If New York is, as the poet claims, a state of mind, San Francisco is the opposite: a precise afternoon in fall, a moment always on the verge of passing. In the postcard sense, it is the country’s most lastingly beautiful city. By other measures, though, it is—and always has been—a place of heedless, often ugly flux. San Francisco has no permanent Establishment, and the landscape is remolded regularly by whoever holds the dough. The city’s long-term residents, in turn, become adept at moving among world views as if entering and exiting friends’ homes. I sometimes think that this code-switching flexibility is most pronounced for those of us who were born in the eighties and the nineties, an odd interregnum between the counterculture and the new regime. Selfhood, for those of us who grew up in the city at that time, meant building private continuity across a landscape that could change its guiding stars from here to here.

“The Last Black Man in San Francisco,” directed by Joe Talbot and starring Jimmie Fails, is about being that kind of San Franciscan, and the film is so organic that the sensibility is built into its plot. Fails, playing a version of himself (I’ll call his on-screen character Jimmie), is, in the film, a young black man trying to build his adult life. He spent most of his youth out of the custody of his parents; now he’s crashing with his best friend, Mont (Jonathan Majors), who lives with his grandfather (Danny Glover) in a house near the historically low-income neighborhood of Bayview-Hunters Point. During daylight hours, the two friends traverse the city. Mont is gentle and peculiar, a poor young man who wears bow ties and dreams of being a playwright. Jimmie is easygoing, adaptive, and filled with ambition to prove his worth. Together, they make pilgrimages to a particular Victorian-style house in the Fillmore—tall and proud, with gardens and a big turret. The property is irresistible to Jimmie, who sneaks through the gate, climbs a ladder, and surreptitiously begins repainting the railings and the house’s trim.

The house, we’re told, was built by Jimmie’s grandfather. It was a statement of arrival when the Fillmore was a center of black middle-class life. Later, the family lost the property—they don’t talk about it, Jimmie’s father (Rob Morgan) tells him—and it whooshed up the vertiginous shaft of the real-estate market, out of reach. Now Jimmie frets over his family’s lost castle, to the annoyance of the current residents, a white baby-boomer couple, who themselves could not afford to buy it off the open market. When the woman’s parent dies, the home has to be liquidated, and the boomers are evicted by the estate. Jimmie sees an opportunity. He goes imploringly to realtors and mortgage brokers, with no luck. (The house costs in the millions; Jimmie lives hand-to-mouth.) In an effort to claim squatter’s rights, Jimmie moves into the house, with Mont, and spends weeks beautifying it, making it the home that he has always lacked.

“The Last Black Man in San Francisco” was funded in part by Kickstarter and was drawn from Fails’s own experience: he did grow up poor in the city, and his family did once live in such a house. In that sense, it’s a report on an African-American presence that truly is fading—the percentage of black residents in San Francisco is less than half what it was in 1970, and sits today around a measly six per cent—and it captures the experience of displacement, of travelling among spheres in which you have increasingly little say or stake and trying to blend in. At Sundance, the film won a directing award and a special-jury prize, and it captured viewers’ imaginations as a human window onto the city’s rocky transformation. Fails and Talbot have been friends since late childhood, when Fails was in a housing project and Talbot was living nearby, and they made the movie while living in Talbot’s parents’ home. Their film is frank not only in its portrait of the real-estate pressures that make San Francisco a shorthand for self-stifling unaffordability but in its reports on the habits and moods of the place. From the platinum-hued outdoor light to the rollicking skateboard rides across town, “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” feels of San Francisco, and its characters are vivid with the offbeat pursuits that give the city’s residents their bizarre glow. In the world of the film, as in real life, everyone is bound by a common anxiety, and the movie gently suggests that many middle-class San Franciscans can see aspects of their own displacement panic in the black experience of Jimmie Fails. The fear is not just that you’ll lose your place in town but that the place will lose all memory of you.

