Susana was born in Andalusia in the part of Spain that touches on the Straits of Gibraltar. Her family moved to Barcelona when she was two-years old. Her parents carry a trace of the dialect they grew up speaking.

Even though by every other measure Susana Palazon is a proper daughter of Cataluña, she does not support its contested push for independence.

The professor explained her thinking one afternoon after she taught our last class of the day.

Susana’s father had fought tirelessly for the Spanish Constitution that was ratified in 1978. Its passage was no small achievement for a nation that was still scarred by the civil war that Hitler, Mussolini and Stalin used as a warm-up for WWII; and by the nearly four decades of fascism that followed.

The constitution created autonomous regions that protect the hive of cultures and languages found across the Iberian Peninsula.

I was surprised each time Susana used the S-word that carries such a stigma in the U.S.

Her Socialism has nothing to do with Communism. It’s about defending Spanish national unity. By her thinking Abraham Lincoln was a Socialist fighting to hold the Union together.

Susana describes people contributing according to their means while helping others according to their needs. California, New York and Illinois send more tax money to Washington while Mississippi, North Dakota and Alaska send less than they receive. So we’re Socialists?

Susana admits that Cataluña has reasons to complain. Tax rates are higher here than in other regions, its referendum on secession was outlawed, its constitution was annulled, independence leaders were imprisoned.

Passions run high and Barcelonans fear the possibility of violence. They haven’t forgotten the Basque separatists bombing that killed and injured sixty-six people.

There is an especially beautiful word — Ojalá — borrowed from Arabic that means “God willing.”

¡Ojalá! that our Spanish friends will be as patient with one other as they are with those of us who come to visit.

Roberto and I have things in common.

We both live in the Western Hemisphere.

We both came to Barcelona to study Spanish.

We were a minority of men among women.

We’ve both read a little history.

He is afraid in the same way I’m afraid.

Roberto Pontes lives in Fortaleza, a Brazilian city about the size of Chicago, on the Atlantic coast. He’s a customs official and a military veteran. He’s single, sharing a city apartment and a weekend place with a longtime friend.

We met just as Brazil was about to elect Jair Bolsonaro, its ninth president since the end of the military dictatorship in 1984.

Bolsonaro scapegoats the vulnerable, ridicules women, promotes violence and blames Brazil’s problem on the ‘pretos’ and ‘partos’ (people of color). He pretend-shoots people with his fingers. In 2011 he said he’d prefer that his son die in a car accident than be gay.

Bolsonaro commands the police and the military with the benediction of religious evangelicals. He is a Trump-weight liar.

Our language classes in Spain were lively forums. Our young classmates leaned in to listen as both Roberto and I shared our dread over the rise of dictators.

One Friday the two of us went to lunch at a cafe near the school — the menu-of-the-day gets you a bottle of wine, first and second plates, a choice of desert and coffee. The sun came out and the food was exactly as promised but, as we sat there at Café Azul, we worried aloud.

It was easy to imagine two Germans sitting in a beer garden on a Friday in 1932, terrified that that crazy fuck might actually follow through on the evil he was selling.

The last time we saw each other, Roberto’s face was considerably swollen on the right side. In a recent text he said his dentist back in Fortaleza had looked at x-rays and had sent back an email saying he thought Roberto’s tooth could be saved when he returns home. There is hope.