The best vacation I ever had is classified as such not because of its extravagance or elegance, but rather because of the life lesson that it taught me. I was very young when my mom and future step-father took me along on a trip to Margarita Island in Venezuela. We stayed in a gorgeous home on the Caribbean Sea and enjoyed a quality time there. Yet just outside of the gates to the home, appalling sites of poverty and despair were rampant everywhere.

I was a chubby, little fourth grader in May of 2005. I possessed a vague knowledge of poverty and politics at that time, but I had no clue about the intricacies and extent of the hostile relationship between the United States and Venezuela. At the time, those issues were an enigma and not a concern to me. The eminent vacation overjoyed me. Visions of swimming under the sun and relaxing on a pristine beach near a beautiful sea had filled my head for weeks before our departure. I left home only with the knowledge of my flight plan, homework responsibilities, and dreams of a week of fun. What I did not expect was the shock I was to receive once in Venezuela.

Originally we were suppose to be in Venezuela in a relatively short time. After arriving in San Juan, Puerto Rico, from Philadelphia, we had to return to Miami to catch a different flight to Caracas, Venezuela, due to a mechanical problem in the plane in Puerto Rico. Several trying hours later, we finally arrived in Caracas in the middle of the night. The night air of the city was murky, like a thick cup of dark soup. I was confused and afraid when we first arrived, and I continued to be in that state of bewilderment for most of the trip. Due to the change in flight plans, the airline company compensated us by giving us a hotel room for the night. The next day we were to fly to Margarita Island and begin the vacation that I had dreamed of for months.

However, to get to the hotel, we had to take a journey that left me terrorized and petrified. The city of Caracas, Venezuela, and Simon Bolivar International Airport are near each other, yet they are divided by a rugged mountain range. After passing through the customs office in the airport, a large, windowless van was waiting to take us to our hotel. Men speaking Spanish ushered us into the back of the van, where we sat on the floor for the trip. It seemed like the journey took forever. Eventually we began to believe that we were being kidnapped by the Venezuelan government because of our American citizenship. My mother enveloped me tightly in her arms, while her boyfriend, now my step dad, diligently remained on guard nearby. We finally arrived at the hotel after an hour or so of terror in the back of that van, and we were surprised by its lavishness.

The next morning was when the true terror of the trip surfaced. At first I thought that Venezuela was a prosperous country due to the lavish hotel we roomed in. However, when we traveled back to the airport in the daylight, what I saw horrified me. Decrepit shacks were stacked on each and every hill within the city. Filth and grime coated the streets, and malnourished people perused the streets, looking for food or work. Poverty was everywhere. It was the first moment in my life that I realized that not everyone is as well to do as we Americans are. On that day I recognized that we do not live in a perfect world. If it were perfect, people like those I saw in Venezuela would not be living in the filthy hillside shacks without adequate resources. It seemed obvious that the Venezuelan people were in fear for their survival on a daily basis. In contrast, we are so very fortunate in the United States, where the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.
Suddenly I hungered to return home to my own world of security, far removed from the horror and destitution I saw these people living. Poverty encroached everywhere in this country, even right next to opulence. For example, next to the small, pristine beach near the magnificent compound we stayed on, a family of fishermen dwelt in a series of small ramshackle shacks, eaking out a meager existence with barely adequate resources to survive. It was their perseverance that kept them alive, for every day the fishermen ventured out on the sea to capture at least one fish for their families. That survival trait seemed to be a commonplace characteristic of the Venezuelan people.
In retrospect, my vacation in Venezuela opened my eyes to the horrors of the world. The decrepit shacks of the poverty stricken Venezuelan people appalled me greatly. Even as a young child at the time, I knew that what I was seeing was disgusting and wrong. I now consider that vacation the best, not because it was luxurious and extravagant, but because it opened my eyes to the poverty and harsh conditions under which some people are forced to live due to no fault of their own.