My mother never imagined that she’d be a part—time diplomat, mother of two bilingual kids, boss to a live-in maid, figuring out how to get through a revolution.
“They’re looking for PJ’s head honchos,” my father said. “Russ just had a mob in front of their house thinking his diplomatic plates were Venezuelan issue for the regime.”
The Venezuelan dictator flew over our house on his way into exile.
Mom lay listening to the looters shuffle by, wondering how she had ended up in a South American revolution 3,000 miles from home. None of it made any sense.