Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 7

winding down

NOTE: This morning my mail does not work, either on my computer or on my phone. I won’t be able to reply to or send emails until I get home. Going mad. But Anna texted that the universe is forcing a complete rest. Maybe so.

Pix: My tent classroom as people arrived. Beautiful baskets I could not buy because the store was closed. Noting what a first class airport lounge looks like, since I may never see one again. The chaos at the Air Canada desk. Dinner last night, also with Lucia.

 

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Pictures Saturday Feb. 15

A bit of the Fiesta on Friday night. Wonderful shops here, always tempting. Annie and our waitress. A contemplative with her coffee. A fraction of the flowers, including the kind of decorative cabbages we buy in Cabbagetown. A typical street. Tourists beneath a mosaic Ruth B. Ginsberg. Wedding in the cathedral. A giant fruit bowl at a friend’s. Don and Marisol – he is wearing a cap that says Puerto Vallarta and Toronto Blue Jays. Now that’s a mix of cultures I can go for.

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Drama! The Joy of Travel, Part 4692.

So, my friends, you know my life is not without an occasional adventure. Let me describe today.

Yesterday an announcement was made at the closing event of the conference: some union, the nurses I think, were going on strike and would blockade all the big highways in Mexico on Monday, starting at 8 a.m. We were advised, if we wanted to get to the airport, to leave early, possibly at 4 a.m. My flight was scheduled for 1.25 p.m., and the shuttle I booked advised pickup at 6 a.m. for the four hour drive. Gruesome, but better to be safe.

So I was up at 5.30, rushing about cramming in a bit of breakfast and finishing packing. The car arrived at 6.10 with two women from the conference in the back seat, also going to the airport, although on different flights. One was Lucia, who had asked me about editing her memoir and with whom I’d had several great chats, so we already felt like friends. Our driver drove extremely fast, sometimes over 150 kph, while checking about the strikes on his phone. However, by then, I’d received notification my flight was going to be delayed by 3 hours. Departure 4.30. So of course, we got to the airport in record time, no strike interruptions. My kids were sending pictures of the latest huge dump of snow in TO. Apparently there were gale force winds and more snowstorms all over the Eastern seaboard.

The Air Canada desk wasn’t even open yet; the staff were in a corner chatting while a young Russian ranted about how terrible AC was and he would never take it again etc. Lucia’s flight wasn’t until midnight; she’d come so early because of the possible blockades, so she went off and texted me she’d booked a room at the airport Marriott just for the day. When the AC desk finally opened, they assured me the flight would leave at 4.30 and reissued a boarding pass. It was nearly 10 a.m. A long day ahead. As I was sorting out the flight, I thought I recognized the man standing behind me in line, and asked, “John? John Irving?” It was he. He’d been at the conference to deliver the first night’s keynote and was also delayed getting back to TO.

So began the next phase of the adventure.

John is having health issues and was not happy about what was going on, so I accompanied him through the very long and chaotic security line. He’d been told there was a lounge for Business Class passengers, and I went with him on the long trek to find it. We told the woman at the door that although I have an Economy ticket, I was needed as John’s assistant, and so I found myself in a quiet, luxurious lounge, chatting for hours with John. There was good food. There was free champagne although at 10.30 a.m. it did not look tempting.

Hours later, we were just thinking about going down to prepare for our flight out when Anna wrote to tell me there’d been a plane crash at Pearson.
“Oh no,” John said.

“Oh no,” I said.

We learned there were injuries but no deaths, miraculous because the plane flipped upside down. The photos were terrifying. And then we learned the airport had shut down. And then we learned our flight had been cancelled. We made our way down to the Air Canada desk, where you can imagine the scene, scores of people milling about, and a few poor workers who barely spoke English trying to sort things out. We stood in line for almost an hour, making friends with all the Canadians around us. We heard we might be there until Thursday! John was really suffering; he’d contracted bronchitis in San Miguel and had a lot of medication to deal with. So I took Lucia as inspiration and by some miracle managed to book two rooms at the Marriott for that night on my phone, on which I am not very adept.

We finally got to the AC desk. I should tell you that again I was in the Priority line instead of with the humble folk. We said again I was needed as John’s helper, and we finally got rebooked — for a flight at 1 a.m. Wednesday morning. And then we had to go downstairs and find a certain gate and go through the @#$@ security line again to pick up John’s checked suitcase – mine was a carryon – and come right back out again. And find the Marriott, which you get to through the parking garage. Luckily, as we were stumbling around lost, there was Lucia, who guided us to the hotel.

