While we were visiting the Canary Islands we participated in three carnivals, and each one was totally different from the others.  Each one seemed to exhibit the character of the island, and each one reminded me of a different Purim I’d lived through. 

The second island we visited was Teneriffe, and there the beautiful princesses of the carnival, all so gorgeously dressed they could samba only with their arms and head reminded me of Queen Esther, so much more beautiful than all the other girls in the parade, even though they revealed much more of their vibrating bodies.  I was never Queen Esther – I was always one of the chubby girls dressed in bad taste, until I discovered my true identity.  And that came back to me on the first carnival in Palma when we got to peek at the selection of the queen of the festival from between the tv barriers, and the contestants were all totally at home as cross-dressers.

In Yiddish School we performed a Purim play every year, but the boys never wanted to participate.  Ultimately Velvel became Mordechai, but to my great joy it was I who got to appear on stage with my moustache, whip and turban as Haman.  I loved it as much as the dancers loved their sequins at the festival in Palma. 

But it was at Lanzarotte that my greatest identification with the carnival occurred,  Almost total chaos.  The distinction between the participants and the audience was imperceptible.  Like when we drink so much on Purim we don’t distinguish between Mordechai and Haman.

And now we’re waiting for the powerful missiles of Iran to smash our world.  Tonight.  We go to sleep in our clothes.  And have no idea if we will ever wake up.