Immigrants In Venezuela

Like millions of other young adults in the United States right now, I also migrated to the United States when I was quite young.

I left my home in Caracas, Venezuela in the summer of 2006. I remember Venezuela fondly; the coastal breeze, the rich smell of the soil, the friendly "Hello" and "Goodbye" exchanged in elevators and waiting rooms, and most importantly the pastry shops that lined the streets and tantalized me with glazed and shiny delicacies and fresh gelato. In July of 2006, I boarded an airplane and arrived at the "land of promises." The mammoth of a building that was the Hartsfield-Jackson airport in Atlanta was terrifying, it must have been more than ten times the size of the Aeropuerto Francisco de Miranda in Caracas. Equally astounding were the streets and highways that I encountered shortly after, their width was that of a river. In comparison to the streets in Venezuela, whose width was that of a stream, the streets in the United States were colossal.

At first I thought that there was something wrong with the United States, there had to be something wrong with a country that supersized. It was only very subtly and gradually that I became aware that it wasn't that the United States had a culture of the huge, at least not any more than other like countries, but that Caracas had a problem with abundance, or lack thereof. It wasn't that the supermarkets in America were "super," but that the supermarkets in Caracas were lacking in every kind of