The Venezuelafication of American streets
My grandma loves to joke about how she got a tooth knocked out by a motorizado (biker) in the Venezuelan capital of Caracas. “¡Dame el aro!” (Gimme the hoop!) exclaimed what looked like an off-duty bodyguard. “My hoop? What the hell?” Grandma thought to herself, before realizing the man was talking about her wedding ring. “I never wear it when we go to church; I must’ve forgotten that day,” she tells us, in what feels like a skit. “I don’t know what got into me, but after the man pointed at his pocket and said he had a revolver, I said, ‘I have one too!’” “Show me,” the motorizado inquired as my frozen grandpa thought to himself, “What the hell is she talking about?