The Admiral’s Club lounge at Rio’s Galeão–Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport is, oddly enough, one of my favorite places to kill time.

Tucked in the middle of a long, wide, unnervingly white and deserted hallway—straight out of a horror or dystopian sci-fi film—it offers sweet sanctuary from the chaos and drama of airport life. By Admirals Club standards, it’s not huge (just 6,500 square feet), but it punches above its weight. Multiple seating zones, a kids’ room full of toys to keep tiny terrorists occupied, two food buffets, a bar with free booze, and a fridge full of cold drinks. You’ve seen worse.

I usually head for the TV room, which features three massive screens and deliciously cushy mid-century modern chairs—plus strategically placed charging hubs. That last bit is key. It’s also quiet in there: the TVs are muted, and the crowd is glued to their screens, not looking to make friends. I love that. Silence is a rare and underrated luxury. It gives me space to wrangle the emotional clutter that inevitably builds when I’m about to leave.

For the past thirteen years, I’ve sat in this lounge three or four times a year, each time getting ready to leave my beautiful wife behind. And it never gets easier. She’s the center of my universe, and picturing thirty, sixty, even ninety days without her is like standing at the base of Everest with a paper bag and sneakers. The view is bleak.

But over the years, we’ve developed rituals. We email each other daily—sometimes quick notes, sometimes long, meandering novels. We use WhatsApp, FaceTime, and all the other modern crutches. We might be apart, but we’re not disconnected. Technology’s good for that, even if it also enables people to tweet like maniacs.

As hard as leaving Elaine always is, I’ve usually looked forward to going home. I love my sister, Rosie, and her family. I like the rhythm of my life back in the States. I speak the language. I get the systems. I know how to get decent pizza. And don’t even get me started on the superiority of American Chinese food.

So why, last Wednesday, did I sit in the Admirals Club and feel absolutely no desire to come home?

I had been in Brazil for a month. I was ready for a slice. But for the first time in thirteen years—pizza be damned—I didn’t want to return to the United States.

It took a bit of reflection (and a generous pour of cachaça) to figure it out: I don’t recognize the country anymore. The United States I grew up loving is gone. Compassion, kindness, the idea that difference is something to appreciate, not fear—all seem to have been traded in for paranoia and power grabs. I no longer feel safe there, and when “home” stops feeling safe, that’s a problem.

And this past week didn’t help. It was like watching a Constitution-burning circus.

• National Guard troops were deployed in Los Angeles over a mostly peaceful protest, despite the Governor and Mayor explicitly saying, “Please don’t.” Apparently, “states’ rights” only matter when it’s convenient.
• Active-duty Marines—literal warfighters trained for foreign combat—sent to patrol American streets. Not only legally dubious, but also a stellar way to snuff out free speech with a Kevlar boot.
• Trump’s pardon spree continued: white-collar crooks, violent January 6th rioters, Oath Keeper leaders, and apparently anyone whose mom wrote a big enough campaign check. Meanwhile, he sends troops to silence actual peaceful protesters. Rule of law? That’s adorable.
• Then there was the $150 million military parade—because nothing says “secure in your masculinity” like rolling tanks down D.C. for emotional Viagra.
• Confederate base renamings are back on the table too—because why not re-celebrate treason and alienate Black Americans all over again?
• Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth is out here acting like the Constitution is a loose suggestion.
• Senator Padilla got detained by the FBI for daring to speak out during a press conference. Yes, a sitting senator. That’s how banana republics do it.

I could keep going, but I’m trying to keep my blood pressure in the low triple digits.

The bottom line: I still love my country. I just don’t like what it’s becoming. I’ll keep calling it out when we lose our way, but I have limits. If we can’t find our moral compass again soon, I may choose sanity over pepperoni.

I still have hope. But for now? I’m doubling down on my Portuguese lessons.