I was relieved to make sure John got safely to his room and to find mine. Lucia texted to say her flight had been bumped to 1 a.m., so I invited her up to my room to wait in peace and quiet — had to argue with the front desk to let her up because she was no longer staying here. Had to call the desk twice because the internet wasn’t working properly. At last we went down for dinner with John. Lucia came back here for a bit, and we declared that after going through this day, we are bonded for life. I had a hot hot shower and am now in bed at 11 p.m., woozy with fatigue. All through, was texting my kids who were worried and sending pictures of unbelievable amounts of snow, texting my tenant, then writing to my students that unfortunately I would not be teaching them tomorrow night, I’d make it up to them. Wrote to my boss at U of T to explain.

Could be so much worse. Could have been on a plane that flipped upside down; I cannot imagine such fear. Could have been on one of the flights that was midway across the Atlantic and had to turn back. Could be figuring out where to sleep. Could have been travelling with small children. This is a very comfortable bed. I hope to get outside tomorrow at some point, to feel the sun on my face and to breathe real air. But I’m beyond grateful to be here, writing to you, from Room 334.

Yes, I owe you pictures. At some point.

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my workshop – and winding down

Sunday Feb. 16

My workshop – which was essentially a one-woman show lasting 1 1/2 hours – is over. I think it went well, was heartened by the questions and the faces. Instead of hanging around the conference afterward – it was really chilly at 8 when I set out, and hot by 11 when I’d finished – I walked back to Linda’s to dump extra clothing and relax. Had a swim. How often will I be able to plunge into a pool after teaching a workshop?

Going back a bit to chronicle Friday the 14, there was a big Fiesta that night. It was in a rather obscure part of San Miguel; most people had to get a shuttle from the hotel or a taxi. But it wasn’t far from Linda’s, so I figured out a route and walked. A win! It was in a grand outdoor area with lots of tables and stations; a free mescalita to start, a long lineup for food, then Indigenous dancing and a show with sensuous tango dancers. I left when the second tango began, having eaten and drunk and told John Vaillant how very much I appreciated his passionate talk. Walking home at 10 p.m. along the vibrant streets – priceless.

Saturday was my day off; although the conference continued, Annie and I decided to spend the day together. She came here, and we went to the nearby enormous flower show and sale, which made me green with envy for the glory of what you can grow in Mexico, and we can’t. Packed with colour and scent. Camellias! We came back for a swim and went for lunch at Quinta Loretta, one of Annie’s favourite restaurants, where there was so much food, we had with deep regret to leave some of our delicious chicken molé. Then we explored until 4 when we met my Cabbagetown neighbour and long-time friend John Murtaugh outside the cathedral, where a wedding was about to take place. One thing I love about Mexico – another thing, as there are so many – church bells.

John, who has spent a great deal of time in Mexico, has an old friend, Don Patterson, an American anthropologist who’s lived most of his life in Mexico and has a beautiful, serene Mexican wife, Marisela. They’ve built a wonderful house on a steep street; we drank rosé on their roof deck with a view of the entire town while talking about many things. What a treat. John took us for dinner; we were still full from lunch but managed a margarita, of course, and guacamole, of course, and a few tacos. The streets were packed with crowds of people strolling, dining, celebrating.

Linda, who took my conference pass for the evening, told me I missed an extraordinary keynote from Kaveh Akbar. I’m sorry about that, but sometimes you have to choose. I went to bed early, worried, in my neurotic way, about my voice for the class, but it was fine. It’s my joy to share my enthusiasm for memoir and writing generally.

Soon I’m going back for the Giller spotlight, a final panel with all the keynote speakers, and, at 6.30, Wayne Grady talking to Margaret Atwood. Then a closing reception, where I won’t last long because I have to get up very early.

My kids have sent me many pictures of all the snow. Ye gods, Toronto has been hit hard. I am returning to a snow-scape. And although I will miss beyond belief the colour, scents, birds, people, flowers, and sun, I will as always be very happy to be home.

Pix to follow.

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Break time

Friday Feb. 14 at 7.30 p.m.

I’m slowing down, my friends – getting tired, wonderful as it all is. I spent the morning working on the talk for my course, then walked to the keynote at 2.15 in broiling heat, clinging to the sides of buildings where there was a bit of shade. At the hotel, I checked the bookstore – True to Life is sold out but Midlife Solo lingers. Several people have come up to tell me how much they enjoyed my reading, so I hoped that would translate into book sales, but no. C’est la vie. I checked out Tent C where my workshop will be held at dawn on Sunday. (9 a.m. — that’s dawn, no?) Met my new memoir teacher friend Jennifer, who gave me her book. Then after the keynote, I walked home for a nap. I’m still there, but will go out soon, at 8 p.m., to walk to the big fiesta which isn’t that far away.

