Leaving the US: The Erosion of My American Dream

Suddenly, soupy fog begins oozing over Sunset Boulevard. The windshield frosts over, the temperature plunges. We start shivering.

"Damn," Darren mutters, and rolls up the window.

Just a moment ago, the warm California sun was blinding us, befitting a street with that name, one that winds in serpentines down to the Pacific. Just a moment ago, we passed its dusty landmarks: Chateau Marmont, the Comedy Store, the billboards for Hollywood fare that nobody watches in the theater anymore, the stars' mansions, most of whose owners have long since died. Just a moment ago, we could see where the road led beyond the curve. Suddenly, we can barely see anything at all.

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We roll along as if through a film noir. Through, well, "Sunset Boulevard," the tragedy about the silent-film diva who despairs that her era is over. Donald Trump's favorite movie.