The film—the first for both Fails and Talbot—is not without moments of youthful heavy-handedness. But it is cinematically witty from the opening shot, which plays on the apocalyptic title, and the creators are sharp enough to see that Jimmie and Mont, the home preservationist and the writer, are engaged in the same project: trying to capture and inhabit worlds being lost. The screenplay is trustworthy on matters of class and race, in part because it treats both through a range of real experience. For a story tangled up with housing, it is slightly fuzzy on the nature of the Bay Area problem—but, to be fair, the causes of, and solutions to, this messy, large-scale problem remain very much a matter of debate. Problems of displacement and effacement in the Bay Area continue to intensify. Just this week, the Mercury News reported that working people are being priced out of apartments in Vallejo, an outer-ring city that people used to be displaced into. The Guardian found that gun homicides in the Bay Area have plummeted as property crime has soared—a shift from the crime patterns of urban under-privilege to those of urban over-privilege.

Though “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” offers no solutions, the effort Fails and Talbot put into making such a movie stands as a reminder that, even now, feelings of regional urban belonging haven’t been lost. The film resists the way that it will be read by many people, which is as a scolding parable of marginalization and decline. It reminds us that the experience of in-betweenness, of trying to navigate extremely different worlds with different views while trying to find your place along the way, has always been a part of San Francisco life. And it reminds us that maybe there’s even joy, art, and—a concept being lost—local community to be found along the way. At one point, Jimmie hears two cool girls on the bus complaining, with the received pieties that people use, about what San Francisco has become. He corrects them. “You don’t get to hate it unless you love it,” he explains.

Loss being a defining attribute of love, the threat of losing memory is as much a part of the romance of San Francisco as the bridges and the seven hills. Histories grow urgent as their landscapes fade away. I grew up on a hill of moderate grade opposite a large, multigenerational black family: the matriarch was the rearer of grandchildren and the trusted keeper of the neighbors’ spare keys. The house to our right belonged to a child psychologist; the guy to the left operated a ravioli business by the freeway. Not far away was a Zen bakery, a corner store run by brothers from Palestine, and a gym frequented by the types then known as yuppies. Naturally, that center couldn’t hold. Those days were my first glowing San Francisco moment. Luckily—and let’s not underplay the role of luck—they weren’t my last.

You are, in fact, being followed. Not just by one stranger but by hundreds. They watch you at all hours of the day, and there’s nothing you can do to stop them. Not that you would—their likes and comments are far too precious.

Each night, a sinister, energy-depleting force is causing humanity to slip into a hallucinogenic blackout accompanied by nonsensical horrors. Those who avoid succumbing to the blackout are plagued by crankiness.

A conniving, topless mermaid is exploiting this energy-depleting force by hooking us on her invigorating bean water. Despite knowing this fact, we gleefully drink her addictive liquid deception, because without it we are little more than dysfunctional meat sacks.

Hollywood fat cats are getting richer and richer each year by recycling old ideas into redundant film experiences called “sequels.” These fat cats spend millions on slick marketing to brainwash you into believing that these sequels will be anything other than a complete disaster.

The joy of guiltless outdoor strolling has been stolen from us and distributed to a group of élite superhumans who possess something called “downtime.”

Our children are being locked in small, overcrowded rooms for several hours each day, forced to solve complicated word problems of no practical value. They are then released into a world where being good at complicated word problems makes you kind of a dork.

The government is taking a significant portion of every dollar we earn and using it to pay interest on its own loans, to purchase exotic weapons of war, and to employ an unseen army of manual laborers who steal our trash in the predawn hours and transport it to massive, stinking garbage mountains that are hidden from public view.

An enormous, fiery sky-orb of shame humiliates us daily by illuminating our physical flaws. Right when this glowing orb goes away and we start to look good again, the hallucinogenic blackout returns.

Humanity is living inside a simulation known as “The Gram.” Some people are taking advantage of the simulation to propel themselves into positions of social and economic power. They call themselves “influencers” and are worshipped by the masses for their wisdom, humility, and ability to demonstrate the virtues of yoga pants.

