There is something about the name Venezuela.
It has a ring to it. It trips enticingly off the tongue. It sounds exotic, tropical, ever so slightly unreal. An author would be pleased to have thought of it. A billionaire would nod approvingly as it was painted on the bow of his yacht. Indulgent parents would regret their daughter shortening it to Venny.
It’s a restaurant you wouldn’t mind being seen coming out of, or a nightclub you wouldn’t mind being seen going into. It could be the name of a saint or a female pirate. A cocktail or a luxury hammock.
Such thoughts crossed my mind when I decided to make it my hundredth country to visit. I’m glad to have been to Egypt and Moldova, to Iraq and Mali, but none has the same alluring cadence as Ven-Ez-Ue-La.