The keynote was Mexican-American writer Jennifer Clement. My hostess Linda was there, had heard her speak before and was disappointed today, but I liked her a lot and will look for her memoir, The Promise Party, when I’m home. She has had a fascinating life, much involvement in social justice, in New York in the seventies was a good friend of Keith Haring and Basquiat, who, she points out, was half Puerto-Rican and spoke Spanish. She quoted Nabokov: Writing memoir is a matter of love. The more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is. She talked about writing a memoir in fragments; I like that idea.

But I’m thrilled tomorrow is a day off.

Here are a few random shots: a view of the Parroquia, the huge parish church, from the street I walk along to get home – notice us all on the shady side. Working by the pool at Linda’s condo. A shot of the Canadian writers’ lunch. And where Linda took me for breakfast, a lovely little spot with wonderful bread, for her birthday celebration. And – what I face the day I return. No other pix today. Burned out. Stay tuned.

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John Vaillant knocks it out of the park, and it hurts

Friday Feb. 14

It’s Valentine’s Day and my hostess Linda’s 83rd birthday, so we’re going out for breakfast at her friend Emilio’s restaurant – sourdough bread and cappuccino. Not very Mexican, but why not?

Yesterday, another very full day, although I had the morning off so was more relaxed. We started with the lunch for Canadian writers; I sat with Marsha Barber, a poet who teaches at TMU, and Howard Shrier, a fiction writer who teaches like me at U of T. Our Canuck superstar John Vaillant was there, as well as Elana Rabinovitch with a Giller Prize nominee, and Merilyn Simonds and Wayne Grady. Much tech talk. I met Shilpi Gowda, a writer of Indian origin who worked in finance, wrote a novel just to see if she could, and had tremendous success with it and her subsequent novels. Tried not to be jealous.

After John Vaillant’s keynote at 2.15, about which more anon, was the Canada Reads event, with six of the Canadian instructors here. Our stories had to be seven minutes or less; I read an excerpt from Midlife, “Mother and Son #1,” about Sam at age eleven. The event was outside under the trees, a full audience of rapt listeners, good stories and poems.

Annie and Jim were there, so we went out for a drink and a bite at a nearby Peruvian restaurant where we had guacamole and margaritas, of course, and then, yes, half-price Thursday sushi. And then I came back for the Ruth Reichl keynote. More about her at the end.

One of the most thrilling and disturbing talks I’ve ever heard came from John Vaillant, who has written a number of superb books, including Fire Weather, a multi-prizewinning book that took him seven years to research and write, about the devastating wildfire in Fort McMurray, Alberta. He’s a natural, vivid and passionate, as he outlines just how dire the climate crisis is on our planet. He spoke about fire as if it’s human — eager, greedy, heedless. We are a fire culture, he said; our society is built on fire, on our ability to turn fossil fuels into energy that fuels our forward momentum. But, he said, we are like the Three Little Pigs: we have built our house with 20th century straw, but climate change is the 21stcentury wolf that threatens to blow it all down.

He examined in terrifying detail how the Fort McMurray fire began and how it grew; how one woman whom he interviewed stopped in the midst of the conflagration to drop off her dry-cleaning. We are all her, he said; we cannot comprehend the scope of the problem. We suffer from “discontinuity,” he said, which means “an event wherein past experience ceases to a useful guide to future problem-solving.” He gave as an example of how fast things are changing that the Canadian Red Cross used to focus almost all its efforts on overseas disasters; now, 80% of its work is inside Canada.

“In nature,” he quoted, “there are neither rewards nor punishments, only consequences.” He told us the earth wants to thrive, showing an amazing picture of a burned out garden in Fort McMurray where only a few months after the fire, tulips pushed up through the ash. But we are in denial. “We believe nature is a bottomless trust fund and we are in charge. But the natural world is in charge.”

Degrowth is key. Less is more. Our society is organized around capital. We’re selective in what we believe from scientists; we honour science only when it serves capital. People have known for many decades how fossil fuels are affecting the planet. The petroleum industry has known in detail for at least 70 years, but have chosen “predatory delay.” Choosing profit over people and the planet.

What to do? “Revirescence” – he said – regrow, revitalize, regroup. We need to decouple from fossil fuels. We need to vote strategically. We need to call out greenwashing.

How to give hope to young people? “Remember, our ancestors saw drought, flood, fires, war. They lived through it. We are the descendants of the survivors. We cannot bail!”

By the end, we were all chastened. Thank you, John, for this most important message.