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Five hundred years ago, an Italian Pope brainwashed the world by dividing time itself into a series of endlessly repeating blocks wherein we are forced to work, take short, uninspiring “vacations,” and purchase gifts for people we dislike. Those who resist this system are committed to an asylum, or, worse, hectored by their parents to get a real job.

A conglomerate of Swedish billionaires is amassing untold riches by selling cheap, unassembled particleboard to millions of gullible morons who want a nicer home. The unquestioning sheep who buy these wood piles are placated and fattened with “meatballs” sold by the very same cabal of Nordic robber barons.

Humans are being systematically wed to one another based on their looks, verbal abilities, and skill at remembering birthdays, a process that scientists have euphemistically labelled “natural selection.” In recent years, cosmetics companies, fad-diet publishing empires, and the Dr. Phil Corporation have profited immensely from telling us that we can wield some agency in this “natural selection” by improving ourselves. These promises have been complete lies.

Coca-Cola executives don’t actually care about your happiness; they’re just trying to sell Coke.

Before heading off for a break at his Trump-branded golf course in Ireland, President Trump this week attacked the mayor of London as a “stone cold loser,” called an American-born British princess “nasty” and then denied he said it, bragged about nonexistent large crowds of admirers greeting him and blamed the “totally Corrupt Media” when he was called on it, labelled the actress Bette Midler a “washed up psycho,” and pushed a trade war with Mexico opposed by both political parties in the U.S. All this, of course, was in between a lavish state visit with the British Royal Family and somber commemoration ceremonies, on both sides of the English Channel, to mark the seventy-fifth anniversary of D Day.

At any other moment in American history, this exhausting drama would have seemed unthinkable, nutty, and deeply mortifying for a country that still counts itself a global superpower. In the future, it may very well seem so again. But, for now, this is what counts as a good week in the Trump Presidency. Trump himself certainly appeared to think so, and no wonder: the celebrity-obsessed leader was visibly delighted at his grand Buckingham Palace reception from the Queen and seemed appropriately awed by the sacrifices of the American soldiers who hit the beaches, two years before he was born, to begin the liberation of Europe. In his speech Thursday, at what he called “freedom’s altar,” in Normandy, Trump offered well-received platitudes about the fighters who “ran through the fires of hell” to storm the French coast. MSNBC’s Joe Scarborough called it “the strongest speech of his Presidency.” CNN’s Jim Acosta called it “the most on-message moment of Donald Trump’s Presidency.” “Hell freezes over,” the pro-Trump Fox News said in a story recounting their praise.

Hell, however, has not actually frozen over. Trump has neither suddenly turned into a statesman nor embraced the lost political art of message discipline. He is the same petty name-caller and truth-denying conspiracy theorist. Minutes before Trump delivered his solemn speech, with the crowd of nonagenarian veterans already in their seats, he taped an interview with the Fox host Laura Ingraham on the hallowed ground of the American cemetery. With rows of white headstones of the D Day fallen visible in the background, the President called the special counsel Robert Mueller a “fool,” and the Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi, a “disaster.” He was typically garbled and incoherent (claiming, for example, that Mueller had to “straighten out his testimony because his testimony was wrong,” though Mueller, in fact, has never given any testimony, never mind taken it back). He was blustery. He was defiant. “Nervous Nancy” Pelosi can “do what she wants,” Trump said, when asked about Mueller testifying before Congress. “You know what? I think they’re in big trouble.” In short, he was Trump.

When the excerpts from his interview with Ingraham were released later on Thursday, the inflammatory quotes from the President underscored how unusual the Normandy speech was. Trump had seemed oddly un-Trump-like as he praised D Day veterans and recounted stories of their heroism. It just didn’t sound like him, and the reason is that he so rarely praises others or even speaks much about anyone other than himself. The speech had none of his usual braggadocio. It was perhaps the only major Trump address since he has entered public life without a single use of the President’s favorite word: “I,” to refer to himself.

