Guilie Castillo-Oriard's Blog, page 8

"... in the grace of the world..." (and the close of the #MiracleTour)

Of course Wendell had to be a dog lover. Of course.
In the spirit of this month's gratitude zeitgeist, here is a tiny beauty from poet Wendell Berry:

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

"... in the grace of the world..." That line gives me goosebumps. There is so much gorgeousness around us, so much to be grateful for, and so much of it we miss because we're too busy with larger concerns, with the big picture, worried about things that will never happen, things we can't control—and, yet, things that would never be a concern if we all devoted our time to "the peace of wild things".

This year has taught me a lot, far beyond what I expected, what I even imagined. Today is the close of the MIRACLE tour, and awesome friend and blogger Damyanti Biswas is hosting me on her blog to talk about these unexpected lessons—of which perhaps the greatest is precisely this: Gratitude. To you.

Thank you. You've made an enormous difference in my life. From now on, every day, no matter where I am or what I'm doing, you'll be in my thoughts. Because you cared, because you had a kind word for me, because you went above and beyond (even though you may not realize you did... even though you didn't really know me).

I will never forget that.

The Weekend #MiracleTour Stop: That Annoying Animal Advocate

I'm over at Michele Truhlik's awesome blog this weekend, on the next-to-last post for the MIRACLE tour, talking about the pitfalls of animal advocacy in fiction... And the work-around I found — at least I think I found. Readers will tell :) I'd love it if you came by to say hi, and to help me shower Michele with love and gratitude for being such a wonderful hostess.


Happy Saturday!

Gratitude is my religion

Join the Gratitude Circle!
I don't believe in much of anything, having grown up an atheist. Religion — of any kind — doesn't make sense to me. Neither does life after death, or the promise of rewards (or punishment) in some place beyond this world. I don't believe in a higher power, a mover and shaker that makes things happen or not happen. I don't believe in prophets or prophecies, or in angels, or in absolute good or absolute evil.

But I do believe in gratitude. I believe it's the single most powerful force we can harness to change the world. It's more powerful than hate, or fear, or even love. Gratitude is what makes a life worth living.

Which is why I love Thanksgiving.

No, we don't celebrate it in Mexico, or here in Curaçao, or pretty much anywhere else in the world other than the U.S. (and Canada, on a different date)—but we should. Actually, we should celebrate it much more often than once a year. Like every day.

We have so much to be grateful. All of us. There is beauty and wisdom and goodness and brilliance in every moment we're alive. Pain and helplessness and disappointment and fear and loss are also blessings; there can be no positive without a negative.

It's so easy to let the big stuff get in the way... It absorbs so much space, so much energy. But the choice is yours. I believe looking at the "big picture" may be a mistake. It's in the small things, the little pleasures and tiny details that surround me, that I've found the greatest joy.

Happy Thanksgiving. Today, and every day.

The Mexico Trip (Part 2)

(Continued from Part 1)

The Plan was as follows:

- Fly out of Mexico City at 8 am, get into Miami at 11 am.
- Seven-hour layover in Miami. (I had a really great book to look forward to.)
- Leave Miami at 6:30 pm, get into Curaçao at 10 pm.

Inconvenient, with that incredibly long layover, but no more so than I'm used to.

And it all went according to plan. Until the last part. And it ended with me not sleeping (or changing clothes, eww) for over 48 hours.
In order to fly out of Mexico City at 8 am, I had to be at the airport at 6 am (we're still reasonable over there, 2 hours for international flights is plenty).

But remember I'm not in Mexico City. I'm in Cuernavaca, 2 hours away. In order to be at the airport at 6:00 am, I have to leave Cuernavaca at 4:00 am.

But there is no 4:00 am bus; the closest one is at 3:40 am. I schedule a taxi at 3:15 am to drive me to the station.

But, of course, I have to pack, and by the time I'm done with that it's nearly midnight. If I sleep, I will never ever wake up in time. So I don't sleep. I figure I'll catch some shut-eye on the plane. Sleep half of my 7-hour layover in Miami. Whatever.

Except... I don't sleep. I'm too hooked with the book I'm reading. I have MIRACLE tour posts to write. Several story ideas wreaking havoc in my head. And, once in Miami, I'm hungry. The airport is busy. It's the middle of the day. No quiet place to even doze.

