Everyone I talked to, every news report and travel journal I had read about Venezuela had told me, "don't go." The US State Department had issued a travel advisory warning Americans not to travel to that country, a fact that my friend Bruce reminded me of the night before I was to leave. So it was that I arrived in the airport outside of Caracas, Venezuela, perhaps one of the most crime-infested cities in the world. My flight had been delayed three and a half hours, so I set foot in the airport concourse around 11:30 PM.

I had missed my connecting flight to my destination city, Maracaibo, and I had nowhere to stay. The thought of staying in the airport for the night scared me, but the alternative was to rely on the locals to help me find a place to stay. Before I could think, however, a barrage of policemen and taxi drivers were babbling to me in Spanish. I didn't have a chance to say, "no, gracias." A uniformed officer began directing me toward an area to the side, asking if I needed to change money or get a taxi.

My better judgement told me not to follow anyone, but I was disoriented and tired from travel. I followed the officer and allowed him to appoint a taxi driver to take me to a hotel. Already I had broken the first rule of traveling to a country like this. I put my fate in the hands of people I could not necessarily trust.

I suggested to the taxi driver that he take me to the Hampton Inn, a hotel listed in the Lonely Planet book. He could not find it, however, so I asked him to recommend a place. As we drove through the streets outside of the airport, I began to wonder if I was safe. Somehow I was not afraid, even as the streets became more dim and the minutes ticked away. I didn't have any bolivares to spend. Would the driver take dollars? Was he taking me somewhere remote so he could steal all my stuff? Should I be scared?

The Caracas airport is 16 miles outside of the city. Since I would be leaving for Maracaibo in the morning, I did not want to go into the city. Instead, I had the driver take me to a hotel close to the airport, on the coast of the Caribbean Sea. He pulled up to the closed gate to Hostal Tanausu and someone on the other side of a window buzzed us in.

I asked if he could take dollars, and he said he could change money for me. The official exchange rate is fixed at 2,150 bolivares to the dollar by the government, in an attempt to control inflation. But on the black market the rate was between 3,000 and 4,000 bolis per dollar. Everyone from taxi drivers to policemen would trade, as I was finding out.

The taxi driver offered to pay for my hotel room and then change some dollars for me to pay for it all. He suggested 2,500 bolis per dollar, but I told him 3,500. He offered 3,000 and I accepted. I gave him $60 and I got 40,000 Bs. back, so the hotel and taxi were 120,000 Bs. combined.

I took the room key, a boy handed me a cold bottle of water, and I walked to the room on the second floor. The doors opened to the parking lot, much like an American motel. The room was clean and spacious. Finally I felt like I was safe. As I laid on the bed staring at the ceiling, I heard what sounded like waves crashing on a beach. There were no windows in the room, but in the bathroom there was a small window with an iron grate on it. I stood on the toilet to look out, and there were indeed waves, and a beach, and a dark sky with bright moonlight. Finally, a day of traveling was behind me and I could relax. I slept well that night.