Ruth Reichl was something completely different; she has a great sense of humour. Her talk was centred on her The Paris Novel, and about what Paris has meant through her life: food Paris, she said, fashion Paris, art Paris. She spoke about watching George Whitman of Shakespeare and Company, who founded a bookstore where “tumbleweeds” could sleep if they helped out. “Be a citizen, not a tourist,” she advised. Eat in the cheap places, walk in unexpected corners. “Paris is a city of possibilities,” she said. And “When you watch someone eat, you discover who they are.” Hmmm.

So that was boring, event-less Thursday. A cab home, and now I know where it is on the street and how to find Linda’s condo at night. Which was lucky, because just after I got in, the power went out – apparently, all over the city – and was out for a good fifteen minutes, pitch black everywhere. Thank heavens for cell phones. Again, I was buzzing for a long time in bed.

Pictures to follow later. Today – two more keynotes, one in Spanish with English translation, and at 8 p.m., a fiesta. Arriba y adelante!

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Pictures, Wednesday and Thursday

Below: a workshop under the trees; most of the workshops are outside, some in tents, as mine will be on Sunday. Kristin, a friend who lives in San Miguel and Montreal and volunteers at the conference, gave me a terrific pair of pants I’m wearing at this moment. The bougainvillea and murals opposite the hotel. The interior courtyard of the huge, luxurious hacienda where we had the faculty lunch; the rich are not like you and me. Not a sight you see outside every hotel – a handsome cowboy on a beautiful horse, with a riderless horse for some lucky person. Superb Canadian writer John Vaillant giving his keynote this afternoon, gesturing to another extremely depressing statistic. I will write about his talk, which, despite its apocalyptic tone, was one of the best I’ve ever heard. He was talking about climate change, fossil fuels, and capitalism, and it was devastating.

And finally, the writers who read at the Canada Reads session this afternoon, again, under the trees on this beautiful sunny day. And meanwhile, huge snowstorm in Toronto. A climate catastrophe is coming but meanwhile, there are many blessings here.

 

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making friends, talking shop

Wednesday Feb. 12, 25

Damn right, I’m tired! I was up at 7, walked half an hour to the hotel for 8.45, got back to Linda’s at 8.45 p.m. after twelve hours of socializing, listening, writer talk, and schmoozing. Wonderful, I’m buzzing still, but exhausted.

Two things bothered me; I’ll get them off my chest before I go on about the great stuff. At the plenary, an American who publishes a newspaper in English about Mexican and world affairs gave a talk. He told us about Claudia Sheinbaum, whom he admires greatly. And he told us one of her problems is that she is being bullied by Trump and betrayed by Canada. He said Canada had suggested shutting Mexico out of the free trade deal, that it should just be Canada and the U.S. He had a picture of Trudeau up as he reported that. I was furious and went up to complain to him after, that perhaps one of our right-wing premiers had said such a thing, but it was not government policy, that Canada and Mexico are very much partners in the same boat. He seemed to think the premier of Ontario and the prime minister of Canada are more or less the same person. I also tackled him about Sheinbaum, because although westerners adore her, many Mexicans feel she’s a puppet of Obrador the last guy, that both are rightwing populists disguised as leftists. He disagreed with that.

Then I went to the bookstore to check on my books – politely asked them to move Midlife Solo, which was in an obscure corner, to the memoir section where it belongs, so they managed to squeeze it onto the bottom row. True to Life was also in a hidden corner. C’est la vie.

A few of the many highlights: a lunch organized for faculty at a stunning hacienda; I thought it was a hotel but it’s a vast private house with eleven bedrooms owned by an American family. It’s filled with Mexican antiques, flowers, luxuries, and is rented or loaned out as needed. We had a margarita as we stood and admired and then a sit down lunch. I was seated with other Canadians and made friends with a writer from California who also teaches memoir writing. At the bookstore I’d noticed another writing how-to book flying off the shelves; it turned out to be by my new friend, Jennifer Selig.

We were bussed back to the hotel and straight to the agent panel, where three agents, including Sam Hiyate from Toronto, talked about the current state of the business; very interesting and, yes, depressing. During the break, Jennifer and I found a shady corner outside and compared notes and valuable insights about teaching memoir. Then a reception outside near the pool for faculty and donors, with free drinks, food, and the ubiquitous mariachi band over which writers shouted to be heard. Then the keynote: John Irving. The ballroom was packed with fans; he read two long excerpts from his new novel Queen Esther, which explores anti-Semitism many decades ago. During the questions, he was asked why he has always written with such sympathy about LGBTQ issues. He replied that his younger twin siblings, a boy and a girl, grew up gay and lesbian in a small town, and he was often the one defending them.