By the time I board the plane to Curaçao in Miami, I'm having serious trouble keeping my eyes open. Nothing's going to keep me awake once I'm in that seat—how fortunate that the plane is only about half full, and I get three seats to myself. I bundle up, roll up one of the extra shawls to do double duty as a pillow, and that's it. Lights out.

The pilot's voice over the loudspeaker wakes me from a deep, deep sleep. It's dark outside, and I'm certain it must be close to landing time. Until I start paying attention to what he's actually saying.

We're turning around, going back to Miami.

Fifteen minutes after reaching cruising height (wait, I was asleep only fifteen minutes?), a light turned on in the cockpit—a light that's not supposed to turn on. Something about a stabilizer. No clue what a stabilizer is, but it seems to me that it's a good idea for a plane to have one—and an even better idea, if the thing's not working properly, to go back down to the ground.

I think we all (pilot included) harbored hopes it would be nothing but a malfunction of the light rather than the actual stabilizer. Some kind of short-circuit, faulty wire... Something that could be fixed in a minute.

It wasn't.

We landed back in Miami at around 7:20. For an hour and a half, we—crew and passengers—held on to hope. At one point, they actually started boarding again (a different aircraft). But then, at around 9:30 pm, we got the news we'd be sticking around until next morning. Hotels were booked solid, so only a few very lucky souls got a room. I was not one of them. Sure, I could've screamed and shouted and made a scene; a few people did, and it got them absolutely nowhere. I called five hotels on my own, and they all said the same thing: nothing's available. A scene wasn't going to magically produce hotel rooms somewhere.
My sleeping nook at the Miami airport.
(Of course, after the unplanned extension
of the trip, I had to buy another book... )
Besides, I had no energy left.

We got some dinner and breakfast vouchers, which we promptly proceeded to spend on the last joint open in Terminal D—which, most auspiciously, was a bar. A couple of beers and a burger later, I found a place to have a nighty-night smoke, and camped out on a welcoming spot of carpet. It's not exactly quiet inside an airport terminal, even in the middle of the night, but I didn't want a too-sheltered spot, either (I'm from Mexico; safety issues are in my DNA).

I managed to sleep for almost 4 hours.

Around 4:30 am, the racket of a restaurant's iron curtain rolling up woke me.

Restaurant. Breakfast.

I went all-out: French toast, scrambled eggs, fruit and milk and orange juice and sausages. At 6:00 am I was at the gate. 6:30 am we boarded. 7:00 am we took off. 11:00 am we landed in Curaçao (CUR is one hour ahead of EST).

Yes, I did sleep the whole way. But I woke up for the final approach. I'm always glad to see Curaçao's rocky coasts and lapis lazuli ocean... But this time I really felt like crying tears of gratitude.

Ah... Dushi Kòrsou (Sweet Curaçao) at last!

#BoTB Results: The Battle of the Genres (Ranchera vs Norteño)

It really did look like a slam-dunk there for a bit... Pepe Aguilar was keeping the Norteño guys down and wouldn't let them up for even a wild swing. And then there was hope... The band got in a couple of good punches, Pepe faltered—but, in the end, it just wasn't enough.

The winner: Pepe Aguilar
Pepe Aguilar (9)HilaryLeeJanieMicheleCherdoMikeStephenJeffreyCathy

Poder del Norte (6)DixieDonnaMadilynJohnRobinFAE
My vote? Dang... I forgot about that. Not that it would make a shred of difference either way... This is a hard one. The Aguilar version is charged with emotional context for me. Norteño music, in general, is not (again, for me). But if I stick to this which cantina would you rule I seem to have imposed on this battle, then the answer is the Poder del Norte dudes. So. Final tally is Aguilar with 9 votes, and the band guys with 7.

Not bad for what looked like a shut-out, eh?

They say it's impossible to please everyone all of the time, but—being the contrary soul I am—I'm still going to try. Here's Pepe Aguilar, plus daughter and son, singing a Norteño potpourri. On MTV Unplugged, no less.



Happy weekend, y'all!

