Start with a cable car ride up to El Ávila. Caracas may be chaotic at street level, but from the top of this mountain, it suddenly looks like a calm, green cradle of civilisation. You can see the sprawling metropolis laid out like a tapestry stitched by someone with a love for drama and concrete. Bring a jumper – it gets weirdly chilly up there, as if the altitude politely refuses to acknowledge the tropics.
Wander around Plaza Bolívar, where pigeons outnumber tourists and everyone seems to be waiting for something or someone. Kids run in circles, vendors yell philosophical truths about life over the smell of popcorn, and the statue of Simón Bolívar stands stoic, though one suspects even he would be confused by the traffic. It’s the kind of square where time doesn’t stop, but it definitely lingers.
Pop into the Caracas Cathedral for a moment of candle-lit solemnity. The soft hum of whispers, flicker of flames and slight tilt of the building make it feel like a sacred space in constant negotiation with gravity. It leans ever so slightly to one side, much like the country’s political stability. Even if you’re not religious, there’s something oddly grounding about sitting quietly here.
Stroll through the Museo de Bellas Artes, a neoclassical flirtation with art from pre-Columbian ceramics to modern Venezuelan sculpture. The building itself is a drama queen – white columns, theatrical arches, the whole thing. The exhibits are quietly passionate, with ancient gods, revolutionary dreams and contemporary weirdness all packed into rooms that smell faintly of old books and rebellion.
Lose an hour or two (or three, honestly) in the Galería de Arte Nacional. Yes, it’s mostly Venezuelan art, but trust me, you’ll want to stare down every portrait until someone blinks. The modern section is full of pieces that seem to be whispering secrets in oil paint and neon. There’s something about Venezuelan artists: they don’t just create, they argue.
Visit the birthplace of Simón Bolívar. It’s not a grand mansion, but more of a surprisingly modest house for someone who basically told two continents to stand up straight and free themselves. The tour guides are either historians or frustrated actors – either way, expect passion, drama and a deep dive into every piece of 18th-century furniture.
Go shopping at Mercado de Chacao. It’s a loud, proud riot of fruit, cheese, spices and unsolicited life advice from vendors who could double as political commentators. You’ll leave with more than groceries – maybe a new philosophy, or at least a very strong opinion about how to properly peel a mango.
Sip a papelón con limón (think molasses lemonade) and try not to fall in love with it. It’s humid, it’s sweet, it punches like a vitamin-infused mule. Pair it with a cachito (sort of a Venezuelan croissant with ham), find a sunny bench and pretend you’re writing letters to your secret revolutionary lover.
Get modern at the Centro de Arte Los Galpones, where Caracas pretends to be Berlin for a moment. Industrial-chic galleries, design shops, leafy courtyards, and espresso that could convince you to write a novel. On Sundays, the air smells like books and freshly baked empanadas, which is basically the smell of joy.
Explore Parque del Este, now renamed after Sucre, but still full of small boats, oddly aggressive ducks, and families trying to outdo each other in picnic prep. Joggers, tai chi enthusiasts, and teenagers in coordinated dance rehearsals all coexist with a kind of synchronised chaos that somehow works.
Visit the Universidad Central de Venezuela campus, a UNESCO site with brutalist flair and enough mid-century modernism to make an architecture student weep with joy. And possibly heatstroke. The murals are bold, the angles are defiant, and the shade is patchy at best. But it’s worth it for the sheer audacity of the design.
Head to Petare, one of the oldest areas of the city. Yes, it’s densely populated and complicated, but also ridiculously alive with colonial architecture, local food and stories that start slow but finish with a bang. Take a guided tour if you’re not feeling brave, but definitely go. There’s more life in one street corner here than in an entire city block elsewhere.
Catch a show at Teatro Teresa Carreño. The outside is all postmodern concrete confidence, while the inside still thinks it’s performing for a royal court. From ballet to experimental theatre, the performances are ambitious, occasionally bewildering, and often interrupted by someone’s enthusiastic cousin filming on their phone.
Eat arepas. Everywhere. All the time. Whether stuffed with reina pepiada or just cheese and butter, this is non-negotiable. There’s a special kind of happiness that only exists between bites of arepa and sips of coffee while a stranger debates politics at the next table.
Snap a selfie with the Poliedro de Caracas in the background – the city’s answer to an alien spaceship, only with more salsa concerts. The surrounding area is a bit of a time warp, but the building is pure 70s sci-fi and unapologetically proud of it.
Follow the art trail in the Metro. Some of the best art collections are hidden underground between stops like Bellas Artes and Plaza Venezuela. Who said commuting can’t be cultural? Plus, the trains are a wild social theatre of vendors, preachers, performers, and that one person who insists on telling you their life story.
Have a drink at a rooftop bar in Altamira. You’ll either get city views or a thunderstorm. Sometimes both. Either way, the rum flows freely and someone’s always making an impromptu toast to something vaguely inspirational.
Wander Sabana Grande Boulevard for the people-watching, street performers, and that one old man who dances to salsa like he’s auditioning for a telenovela. You might also find that one shop that still sells cassette tapes or a shoe shiner with philosophical insights.
Take a day trip to the beaches of La Guaira. It’s technically outside Caracas, but no local will forgive you if you skip it. Cold beer, fried fish, and waves that slap you awake. Add in a hammock, a tinny reggaeton soundtrack and you’re practically a local.
And finally, do nothing. Sit on a bench. Watch the parrots squawk past. Listen to someone argue passionately about baseball. Eat a pastelito from a street vendor who claims his grandmother invented the recipe. Caracas is best appreciated when you stop trying to understand it and just let it unfold like a telenovela with no clear plot but lots of emotional commitment. It’s messy, brilliant, exhausting, and completely unforgettable.
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