August 17, 2026. We live in Girona, Catalonia, in the northeast of Spain near the French border. Most summer days hit the 90s—dry and hot—but the local parks offer a modest sanctuary. It is our custom to siesta.Now I have to return to the US for a few months to tie up loose ends, and I dread it. The news is awful. The Thugocrazy of Rump and his acolytes grows worse every day—a senile man, flaccid with profound stupidity and narcissism, abetted by crowing mobs. Freedom for the January 6th rioters. Billions for genocide in Palestine. Fascism is not an abstract concept here; it is alive and real.In Catalonia, I am happy and relaxed. People chat; they are friendly. Barely a cop in sight, and those I do see are relaxed, chatting with each other and passersbys. News of the US feels like a distant nightmare—until you read about American citizens arrested at airports and thrown into prison without due process. Germany in the 1930s.After an uneventful flight, social media deleted from my phone,…