I smile

Instead of writing a depressive post about the mix of feelings one might have after a defeat. Instead of writing about the disappointment I might feel about my own country, I decided to dedicate the official post election post to an imaginary exercise because now, all I can think of is my future and I’m going to live it, and I’m going to try to be happy despite the Revolution I’m currently forced to live into. When you lose a big part of your hopes, you have no other choice but to attach to other expectations. On a side note: I’m obviously not married or making a masters degree abroad yet. After clearing that up, click here on the “click here to read the rest option” and take a look at my imaginary exercise.

It’s 2013 or later. I’m doing a masters degree at some place cold (for some odd reason, the most tempting opportunities for my professional growth are located in places that have a very bad weather). I blow on my gloves and go to the Venezuelan consulate to vote.
Back home, my husband and I make hot chocolate and check our laptops like maniacs over and over again. In the meantime we do not allow ourselves to watch on TV any other channel besides CNN, even counting that is currently broadcasting a boring documentary about consume habits in the developed world.
Suddenly the phone and our laptops sound at the exact same time. We don’t know which electronic tool we should pay attention to. Seems like its mom at the other side of the phone, but I can’t get a bit of what she’s saying because she’s crying non stop. Consumed by the uncertainty, I yelled at her: “Put me someone else on the phone please! What’s going on?”
My mom doesn’t need to pass the phone to anyone else, because in that exact moment, my husband takes his sight off his laptop and looks back at me. And then I know for sure that…

…we lost. Chavez is going to keep being the president of Venezuela for at least six more years. No one seems surprised: the campaign was big, intimidating and effective in a distorted way. The effort made by the opposition was simply not enough and many of its members ended up in prison just because of taking part on this campaign. I try to comfort my mom by focusing our phone conversation in other topics such as my upcoming visit to Caracas or the meat I just made purely based on her brilliant recipe. But no words are enough. I ask her to put my dad on the phone but he’s not in the mood of talking, he has gone to bed already. After we talk /chatted with a hundred of friends and relatives, my husband declares himself in a bad mood and says he needs to go out. I instantly follow him.
We stop by a bar or a cosy restaurant we discovered a few days ago, and sit, and order. We don’t have to say much to each other, we know we are going to live abroad as we are living now, forever. We are going to raise our kids and grow old in a foreign land. Our tropical bodies are never going to adjust to the cold weather completely, our accents will always reveal our “exotic” origins, our minds are never going to stop missing the ones he left behind, but our souls feel thankful; guilty, but thankful because we are living away from the mess Venezuela has become.
The rest of the tables of that place where we are eating/ drinking at, are filled with people, just normal people with their normal joys and sorrows. We look at a couple of girls not older than seventeen who are laughing real hard at a joke some blonde guy made at them. The TV has CNN on, and passes the news about another Chavez victory on small letters at the bottom of the screen. We are the only ones who read that tiny text. The rest of the screen is dedicated to the latest Hollywood star drug trouble. My husband touches my hand in that cute way he always does, looking at me like saying “Common! Cheer up!” I smile.

…we won. The first thought that crosses my mind is “Really? Did we actually won?”
By the narrowest of margins, after hours of tension and rough negotiations, the CNE (our electoral institution) had no other choice but to finally admit it: L√≥pez won. “I ca-ca- can’t believeeeeeve it!” – My mom says wiping at the other side of the phone; she’s non sense crying out of happiness. No one can believe it. My husband eyes look suddenly bigger than usual and he’s just sitting on the couch, shocked, carrying a smile on his face. In an instant of corny emotion, I look at him while I’m still holding the phone with mom at the other side deciding to send a message to the both of them: I say “I love you”. My mom hung up the phone because she’s going to the streets to celebrate.
I feel a bit nervous about possible nasty reactions on the Revolution side. And there’s one or two. Chavez claims fraud and says he’s going to present the proof tomorrow. In a three hour length cadena, he sends a straight message to his followers: “Trust this comrades, the Revolution will never die!” We laugh at his pathetic speech.
Later, a friend from my master’s class calls us to say congratulations and ask us if we are watching CNN. Of course we are watching! : The screen, the whole screen, is showing the streets of Caracas filled with people celebrating. There are a lot of smiles, tears, dances and colours. There’s even a guy holding his head with both hands, still too shocked to talk to the reporter.
A few family members call us and we hear all that noise “Wish you were here” – They say. I cry like a child: I wish I were there to see it, to jump in the streets like crazy even with the possible dangers of going to the streets at night and to give my family and friends a bear hug.
We don’t know what’s next for us or the ones back home. We are sure that Leopoldo Lopez (*), the new president of Venezuela does not have an easy task at all now.
But for what is worth, we are now feeling a certain happiness inside us and a relief we know we have never felt before. My husband serves the best wine we have (or the only one we have) and I propose to make a delicious pasta for dinner. While he’s busy looking for the tomatoes, I look at the TV screen yet one more time and I smile.

* I do think he could, eventually, be a good president in the future. Call me an elusive dreamer if you must. I’ll explain the reasons on another entry, if I feel like it.