(I'll be back tomorrow with Part II of the Mexico trip... Just haven't had time to finish that one. And on Monday, if you're in the neighborhood, I'll be up at Yolanda Renee's blog talking about indie presses, and I'd love it if you came by to say hi. No, seriously, I would.)

#BooktagsBlogHop: The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher by Hilary Mantel

About the Author
About the Book

I just finished reading this one yesterday. At 4:00 am. Yes, it was that good. I've been hooked onto short stories since I happened, completely by accident, upon a collection of Roald Dahl's adult (and oh-so-twisted) short stories. I was thirteen. And I'd never be the same again.

Short stories—good short stories—are fabulous, and succulent. But they can feel like trying to survive on bite-sized French canapés. Novels, on the other hand, feel like a full-sized meal. A Thanksgiving feast. I know many people who prefer to read novels over short fiction because of this.

(Heck, I've been guilty of it, too.)

The trick, I've found, is to take short stories as a special treat. You wouldn't gorge on caviar, right? Or on those lighter-than-air Parisian croissants. (Okay, I might gorge on those—bad example.) Or include paté in every dish of a five-course meal. For one, you'd probably gain a hundred kilos. For another, after the first two courses your palate would be overloaded. Exceptional flavors need to be sampled delicately. And short fiction, when it's good, is exceptional indeed. Short stories need to be savored. Taken in small doses, to be fully appreciated.

And why do we want to appreciate them? Because the mastery of short fiction is key to the mastery of any longer format. Hilary makes an excellent example: her Man Booker prize-winning novels, Wolf Hall  and Bring Up the Bodies , are extraordinary. And, in her short fiction, that talent just blasts off the page.

If you're into excellent prose (and Dahl-ish twists), give this Mantel collection of shorts a try. (And I'd love to hear your thoughts if you do!)


Excerpt from How Shall I Know You?

I took out my purse, and when I opened it I saw with surprise that the Queen's heads were tidily stacked, pointing upward. And was there one more head than I'd expected? I frowned. My fingers flicked the edges of the notes. I'd left home with eighty pounds. It seemed I was coming back with a round hundred. I was puzzled (as the steward handed me my Large Tea); but only for a moment. I remembered the young man with his broad white smile and his ashen hair streaked with gold; the basted perfection of his firm flesh, and the grace of his hand clasping mine. I slotted the notes back inside, slid my purse away, and wondered: which of my defects did he notice first?

What do you think? Are you a lover of short fiction? Do you read it? Do you write it? What do you like and dislike most about it?

P.S. — I'm over at Julie Flanders' awesome blog today, talking about the 100-lb rescue dog who plays a main role in THE MIRACLE OF SMALL THINGS. I'd love it if you stopped by to say hi, and help me thank Julie for so generously welcoming me to her space.




Thanks for the visit! And a huge thank-you to Toinette Thomas, of The ToiBox of Words, for hosting this monthly hop. The #Booktags group is growing slowly but steadily; check out the other entries if you have a moment. Who knows, the best book you'll ever read might be waiting for you to discover it. And, if you're a reader (or a writer), maybe you'd like to join in next month? It's simple: share what you're reading or what you've read, what you're writing or have written. Sounds cool? Sign up at Toinette's site, and see you next month!

#BoTB: Por Mujeres Como Tú (aka The Mexican Chauvinist Anthem)

Welcome to another Battle of The Bands! Get your sombreros and your bottle of tequila, because it doesn't get any more Mexican than this.

Us Mexicans, we take the sombrero very seriously.
When I say serenade, what's the image that comes first into your head?

a) Moonlit night, starry-eyed Juliet on her balcony, starry-eyed Romeo below singing sweet songs of everlasting love with a soulful guitar?
b) A broken-hearted drunk with his staggering-drunk buddies shouting up abuse at an empty balcony?
A, right? Of course. That's the image perpetuated by Tom & Jerry and black & white movies of the 1940's. And, in truth, it can be like that.

But, more often than not, at least in Mexico, it's B. Though, admittedly, the abuse comes (thinly veiled) in the form of a song. A ranchera song, ideally. (Which is the correct name for what the rest of the world calls mariachi music.)

