A lumpy couch squatted in one of the corners. Someone had tossed a thin blanket and a pillow on top of it. Otherwise, the living room was devoid of furniture. Darlene pointed towards the couch. “You three can fight over who gets to sleep there. Otherwise, the floor is available. I’m off to bed.”
The flight from Seattle to Paris was in autumn but we were exhausted, broke and travel weary, seeking the shelter of our makeshift English base, not the euphoria of Paris. We could be turned back or detained and deported.
Retired from dictating, Pinochet spent the mid-1990s cruising around Santiago in one of the three cars, a security measure should the convoy be attacked by one of his many enemies.
Graffiti magically appeared on the walls of the federal detention center: "FUCK ICE" and "DEATH TO ICE" and "FUCK DONALD TRUMP" but also farewell messages like "LOVE YOU DADDY."