Trump’s ability to dominate is one of his signature attributes as a politician. He dominates news headlines. He creates controversies and manufactures fights—anything to stay in the center of attention. Nowhere has he dominated more thoroughly and perhaps more surprisingly than with the Republican elected officials on Capitol Hill, who largely opposed Trump’s candidacy in 2016 and have been trying to make it up to him ever since.

Even while he was in Europe this week, gushing about the “fantastic” royal family and the “tremendous crowds of well-wishers,” Trump was pushing his fellow-Republicans to agree to a course that virtually none of them supports as a matter of policy or principle. Trump is threatening to impose a series of punitive tariffs on Mexico unless it does the impossible and somehow halts the escalating flow of drugs and migrants across the border. Trump announced his tariff threat in a tweet a few days before heading to Europe, leaving Vice-President Mike Pence and various advisers behind in Washington to deal with the fallout. High-level Mexican officials rushed to the U.S. capital to try to negotiate a way out before Trump’s self-imposed Monday deadline, while a larger-than-usual group of Republican senators tried, sounding almost desperate at times, to signal their opposition to the tariffs without enraging the President. Words like “revolt” and “rebellion” were thrown around in the coverage.

But Trump, thousands of miles away, didn’t mind. In fact, he seemed delighted by the fuss his tariff plan had kicked up. “Tariffs are a beautiful thing,” he told Ingraham in that same Fox News interview, at the American cemetery in Normandy. “It’s a beautiful word if you know how to use them properly.” And no, he said, he wasn’t really worried about his party either. “Republicans should love what I’m doing,” he told her, while admitting that even he wasn’t sure where this is all going to lead.

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There are plenty of reasons that Trump need not be overly concerned about a rebellion by his fellow Party members, even as the Mexican negotiators appear to have proposed a deal for sending six thousand troops to their own border, and other new measures that may or may not assuage the President in advance of the Monday deadline. Congress has the power to stop the move with legislation, and, on paper, there ought to be a veto-proof number of votes in both houses to do so. But skeptics—and there are plenty of them—are not at all convinced that the Trump-manufactured Mexico fight will result in the “apocalyptic shoot-out-at-high-noon sort of confrontation,” as the Republican strategist Michael Steel called it, between the President and Hill Republicans. “There are too many off ramps and too little upside,” Steel pointed out to me, which means that, even if no one, including Trump, knows exactly what will happen, some sort of compromise that buys time is likely.

For Trump, the outcome could be the sort of easy political win that he’s become accustomed to on a variety of fronts, whether it’s pushing European nations to contribute more to NATO’s defense or bargaining with Congress. The play is familiar because he’s run it so many times: make threats, secure concessions (whether real or not), declare victory, and do it all over again. At the least, he’ll have distracted from the growing debate over the Mueller report and whether he should be impeached for having obstructed justice. He’ll have changed the conversation back to his two favorite subjects: trade and immigration (even better, he’ll have merged his two favorite subjects into one). And, very likely, he’ll have proven, once again, that, when it comes to a conflict between their principles and their President, Republicans on Capitol Hill will almost always choose their President.

In that regard, I found interviews in the Miami Herald with Florida’s two senators, both Republicans and both ostensibly staunch proponents of free trade, particularly instructive about the political domination Trump has, for now, over his party. “Everything has been tried, every carrot available has been tried,” Marco Rubio, the senator who ran against Trump in 2016 as a fervent free-trader, and who first became nationally famous for trying to negotiate a bipartisan agreement on immigration reform during the Obama Administration, told the Herald. “I’m not a tariff fan in terms of a normal course of policy but I know of no other method to get [Mexico’s] attention.” Florida’s other senator, the newly elected former governor Rick Scott, offered a similar rationale. “I don’t like tariffs but I’m going to support the president because I believe Mexico could be a better partner,” Scott told the newspaper. “They need to figure out how to reduce the number of people who are being apprehended at the border.”

In other words, they are against tariffs—except when Trump imposes them. Which strikes me as a perfect rationale for this political moment. They are also presumably against stonewalling investigators, refusing to comply with congressional subpoenas, shutting down the government, running up the national debt, labelling close American allies national-security threats, and praising dictators—except when Trump does it. So far, this has been the story of the Republican Senate in the Trump era and, indeed, of the national G.O.P. At a time when no one is really sure anymore just what constitutes Republican ideology, you could do worse than to call it the Except-When-Trump-Does-It Party.