In Mexico's macho culture, men aren't supposed to show emotion (other than anger... anger isn't just acceptable; it's respected). Unless they're drunk. Which is why, when heartbreak strikes, the dude will go out and get bombed in order to have an excuse to bawl his eyes out. And to go wail his heartbroken-ness up to a silent window. Which explains the prevalent popularity of ranchera music.

"... We're set. Call her."
Ranchera literally means, as you might've guessed, from a ranch. It is unsophisticated music, both musically and lyrically, although several have pretty powerful poetic lines. But they use simple language and popular (as opposed to classically poetic/romantic) syntax. And they basically boil down to this:

You broke my heart, you were unfaithful (or somehow betrayed me and my righteous love... the point is, it's your fault), but... I WILL SURVIVE. (But I'll keep suffering. You just won't see it. Ever. I won't give you the satisfaction. Pass me another Kleenex. And the tequila.)

Today's song, Por Mujeres Como Tú (1998, written by Fato for singer Pepe Aguilar), is a prime example of this macho, entirely chauvinistic pathos (translation in italics):

Sing us a song about stoic forbearance in heartbreak, Pepe.
Photo credit: The Grammy Museum
Me estoy acobardando y lo ha notado,I'm becoming a coward and she has noticed,y eso no es muy bueno para mí,and that doesn't bode well for me,si quiero retenerla entre mis brazosif I want to keep her in my armsserá mejor que no me vea sufrir.it's best that she doesn't see me suffer.
Estoy estacionado en los fracasos,I'm parked in my failures,y hoy voy a remediar la situación.and today I'm going to resolve the situation.Será que siempre he dado demasiadoMaybe I've always given too muchy en el exceso siempre salgo dañado.and in the excess I always get hurt.
Por mujeres como tú, amorIt's because of women like you, lovehay hombres como yo,that men like me exist,que se pueden morir por dignidadwho will die for dignitymordiendo el corazón.biting their hearts.
Por mujeres como tú, amorIt's because of women like you, lovehay hombres como yo,that men like me exist,que se pueden perder en el alcoholwho can lose themselves in alcoholpor una decepción.over a broken heart.

So... In order to keep her, he will hide his suffering. He will "remedy the situation"... How? By "biting his heart"? And, somehow, through all this the sense remains that it's her fault. "Because of women like you"... But like what, exactly? What has she done? Nothing!

(Chauvinist pigs.)

You know what the worst part is, though? That women in Mexico (yes, myself included, before I soaked up some healthy European level-headedness) see these songs as tributes to their feminine wiles. So the whole thing is a vicious circle, feeding on itself.

(Chauvinist pigs, I say. Both men and women.)

**End of Rant**


Contender #1: Pepe Aguilar (the traditional ranchera)



If the video above doesn't work, maybe this one will. (Thanks, Lee! You're a hero for noticing, and finding a solution!)




Contender(s) #2: Poder Del Norte (the Norteño or banda version, typical of the northern states)




So. What do you think? Do either of these match your idea of heartbreak music? What sort of picture do these versions paint for you? Which one feels closest to the image of a guy sitting at a cantina methodically downing a bottle of tequila? Can you, with your fresh perspective, can make sense of what the woman in the song has done to drive this man to "bite his heart"? And, finally, your vote: you're at a small village in Mexico with only two bars, and you're dying for a cold beer. At one place they're playing the Pepe Aguilar version, at the other the Norteño one (both on repeat, no chance of escape). All else being equal (such as the price of beer and general company), which bar would you go into?

(As a side note, I used four lines of this song in THE MIRACLE OF SMALL THINGS—and, as publication date grew closer, the publisher asked me to provide copyright info. You wouldn't believe the hassle it was to get it, and to figure out whether we could use it or not. If you're interested in the ins and outs of the legal ramifications of quoting a freaking song in a book, or if you're just interested in reading about my consistently clueless decisions, here's a post on that.)

Had fun listening? Hop over and visit these other Battle of The Bands participants; excellent face-offs happening there. And a huge thanks to Stephen and FAE for keeping the Battles going!