But by then I’d been sitting for almost the entire day and was bushed. Before the hundreds poured out of the ballroom, I fled to a cab. Of course, after driving through the twisted crowded streets in the dark, we couldn’t find Linda’s place, and when I finally recognized the huge iron gates, I could not find her condo. It’s a gated community where all the buildings look the same. I wandered and finally had to get the gatekeeper to lead me there.

Tomorrow, thank god, I have the morning off. There’s a Canada lunch organized by Merilyn, then fabulous Canadian writer John Vaillant, and then Canada Reads, at which yours truly and five other Canadian faculty will read, then the next keynote, food memoir writer Ruth Reichl. It’s all happening, baby!

Pictures tomorrow. I’m going to sleep now.

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visit to Dolores Hidalgo

Tuesday Feb. 11

Esteban our driver arrived as requested at 9.30 a.m., to take us out of the city to the small town of Dolores Hidalgo and then to the Galeria of Atotonilco, a folk art museum recommended by Alberto in Mexico City. The ride was an endurance test; San Miguel’s streets are cobbled and so the ride is always slow and very bumpy, plus there are high concrete speed bumps everywhere even though you can’t go more than 10 mph on the cobbles. (I asked Esteban about that and he talked about the number of young men killed on motorcycles, so maybe it’s to slow them down?) But the highway outside the city is being ripped up, so the entire way was dirt road with construction equipment and men with scarves over their noses and mouths working on something or other.

However, it’s such a luxury to be in a nice car driven by a nice man who will wait while you wander and be there when you want to set off again. I could get used to that.

Mexico is a lesson in the power and glory of the Catholic church. It’s so strange to come into a dusty little town like Dolores Hidalgo, with mostly humble one-story houses lining dusty streets, and then walk into a cathedral so enormous and glittering, so packed with gold, statues, chandeliers, sculptures, paintings et al, it could be in a tourist city in Italy or France. A disconnect. There was one later in Anontonilco too, an even smaller town, a slightly smaller church but still filled with impressive stuff. Jim pointed out both churches have wooden floors, which are rare in Mexico; they are intended to make barefoot peasants aware that here was something special.

We visited the museum in DH; it’s the town where the revolution against the Spaniards began in 1810, when local priest Hidalgo gave a cry that incited the fight. There are many statues everywhere to him and other freedom fighters. Mexicans love statues.

The Galeria we thought was a museum but it’s a store-museum; that is, full of wonderful things to look at by local artists, all for sale. An American couple started a collection of folk art, built a spectacular house and the Galeria that has helped the careers of many Mexican artists. The wife of the couple is Susan Page, who founded the Writers’ Conference and is now running it again after a hiatus.

We bumped back to Jim’s, where I said goodbye to my dear friends and loaded my stuff into Esteban’s car; he drove me to the hotel where I picked up my conference material and took my books to the bookstore. In line in front of me there was the Canadian writer couple Wayne Grady and Merilyn Simonds, San Miguel and Conference mainstays. The lobby was buzzing with writing keeners. I remembered my time attending in 2020, how exciting it was.

On the way to my billet, we stopped at a vast grocery store – bigger and more impressive than any I’ve seen in Canada – for me to use the bank machine and buy a bottle of Mexican wine. I suspected my hostess might not have alcohol, and I was right. We got lost getting here but found it, a gated community in the north of the city, a half hour walk to the hotel. Linda is an older American woman who has lived in Mexico for over 25 years. She showed me my big bright room where at last I can really unpack and get organized. And then – O heaven – I had a quick swim in the pool right outside her door. We had dinner together and talked about our children and grandchildren and of course touched on American politics, as everyone does. We are 100% on the same page.

Tomorrow it all begins with a plenary session at 9 a.m., a book discussion at 10.45, a faculty lunch at 12.30, an agent panel at 2.15, a reception at 5, and a keynote speaker – John Irving – at 6.30. I might be tired by then.

Pix: Dolores Hidalgo is famous for its ceramics. If only I could bring some of these pots home! The plain little church there, with its plain little altar. Jim contemplating another tableau; the Mexicans, like the Spaniards, like their religious iconography graphic and bloody. Two shots of the folk art museum. Susan Page’s extraordinary ultra-modern house next door. A view of the city tucked into the mountains.

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First San Miguel pictures

I’m at my billet – more anon. These are the pix from yesterday: Intermission at the opera, under the full moon. Charles the opera singer and Jim our host. In the morning, in Jim’s garden, a rare selfie. The doors here are spectacular! Cappuccino in a courtyard. At the market – hand-painted ceramics. Señora selling us our veggies, weighing them with an old weight machine.

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