I arrived in a small Argentinian village, and was immediately impressed by its network of underground funicular transit. There were at least two subway stops for every house. When I realized they kept the newspaper stands open past midnight, I knew I could live here forever, though an optical illusion meant there were fewer streets than I had first thought. I bought a copy of the Paris Review, which was running a special issue devoted to Suey Park’s poetry.
Walking into a bakery, I burst into tears. I tried to explain what the reelection of Benjamin Netanyahu meant to me. It meant, I explained as I bawled, that we had given up all hope of not killing ourselves. That everything I loved and believed was despised by others.
When the village talent show came, I was asked to fill in for Ethel Merman, who did not show up.