STMcC Presents 'Battle of The Bands'Far Away SeriesDebbie D. ("Doglady")Holli's Hoots and HollersYour Daily DoseAlex CavanaughTossing It OutMike's RamblingsJingle Jangle JungleCurious as a CathyCherdo on the FlipsideThe Sound of One Hand TypingWomen: We Shall OvercomeJ. A. ScottBook LoverAngels Barkdcrelief ~ Battle of The BandsNovelBrews

Thanks for the visit, and happy Sunday!

Amid the chaos, let *your* voice be one of reason.

"Who would you be, if the world never gave you a label? Never gave you a box to check? Would you be white, black, Mexican, Asian, Native American, Middle Eastern, Indian? No. We would be one. We would be together."
Labels are at the root of the world's worst evils today. And they need to stop.

The Mexico Trip (The Gory Details)

Divi-Divi airlines. (No, these don't fly to Miami.)
I've mentioned before that traveling from Curaçao is never a simple matter... It can be, if you're going to Caracas or Bogotá. Or Miami. Or Amsterdam. Or Dominican Republic. Or Bonaire. Or St. Maarten. Or Aruba. Or, nowadays—thank you, JetBlue!—New York City.

But not Mexico.

To the point that once I received an itinerary from a travel agent helping me with my trip (this was years ago, before online booking caught on) suggesting that I travel from Curaçao—in the Caribbean—to Mexico—North America—via Charles de Gaulle. Yeah. The Paris airport. You know. Paris, Europe.

(That's a good story. Remind me to tell it to you some day.)


After experimenting over the years with different routes (I've yet to try the Paris one), I have found that the most efficient less time-consuming one is via Miami, and with American Airlines. I know, who wants to fly AA? But it's the only airline flying to both Curaçao and Mexico. If there's a delay, they'll put me on another flight or somehow make it right, not give me the world-famous Not My Problem, Sweetie shrug.

It does imply a long layover in Miami. I've spent ten hours there. So you can imagine how happy I felt when I checked flights and realized I could leave Curaçao in the afternoon and still have just enough time to make the MIA-MEX connection. It might be a little tight, especially if Immigration was busy, but it would probably work.

Turned out I never should've worried. Because my flight to Mexico WAS DELAYED.

For FOUR hours.

Sure, it sucks to have to spend more time at such a crappy airport, but no big deal, right? Instead of arriving in Mexico at 11 pm, I'd now arrive sometime around 2 am (times got iffy, because it was the day Mexico ended Daylight Savings Time).

No, no big deal—except for one thing. Mexico City is not my final destination. At the Mexico City airport, right at the arrivals hall, I take a bus down to Cuernavaca, which is where my mom lives.

And the last bus departs at 12:30 am.

No, there's no other way to get to Cuernavaca. Except by taxi, which is 1) really expensive, and 2) probably not the safest choice.

So I had to spend the night at the airport. There's a Hilton right inside the Arrivals hall, and they did have rooms available. (I called them from Miami.)

Terminal 2 at Mexico City Airport
(2009)
I got a good night's sleep, woke up incredibly late the next morning—damn blackout curtains—and made it home to Mom at around 3 pm.

Mission accomplished. Well, half the mission. I still had to get back to Curaçao. And if I thought I was done with the worst of the traveling, I was really, really wrong.

If you're arriving into Mexico City during the day, this is what you'll see.
Bring your gas masks.
How do these posts get so long so fast? Okay, I'll leave off here and take up the story next week, after BoTB. It'll be a very cool Battle, sort-of synced with Lee's—and if you haven't read that intro/reveal post over at Tossing It Out, please take a hop over now and do so... It was a wonderful experiment, and I'm sure you'll enjoy it.

So. See you Sunday for some musical brawling, and next week—let's say Wednesday?—for Part II of the Traveling Blues :D

Thanks for the visit!

Driving Licenses: Mexico vs. Curaçao (+ The Metaphor of Prison, c/o @ArleeBird )

So. The Mexico trip. Man, that was a fiasco. I mean, it's not easy to travel anywhere from Curaçao. Even direct flights come with delays and cancellations and whatnot. But I've never had as much trouble going to and from Mexico as this time. I'm even down with a weird cold/flu virus since Sunday—and I blame the night I spent on the carpet at the Miami airport.

