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A week in Spain, the Pyranees, a picturesque drive
from Barcelona, where I had not thought to become the owner
of sanity once more, there, where the command of a
mountain is to Look Up, leave the roiling band of unrest
over airways, TV screens, the front page unquiet
conversation we are accustomed to in our Nation,
no escape from that, except in rarified altitudes of no rape.
un-civil wars, terrorism, assaults with handguns, students killed
in classrooms.  "Loony Tunes" play in this country we love,
America, and abroad a Middle East in crisis.  It's a given,
said my husband, born Algerian: no peace, No Peace.
So, home again, I said, standing in a postal queue,
Mazel Tov to absence of all this among the hills
of rural Spain, where, Yes, there's rain, but much less
pain. The postal clerk was unkind, he said,
Girl?  Why Mazel Tov? When here you could
have merely turned your television off.



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