We did not have tickets for the USA-Colombia match that was to be played in the evening, but the first order of business was to find an ATM that would dispense cash to us. The problem was complicated by the fact that it was July 5, the day that Venezuelans celebrate their independence from Spain. Most of the businesses were closed. We found several banks with ATMs that were open, but getting them to give us cash was another story. After visiting several locations, I think all of us managed to get money. Wes was still converting dollars that he had brought with, but I think the rest of us were relying on ATMs.

Wes spoke with the woman at the front desk and asked if she knew anyone who could change dollars for bolivares. She put him in touch with one of the owners of the place, who agreed to a rate of 3,750 Bs. per dollar. This was the best rate we had gotten anywhere, but I only had a single $20 bill left from my stash to change.

The owner was a nice fellow, smoking a cigarette while dispensing his insight on Venezuela. As he counted out thick stacks of bolivares, he said that the area we were staying in was not very safe and we should be very careful not to show money. He suggested that we check out a hotel that he owned in a better part of the city. We had already paid for that night and I was leaving the next day, but Wes and Patrick and Juan would be needing a room for Friday night.

For match tickets, we had hopes of getting in touch with US Soccer again to see if they could help. Since Dante and Bryan were staying at the same hotel as the team, Wes tried to get in touch with them to see if they could line up some tickets for seven of us. Wes exchanged calls with Bryan a few times and in the end told him to call us no later than 5:00 PM whether he could get tickets or not. The match was at 6:30 PM so we wanted to have time to get to the stadium and buy from scalpers as a last resort.

We spent most of the day wandering around, checking email in an internet cafe we had found, and eating and drinking. In the afternoon, we went to the hotel to nap, shower, and await a call from Bryan. 5:00 came around and there was no call. At 5:15-5:30, we headed out without any sort of a plan. Shortly thereafter, we found ourselves in the only restaurant that was open in the area, a Chinese place. As we sat and drank beers, the minutes ticked away. I don't think anyone felt compelled to get to the stadium. The game held little meaning for us other than to possibly prove we could win one.

I'm glad we didn't leave the Chinese place. As the match time neared, people started paying attention to the small TVs in the place. The man who had been serving us looked like Vincent van Gogh. I think he was the owner. He made sure we were well taken care of.

By the time the USA match started, we had made some friends. As with back home, they were mostly incoherent drunks. One guy walked with a cane and looked a bit like Telly Savalas. He knew English and wouldn't leave us alone. I think he was hoping to cash in some how, like we were going to pay him for his drunken advice.

Another guy, with more native features and a weathered face, seemed to dislike my presence there. I guess I would call him Drunk-ass Charles Bronson. At first, when I was looking at the menu on the wall, he started shouting suggestions of what to order at me. He was so drunk I couldn't recognize any of his slurred Spanish. Telly Savalas told me that the rice and shrimp was the best, so I ordered that and a side of fries. DACB approved. When the food came, though, he had all sorts of advice for how to eat it. Wes and Andre would tell me from time to time some of the comments he was making. I guess he thought I put too much salt on the fries. As I was almost done, he stood up and started babbling something at me, almost as though he were annoyed. After having the guy watch my every move for the past hour or two, I finally got sick of it and told him in a stern voice, "siete se" (sit down). Thanks to my friend Steve for teaching me that phrase! The guy sat down and shut up for the rest of our time there.

After a pathetic, unmentionable 1-0 loss to Colombia, we watched the Paraguay-Argentina match that followed and had a few more beers before heading back to the hotel for the night.

As we walked through the city streets, a group of young people stopped talking and watched us from beneath the dim light of a Bancoro bank sign. It didn't help that I had snapped a picture just as we were rounding a corner and coming into their view. If anyone was going to mess with us, I expected it would have been them. But they let us pass with only a few mutterings of "American" or something and then headed in another direction. Maybe it would have been different if there were not four of us, who knows?