For Republicans, Trump now trumps all. Even D Day, said the Party’s national chairwoman, Ronna McDaniel, should be an occasion to praise and acclaim the President. Appearing on Fox Business, McDaniel said Wednesday that the commemorations in Europe were a “time where we should be celebrating our President” and avoiding all the usual “negativity.” McDaniel is such a Trump loyalist that she even recently stopped using her maiden name, “Romney,” because it might remind Trump of her uncle, the 2012 Republican nominee, Mitt Romney, who had been one of Trump’s fiercest critics. As for Romney, he is now a newly elected senator from Utah with a restrained view of what constitutes Presidential criticism. Asked about the Mexico tariffs this week, he told reporters that he would prefer that Trump not impose them on a “friend.” The previously outspoken opponent of tariffs didn’t, however, even commit to voting against them. If this is the rebellion, no wonder Trump seems so confident.

The armies of America continue to pour into Europe, June after June—armies of tourists, that is. Europe is the most visited region in the world, and the American presence there remains overwhelming, at least in numbers, which continue to go up. Many Old World places—Venice, most painfully—have been largely despoiled by this mass tourism, no longer American alone but for so long American-led. The paradox is that a good impulse—the desire to see a famous place—can lead to a bad result: a famous place becomes largely emptied of everyone except the people who come to see it. The collision of an obscenely overlarge cruise ship with a tourist boat at a Venetian pier this week was a wildly vivid symbol of this overstuffed and perhaps unsustainable order.

It’s not just Americans who are arriving—Germans lead the march into Italy, as they have done since Goethe’s time—but Americans stand out because we have so much farther to go to get there. Language is an unstoppable flood, too, and, just as the Gospels were written in Greek because Hellenistic literature was the dominant force in the ancient world, so American English has become, to a degree that was not true even forty years ago, the Continent’s lingua franca, to use that term ironically. All this is, in a sense, the inevitable consequence of the great armed Allied invasion that occurred seventy-five years ago this week. D Day began the liberation of Europe from Nazi control. It also, as a result, opened up Europe for the first time to Americans beyond the ranks of Jamesian travellers and Hemingwayesque expatriates. Americans, for the most part, were kept down on the farm after seeing Paris during the First World War. But the end of the Second World War led Americans to Europe on a scale never before seen.

This was fitting, in a way: military invasions open a path for invasions of other kinds. Greek civilization went east in the wake of Alexander the Great’s conquests, and the American kind did in the wake of the Allied liberation of the Continent. Now, though, looking around Europe, one might almost propose to alter Harold Macmillan’s famous wartime statement that England would play Athens to America’s Rome, meaning that the Old Country would spread liberal culture and learning to support the younger country’s liberal arms. Now it is more as if America itself plays Athens to America’s Rome: our soft power and cultural reach remain in place—the music the street musicians play outside the Pantheon, in Rome, are the themes from “Twilight” and “Titanic”—even if so much of our harder power seems in relative decline.

Judging from headlines and conversations, that’s how Europeans see it. The grotesque spectacle of Donald Trump in London this week seems, far from disquieting the Europeans, to have left them largely indifferent; they’ve mostly accepted the absence of an American model. Besides, every country on the Continent is suffering its own crisis in which some form of irrational nationalism, at war with the liberal cosmopolitan experiment, has taken hold. The experiment is failing. Even in solidly republican France, President Emmanuel Macron is battling the far-right movement of Marine Le Pen—a less vulgar Le Pen than her father, but still a Le Pen. In Britain, the madness of Brexit continues long after its folly has been made plain, while in Italy and Greece bizarre populist coalitions continue in place—though the recent elections for the European Parliament, however narrowly symbolic they are in terms of the actual power they carry within each nation, augur a return of saner politicians to power.

