I dreamt that I was writing a satirical piece about living in a country that was much younger than I was. I will be seventy next year, by which time it will turn only twenty-five. My dream was about the paradox of our birthdays, which I tried to capture in words. When I woke up, I found myself in a real puzzle. Actually, a real paradox. I did not want to write such a piece, but I could not but record my dream. That has been my cherished habit for untold years, anyhow. I cringed when I remembered the ongoing refugee crisis, but the recent wrangle at the border crossing with one of the country’s belligerent neighbors got me really concerned. And so I hesitated about the dream. But enough. My dream is here already, and in so many words. In short, living in a country that is much younger than yourself is far from fun. Under the circumstances, satire is for the birds.