11s Everywhere

Today, I had an appointment (randomly assigned by computer) at the motor vehicle department to renew my driver’s license. Because of changes in Homeland Security laws, you now have to present a passport, two pieces of evidence that you live where you say you live, your social security card, and of course, your license. I dislike dealing with bureaucracies, so en route to the department, I stated, aloud, that I would like to experience some sort of synchro.  I mean, if I have to deal with a government agency, I deserved to at least have a synchro, right?

My appointment was for 11:10.  I walked in two minutes early, saw all these people sitting around, waiting, and thought, No, please, I don’t want to waste time waiting.  I glanced at the receipt the woman in the lobby had given me, looked at the computerized board, then heard my number called. Report to window 11.

 Really? An appointment at 11:10 at window 11? I figured this would go well.  The woman at window 11 spoke with a slight accent. Hispanic, I thought, but probably not Cuban. She was cheerful and pleasant and we joked about all the paperwork. Then she opened my passport and smiled.

“How long has it been since you were last in Caracas?” she asked in Spanish.

“1988. I went back with my husband and parents.” And right then I knew she was Venezuelan. “Where in Venezuela are you from?”

“Maracay.”

A map of Venezuela unfolded immediately in my head. Maracay lies south of Caracas, where I was born and grew up. One of our family vacations when I was a kid was to Maracay.  “I went there as a kid. It’s such a gorgeous country, isn’t it?”

“Precioso,” she said, as she typed away, entering all my info into the computer.

“But Chavez messed it up.”

She nodded. In Spanish, she explained how she had left Venezuela fourteen years ago, had married an American, and they always talked about how they would travel there when it was safe. “But it was never safe.  We never got there. He died last year.”

It was incredible to me that she could be sitting there at her computer, in her government booth, telling me – a total stranger – about the death of her husband. In her shoes, I would be in a mental ward. Rob gone, me raising Megan by myself,  a divergent path, no thank you. I expressed my  sympathy and asked if she had children. She pulled out her iPhone and navigated to a photo of the cutest 11-year-old girl in a bathing suit and sunglasses, playing to the camera.

“Enjoy it. They grow up too fast,” I said.  “My daughter is twenty-three. Are you ever homesick?”

She thought a moment. “My parents are here. But I am homesick for the country. What about you?”

“Always.” A moment passed. “Do you get a lot of Venezuelans through here?”

“Rarely. Mostly Cubans. And immigrants.” She handed me my passport and other papers. Our eyes locked, a connection happened. Then she said,  “Go stand by the blue curtain so I can get your photo.”

When I left  the building, I marveled at how the universe had manifested my desire rather quickly, all things considered. It’s about seven miles from our house to the closest motor vehicle department. The chances that my clerk would be a Venezuelan were slim.

And from that point forward, my day unfolded with shocking smoothness, ending this evening with a thunderstorm, unusual for April. It kept the cats and Noah inside and drew Rob and I out onto the porch. “This is great for April,” he said.  “April and May are usually our drought months.”

And if it continues, it bodes well for Florida’s hurricane season.

Now it’s 1:01 a.m. and the rain is still falling. I glance out my window, where a light shines down on the most magnificent plant with lavender flowers, and a waterfall from the roof.

In my mind, I am suddenly flying over Venezuela’s Angel Falls with my dad and Rob, the three of us marveling at the tepuis – cliffs, high plateaus  – and the tallest waterfall in the world cascading into utter beauty and majesty.

And it all started at the driver’s license office, with an 11:10  a.m. appointment, at window 11. Now, as I am about to press the publish button, the post time reads 1:11. REALLY?  By the time I’ve over that adrenaline shock, the clock has moved on. All these 11s leave me hopeful, buoyant, in the flow.