Nevertheless, Trump’s assault not on the mere norms but on the very principles and practices of liberal democracy remains frightening, the only thing more alarming being the ease with which his actions have been normalized and treated as eccentricities rather than the affronts to liberal democratic values that, for all their seeming triviality, they are. Principles are built out of many bricks; even the loss of one weakens the whole. The reason no leader of a democratic country in modern times has previously engaged in raging at, say, a “washed up psycho” during a state visit is not because they all followed country-club norms of good behavior but because they understood that power carries with it. That is why in Portsmouth, on Wednesday, when participating in the ritual salutes to D Day, attended by a small remnant of the event’s survivors, Trump seemed reduced to a parody of a democratic leader, as he stiffly read from Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s D Day prayer. The gaffes, or stolen bricks, included insults to various British leaders (and a royal), false statements about trade, Brexit, and Ireland, and then all that time spent insulting Bette Midler, who had misattributed a quote to him. The buffoonery even extended to the ill-fitting white-tie suit he donned for the state banquet, which made him look like a waiter in a silent comedy. Should one criticize a man for badly fitting clothes? Perhaps not, but to be that indifferent to how we look is to be unaware of how others see us.

Those of us who retain an inalterable appetite for books about the seventy-five-year-old date, and the military history relating to it—there’s a fine recent one by Antony Beevor, to supplement his earlier work, as well as histories by John Keegan and Cornelius Ryan, whose “The Longest Day” has been republished by the Library of America—read those accounts with a note of nostalgia as much as enlightenment. We may still be absorbed in the details of the battle: Was the American near-disaster on Omaha Beach a consequence of bad luck, and its ultimate outcome one of sheer bravery? Or was the easier landing of the Canadian and British forces on other beaches due to their readiness to rely on Hobart’s Funnies, the specially designed floatable tanks whose development Churchill had encouraged and the Americans had disdained? Could the subsequent battle in Normandy have been more efficiently fought? How much did the rivalry among the Allied leaders—Field Marshal Montgomery, Generals Omar Bradley and George Patton, and the rest—warp the progress of the battle? And was General de Gaulle’s insistence on claiming a French share of the fight, despite the absence of French troops, a mad act of vanity or a sage realization of the necessity of keeping a battle fought in France at least symbolically French?

Yet all of these questions seem, increasingly, merely nostalgic, nugatory, in the face of the dissolution of the common solidarity of principles that once made the liberation happen. Trump’s contempt for the principles that led to the war on Hitler is manifest every day, and the speech that he read in Normandy, on Thursday morning, despite the seemingly conciliatory rhetoric it employed, was thus an exercise in transparent insincerity. The alacrity of those who, desperate for a sign of decency, maintain that these words were significant, is in itself depressing.

The invasion, as historians recall, worked because, at that moment, there was a genuine impulse, however scarred by national rivalries, to intervene on behalf of humanity against bestiality. Eisenhower talked of a crusade in Europe, and, though the end results, with Stalin’s armies entrenched in Eastern Europe and America soon enlisting the help of Nazi scientists to keep the U.S. in military parity with him, were more painful and ambivalent than one might have wanted, still, the crusade took place. The important distinctions that reigned then reign now. “America First” was a slogan then, as now, but in 1940, the crucial year of choosing, as well as in 1944, the crucial choosing year of fighting, isolationism in the face of authoritarianism lost out.

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Why does the Atlantic alliance now seem on the brink of coming apart? The pains of Europe now are not strictly economic—as many have argued recently, the actual economic picture in the member countries of the Organization for Economic Coöperation and Development is generally robust. But the puzzle shouldn’t really be a puzzle. The struggle between open and closed visions of society is not a narrow historical one but a permanent and—there’s no other word for it—spiritual one, with the desire to retreat into a shell in constant battle (no other word for that, either) with the understanding that others have their stories, and that only a common effort bridging nations can help humanity survive tyranny.