12:30 am Saturday morning, relaxing with a guilty-pleasure novel on the comfy carpet at MIA International.
Before I go into the gory details, let me tell you I'm over at Tossing It Out today, care of blogosphere's marvelous Arlee Bird, talking about prisons: of the mind, the soul, and the flesh. It's the latest stop for the MIRACLE tour in blogs, after a celebration of the book's quirkiness over at Corinne Rodrigues's place last week, and then the crazy author vs character interview argument that ended with me apologizing and Luis Villalobos in maudlin tears over at The Doglady's Den this past Monday.

This blog tour has been great, great fun, and a fantastic opportunity to both connect with new bloggers and reconnect with older friends—and even turn acquaintances into friendships. I'm hugely grateful to everyone who's pitched in, not just by hosting me (we had limited spots, and I really appreciated everyone's understanding) but by sharing and commenting and spreading the love. The book and I are uniquely fortunate in having friends like you all.



Back to the Mexico trip. The first thing you need to know is why I had to go to Mexico. It was to renew my driver's license, which was set to expire tomorrow, November 12th. Why am I renewing a Mexican driver's license when I've been living in Curaçao for over a decade? It's a valid question. With a really simple answer.

HOW TO GET A DRIVER'S LICENSE IN CURAÇAO(When you come from a country that's not Holland or the U.S. or otherwise in Curaçao's list of driver license exchange agreements)

Take driving lessons. Seriously. I'm required to go to an actual approved driving school and get a certificate from them. Kinda cool, taking into account I've never done that—see below for details. Pass a driving test at the DMV. But in order to qualify for taking that test I need to show my driving school certificate. These people aren't kidding about not wasting anyone's time, eh? (Well, anyone's not including mine.) The first test is theory; road signs, rules and regulations, whatnot. If—yes, the guy did say if—I pass that one, then I can go on to the actual driving test. As in drive-a-real-car-in-the-street test.Because I can't drive stick-shift (I know, I know, I'm a total loser), I need a special exemption from a completely different dependency to take the said driving test in an automatic car (and thus to receive a license exclusively for automatic cars... not that I would want it any other way). I have to go to the ARBO office (I don't know what ARBO stands for, but I do know where it is—lucky me) and explain to them why I need an exemption (whoa, that's going to take all of—two minutes? Can't drive stick shift, sir. That's right. No, can't. Uh-huh. Okay. Thanks!). Once I get it, I go back to the DMV and I get to take my driving test.Assuming I jump all these hoops pass, then I get my photo taken and walk out with a license. Finally.

Approximate length of time from start to end of process: 4 weeks.(It took me 2 hours of standing in line to get the above information, by the way. So, no, 4 weeks is actually an optimistic estimate.)


HOW TO GET A DRIVER'S LICENSE IN MEXICO(Wherever you come from)

Show up early(ish) at the DMV with your birth certificate and a proof of address (to show you live in the city where you're requesting the license), and two copies of each (if you're Mexican, you do this multiple-copy thing automatically).Take a written test. (A five-page document with multiple-choice in the vein of, Identify the stop sign in the pictures below, or When a traffic light is orange, you need to a)... )Pay the fee (1 year 100 pesos, 5 years 500, 1.00 USD = 15.00 MXP, current in Cuernavaca, Mexico, as of Nov 2015). Assuming you pass the test, of course. No one knows what happens if you don't pass.Go back upstairs to have your photo taken and to pick up your license.
Please note that no one, at any point in these proceedings, checked that you can actually drive a car. No. One.
Approximate length of time from start to end of process: 2 hours.

Mine was only a renewal this time, so I was in and out of the place, new license in the pocket, within 40 minutes. It would've been sooner, but I got on the wrong line for the photos :)

So. This is why I go to Mexico to renew my driver's license. I agree it's impractical, but since it only happens every 5 years, and since my mom lives there, and since we—me and the dushi—consider Mexican food no sacrifice at all... Well, it's a "worth the trip" kind of thing.

Though this time it was a bit of a challenge. Come back on Friday for the fiasco chronicles :) In the meantime, hop on over to Lee's and join the conversation — I dare you to guess his BoTB song pick before it shows up at the end of the post. Seriously. It's that obscure (though not if you're Mexican).

Thanks for visiting, all!