Photo by Carlos Aristizabal
The bus ride from my high school perched atop the mountains of Caracas to my home in the valley below was long. And bumpy. And often, as was commonplace in the tropical city, riddled with traffic. My bus driver was a short man who wore boots with a generous heel and had a scarred face frozen in a perpetual frown. Dark, long unruly hair shifted on occasion revealing a half-missing earlobe, something I had convinced myself was a clue to a life filled with violence and crime. I was terrified of him but felt compelled to sit up front, where his handling of curves, potholes and sudden braking was more forgiving than in the back.
We were a handful in the first rows. A lucky few had their Walkman playing the latest Boy George or Supertramp hits to help pass the time. I mostly gazed out the window and daydreamed during the over-an-hour-long journey. Until Gabriela arrived. Quiet, tall and with kind eyes, Gaby was a newcomer that felt like a steady, wiser presence among a bunch of harried, hormonal teenagers. We connected instantly, chatting about whatever it is 15-year-old girls talk about, before moving on to what took up the bulk of her attention: the piano. Gaby had been playing the instrument since she was a toddler, and while I had given it up the minute I deducted that progress translated to endless hours of practice, Gaby’s love of the instrument appeared to be as organic as breathing.
The more bus rides we shared, the more I relished in her success, making it a point to attend her concerts and admire her growing fan base. Gaby eventually moved on, her talent demanded it. We lost touch, slipping into our separate lives, as was common in the time before the Internet. Then, in my mid-twenties, I learned she would be giving a concert in Miami. The city was new to me, having recently moved from New York, but I made my way to the concert hall to watch my old high school pal perform once again.
Gaby’s fingers glided seamlessly across the keys as the audience sat perfectly still absorbing her magic. When the concert was over, the applause was fierce and the desire for an encore ravenous. She returned bearing her signature wide smile and performed a riff on “Alma Llanera,” (Soul of the Plains). It was a song I hadn’t heard in years, celebrating the country that was witness to our bus ride banter all those years ago. And while Venezuela was just entering the steep and abrupt decline that has ravaged it ever since, I felt a strong pang of nostalgia as if I knew my return was forever compromised. Suddenly, I craved, not just the majestic mountains that served as backdrop to my hometown or the lush vegetation sprawling throughout, but also that perilous bus ride that became a hub of shared stories, laughter and a memorable friendship from my past.
Happy Reading,
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com