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From ASIJ, I went on to the Foreign Service School at Georgetown, and there had many beers and a great time until my senior year, when a dog sniffed at my leg. I playfully threatened to kick it. I never would have actually kicked the dog or any animal, as I tried to explain the next day to the man at the other end of the leash. Unfortunately, the man was a Jesuit, and, if that was not a great enough handicap, he was also President of the University. And he really liked this stupid dog. Off I went, under suspension, never to return. I did another three years of academic penance at the Universidad Central de Venezuela, my foster homeland, and, very possibly due to a bureaucratic oversight, I was sent to London as Third Secretary in 1970. Carlos "The Jackal" terrorist broke into the Consulate (looking for blank passports) when I was acting Consul General. According to Scotland Yard, all that was stolen was my grandfather's gold pocket watch. So much for ideological purity.
Exhausted from gallivanting around in London, I married a Brazilian girl of Lithuanian descent there in 1972. We came to Rio shortly afterwards, and had two sons, Gabriel, a 25-year-old who is far better looking than his decrepit Dad could have ever hoped to have been, and
Diego, a 27-year-old White Russian whiz at 3-D animation, and who also puts me to shame in the looks and brains department. My wife, Eliana, as you may have gathered, is responsible for the boys' looks and brains. She also is an accomplished artist.
After two stints at Citibank, I went into real estate, and lost my shirt and drawers, and socks, and the dog in 1991. I sold my polo ponies, which were no good anyway, because after nine seasons, the only thing I accomplished was falling off the damn nags. God, I pleaded, give me money. I went back to being a corporate real estate consultant, and God gave me the Jesuits. The circle recommences, and has thus continued to this day. God bless the Jesuits, and their peeing dogs, and their nice fees.
Not having had enough aggravation from the academic community in my longer-than-expected life, I decided to go back to school, six weeks a year, starting 1994. I wanted to write, so I went to the Bread Loaf School of English at Middlebury College for five summers, the last two in their program at Oxford University. I have a forged MA in literature, which pays no bills. I get up very early to write for a few hours before dragging into the office, and I wrote a non-fiction piece for the New England Review last year. If you're curious about life in Rio, you might want to check out
www.middlebury.edu/~nereview/velasco.html. I'm rewriting my novel for the 189th time, and have written a batch of short stories, one of which is awaiting Zoetrope approval.
[Editor's note: John's email message was so interesting, that I decided to add a few more of his thoughts. My apologies, John. Hope you don't mind.]
After receiving your e-mail, I spent an hour at the class website, repeatedly going over the photographs, the bios, sifting through the facts and images as though I had just inherited a treasure-laden attic from
grandma. On the other hand, the obituaries hit very hard.
I concluded from the pictures I saw that the female portion of our class has far outperformed the men in terms of preservation, without exception. Dave Wilson and David Sassoon look more or less the same (both were born old), Mike's shiny scalp contrasted with a surprisingly young face, Roger Lehman has definitely been under the knife, and his hair implants are barely noticeable. The girls/women are fantastic, and merit no comment whatsoever.
And that's it. I really would like to hear back from you, from Pam, from everyone in the class. Although I've always had to have a few drinks before flying, even on my shuttle flights to São Paulo, count on me for the next class reunion. There is a lot to be said for friendships made way back when life was simple and pleasant and honest, and I would love to see you all.
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