I returned this afternoon from a short business trip to the island of Trinidad. And while organized from Caracas had a solid agenda, during my stay I managed to make a visit to a place that is loaded with a large family symbolism: The house where my grandparents lived, my mother and uncles from the decade of the 50 and 60 in Port of Spain.
To be exact, my family lived in two houses. The first address was 18, Victoria Avenue, which now operates the Embassy of Venezuela in Trinidad. From what I see is a high level of urbanization of Port of Spain and is very close to Queen's Park Savannah (who managed to get the Guinness record as the world's largest vial, because the way the park is fully circular).
And then was 71 Robert Street, a smaller home modest and that the first inhabited, with a little park nearby. At that point in the second move, I imagine that the rigors of the harsh life of political exile and had beaten the center of the household finances.
I know that those years in Trinidad were complex for my family, who lived a kind of narrowness that previously had been employed in a British colony which do not speak the official language on arrival. But I also know that transited those years of uncertainty and difficulty, the only possible way that can overcome great trials: United by love, united in faith in all that happens, united as a family, just joined. And with that, my grandparents Aldo and Dalia, my mom and my uncles Gioconda Enzo, Talia, Leonardo, Elsa, and Adriana Dalia gave to the coming generations would have a life lesson: that the family is like the eye Hurricane, the only safe spot and calm, which will keep you safe when flying around you all and disintegrates.
This morning I looked out the window of my room wide and beautiful hotel, and Trinidad gave me a full moon smiling and singing calypso. Then I thanked him for everything, by past and present, and this family, which has resisted all with dignity and hope.
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