Caracas, Venezuela – A Messy, Sleep‑Deprived Travel Diary

just landed on the asphalt of caracas and the humidity is already a punchline. i was half‑asleep, half‑stupid, half‑charged, and the city seemed to be auditioning for a low‑budget thriller. a quick glance at the tiny screen on my phone shows *3637721 painted on the side of the bus i just missed-some kind of serial number for the ride‑share that locals think is a secret code. the other locals keep muttering about 1862282663, a number that supposedly unlocks the cheapest taco stall at sunrise.
i dropped the map embed right here so you can see how tangled the streets are:

here are three slices of caracas that i tried to catch before the sun swallowed the last light:

i just peeked at the live feed and it's 24.03°C out there right now, feels‑like 24.71°C with a humidity of 85%, pressure 1014 hPa. you can tell the city’s trying to breathe a little heavy but it’s not the kind of heat that makes you sweat through your backpack. if you’re a morning person, the temp_min and temp_max both stuck at the same number-24.03-so it’s basically a perpetual summer slumber party.
if you get bored, the neighboring towns like Maracay and Valencia are a quick hop away, or you can drive an hour up the mountains to see the Agua de la Virgen waterfall, which locals swear cures every hangover but also makes your phone battery die faster.
someone told me that the Museo de Bellas Artes shuts its doors at 5 pm but the night guard whispered that the rooftop view stays open till 9 pm-so you can catch the city lights from a secret balcony. i heard from a drunk bartender that the Café El Pino has a hidden menu of “exotic” cocktails that taste like gasoline and regret. a local warned me: “don’t go to La Ceiba market after dark unless you love crowds of 20‑year‑old salsa dancers and an occasional stray dog that will chase you off the stalls.” those overheard rumors feel more like a script for a low‑budget indie film than a guide.
if you want to double‑check, TripAdvisor review of Museo de Bellas Artes is worth the scroll, or you can jump to Yelp’s top coffee spots. for the truly nosy, the Reddit r/Caracas thread titled “locals spill their favorite hidden tacos” has more dirt than a New‑York subway after rush hour. also check out the Lonely Planet guide article here: Lonely Planet Caracas page.
pro tip: always keep your passport in a ziplock bag and hide it inside the lining of your back‑pack-pickpockets here seem to have a sixth sense for paperwork. don’t trust the tourist bus during rush hour; it gets stuck like a sloth in traffic, and the local microbus (colectivo) is a faster, cheaper, and way more chaotic way to learn how to swear in three languages at once.
the side streets are lined with murals that look like they were painted by a teenager who just finished a night of espresso and existential dread. i saw a giant Dancing Cat painted on the wall of a derelict cinema, a reminder that even the driest corner has its own rhythm. locals told me the painter comes back every Sunday with a fresh can of spray, and the piece changes colors depending on the sunrise. if you’re a sucker for unfiltered vibes, you can’t miss it.
i finally gave in and tried the Cachiri-a swig of fermented corn that tastes like a cheap version of a micro‑brew gone wrong. the first sip made my eyes water, the second gave me a sudden urge to dance. a vendor shouted “¡Buen provecho!” while a stray dog lapped up a leftover bite. i ended up buying a second glass and almost fell off a colectivo while chasing after the salsa rhythm* spilling from a nearby boombox.
the metro is the only thing that runs on time, but it’s also a place where you can hear entire conversations about politics, love, and the weather. i overheard a guy complaining about his boss, then a woman laughing about a love affair with a musician, and a kid bragging about his new sneakers. it’s chaotic, but you can’t help feeling like you’re part of the story.