’m not giving them enough credit; Scott had perfected the word permisito (excuse me), and Serge was well on his way toward saying hola and even gracias. So if anything went wrong with our trip, it would be my fault. I was the translator. After struggling today to give someone my cell phone number in Spanish, I find that to be pretty funny.

Anyway, when Luis arrived he got out and took our bags and tossed them in the trunk of the Jimmy. Serge managed a nodding hola and Scott, feeling frisky, went with an enthusiastic buenos días. Luis smiled at the two of them and asked me how I was doing. I said that I was great before asking him in turn.

“Chévere,” he replied.

Today, I know few things about Luis. I know he was from Maracay. I know he had the staying power of an I-40 trucker. I know he’d been to Miami once and thought the driving there, with its straight roads and working stoplights, was fantastic. Most importantly, I know that Luis was a sort of Venezuelan caricature, at least when it came to speaking.

Everything, I mean everything, was chévere to this guy.

How’s it goin’, Luis? Chévere. What’s the driving like, Luis? Chévere. What’s Puerto La Cruz like, Luis? Chévere. Are we making good time, Luis? Chévere. Are you sure you want to drive back to Maracay now and not get home until 4 a.m., Luis? Chévere. We don’t want you to fall asleep and kill yourself, Luis, okay? Chévere. Are you listening to me, Luis? Chévere. No, really, that’s pretty annoying. Chévere. Okay, well, what do you do during your spare time, Luis? Chévere. Do you have a lady friend, Luis? Chévere. Is she cute? Chévere. Umm, well, how’s your sex life, Luis? Chévere. Wait a sec, Luis, where are we going? Chévere. This is a dirt road, Luis. Chévere. Don’t do anything you’ll regret, okay, Luis? Chévere. We’re getting out the car this instant, Luis. Chévere.

Okay, so I never asked him about his sex life. But you get the point. He was, at least to me, Luis Chévere.

We were in the car with him for hours and hours that weekend, but finally, after Serge got what a Mag photo editor called “the poverty shot” (something like the money shot, only worse) in the barrios outside the city, we arrived back at the Meliá, a day before our flight back to New York. We thanked Luis for his help, paid him the Bs. 200,000 fare and were ready to leave when he tapped me on the shoulder. I turned back and saw him there in front of his car, smiling. “So, how was your trip? What’d you think of Venezuela?”

As if there could have been another answer. Chévere, Luis. Chévere.