The Beginning
As any good adventure story, there is a conflicting beginning, a confusing middle, and a contented end. In my opinion, there is no better way to begin my story than by depicting my journey so far, as an interesting and daring adventure. It all began one warm day in June of 1995, when my mother gave birth to me, surrounded by my entire family, who of course were full of joy and laughter. Little did I know that four years from that day, all the laughter and joy, would cease to exist not just for my family, but for many others, as a result of one man- Hugo R. Chaves. Chaves was a socialist politician who promised to make Venezuela the richest country in the region. Of course, as many other politicians who have made a similar promise to his constituents under a socialist agenda, he failed catastrophically.
Why is all of this important? Well, my father was a petroleum engineer who worked for PDVSA (the national oil company of Venezuela), and as a worker who voted against Chaves in the 2002 election, he was dismissed from his job along with thousands of other who wanted a new inception for Venezuela. Having lost his job, my father lost everything that we had. The government indirectly ceased the house, the cars, and all of my father´s investments for they owned PDVSA, and all of my father´s assets belonged mostly to the company. Now, having lost it all, we recurred to family members for shelter and food while my dad searched for another job, which was almost impossible to find because he was competing with the thousands of workers who got fired along with him. Months passed and we had to move to a ghetto because that is all we could afford, and it was here that my story begins.
I was eight and eating tuna and bread almost everyday to survive, which as anyone can imagine was very tedious and disdainful, but I managed to keep myself happy. I began working in the streets, which sounds awful, but honestly, this is normal in Venezuela. My brother and I managed to get ourselves a supplier of fruits who would give us a basket each everyday, under the conditions that we gave him 75% of the profits. Can you imagine having to sell oranges, mangos, and bananas without being able to eat one of them? This was the hardest part, however, it was worth it because the moment we got paid, we would give half to my parents and we would keep the other half to ourselves. The beauty of the whole struggle was that every Friday at exactly 3:00 pm, Cesar (my brother) and I would go to the golden arches of McDonalds and buy ourselves fries, nuggets, and the best part -one chocolate Sunday to share between us both. These my friends was heaven, It truly was. I still remember tasting the perfectly salty fries, and the fried chicken inside those tender brown nuggets. Honestly, this time in my life I can describe with one meal because although times were rough, McDonalds never failed to keep its prices low enough, so that two suckers like my brother and me could buy their dream meal after a hard week of work.
The Middle
After a couple of months surviving in miserable conditions, my father found a job abroad, in Colombia. Now, to keep things short, this was the confusing middle part of my story because for the first time in my life, I was experiencing true cuisine in the concrete jungle of Bogota. Plates such as Ajiaco, arepas de queso, and carne asada al ajo, made my palate orgasm but made my body sick, for in medical terms I was malnourished from all that time in Venezuela in which days could passed by without me eating a proper meal.
Anyways, after Colombia my father took us all around the world from Saudi, to Ecuador, to Peru, to almost every country in Europe, to the shores of Singapore, and to the mountains of China. In Saudi I became addicted to humus and shawarmas, in China I became addicted to fried rice, dumplings, and chulin soup, in Japan I became a fan of teriyaki chicken and sushi, in Italy I surrendered my entire being to the best plates of all- linguine carbonada, gelato, and of course the best pizza which, can only be found in the crowded streets of Venice. In Paris I had a sugar coma with nutella crepes under the Eifel tower, in Nepal, stew anything made me smile, in Germany, beer and sausage in the freezing winter made my stomach thank me. All in all, my journey in relation to cuisine has been a complete roller coaster with its usual ups and downs.
The End
Now, for the contended end lets put it this way, the U.S.A has probably no true cultural food that describes it well, but what it lacks in food creativity, it makes up with its million of restaurant from all around the world because you can literally be in downtown Houston and find a Mediterranean food truck with the best red lentil falafel salad and the most flavorful turkey meatballs. In truth, I have no clue where I am heading but one thing I do know for a fact, never again will I be content with tuna and bread.