Once everything else is boiled off—American national ambitions, Canadian ambivalence about its colonial role, British desires to maintain empire, the French need for self-absolution through symbolism—the basic, deep underlying urge of seventy-five years ago was sound: to remake a continent that has catastrophically lost its way in the image of something better, even at the cost of immense sacrifice. Behind the common action that fateful morning were common principles. We can still name some: a subordination of military to civilian rule, with an efficient, not a fetishized, military the ideal; a belief in educated, democratic armies, and with that a sense that actions have to be articulated and never seem arbitrary. (Eisenhower’s order of the day to the “sailors, soldiers, and airmen” going into battle is still worth reading for its clarity of aim: “The elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe.”) Also, a readiness of those in power to take responsibility for their actions. (Eisenhower’s other statement, written in case of the invasion’s failure, is worth reading, too: “If any blame or fault attaches to the attempt it is mine alone.”) Common action rooted in a common hatred of arbitrary power worked then. Could it still?

Other journalists had searched for her already, but I’d looked harder. I’d called people in her home town and at the local high schools, public and private. I’d consulted the yearbooks of the colleges she’d supposedly attended, and their alumni offices. I’d canvassed aging former volunteers for the Presidential campaign of Senator Eugene McCarthy, for whom she was volunteering that night, fifty-one years ago, when she challenged Robert F. Kennedy in a sleepy airport diner in Indianapolis.

From their two-hour conversation, an eighteen-year-old undergraduate named Pat Sylvester came to embody, for Bobby Kennedy, a whole generation of idealistic young Americans, the ones who, he hoped, would help make him President. And, ever since, people have tried tracking her down. But, as my own quest to find her fizzled, I came to doubt that she’d ever actually existed. Then, suddenly, not long ago, she materialized.

It began in the wee hours of May 8, 1968. Kennedy, then a junior senator from New York, had just survived a crucial challenge to his fledging, fragile candidacy, beating back a determined McCarthy, along with Indiana’s governor, who was a stand-in for Vice-President Hubert Humphrey, in the Indiana Presidential primary. Now he could go on to fight in Oregon and California.

But, amid all the excitement that evening, Kennedy had forgotten to eat, and finding food at that hour wasn’t easy. “The only place in Indianapolis where you can get even a glass of water after 1 a.m. is the airport,” the New York Post writer Jimmy Breslin, who was there covering the campaign, groused. So out to the airport they all went: the candidate, a few aides, and some intrepid reporters who’d learned in Dallas never to leave a Kennedy unattended.

That’s where they found Sylvester, a student at the University of Massachusetts, Breslin later wrote. With her was a second McCarthy volunteer, whom she’d met just minutes earlier, a twenty-one-year-old senior at the University of North Carolina named Taylor Branch. Years later, he’d win a Pulitzer Prize for the first of three books he wrote on Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Sylvester was wearing a straw hat with a McCarthy ribbon wrapped around it, and Branch sported two McCarthy pins on his tan jacket. They’d missed their respective flights out that night, to Providence by way of Pittsburgh for her, to Atlanta for him. Both sat, exhausted and dejected, by their suitcases.

Kennedy had won the primary that night, but something still gnawed at him: he considered McCarthy’s volunteers superior to his own. Just the night before, at a local restaurant called Sam’s Attic, when someone had told Kennedy that McCarthy’s kids were “brighter, more radical, more committed” than his, Kennedy had shaken “his drooping head affirmatively,” according to Jack Newfield, of the Village Voice. “I wish I had some of them,” Kennedy lamented.

Mary McGrory, of the Washington Star, who had studied the Kennedys for twenty years, spotted that same envy. “He does not need them, but he wants them,” she wrote. “They would bring luster and spontaneity to what is a dazzling but mechanical effort.” But those very kids hated him, Kennedy knew. They considered him a coward for equivocating on Vietnam and an opportunist both for bigfooting their candidate and for jumping into the race belatedly.

Now, making his way through the empty terminal, Kennedy spotted Sylvester and Branch, walked over to them, smiling, and invited them to join him for a bite to eat. “All right,” Sylvester replied, before trying to place her McCarthy hat on Kennedy’s head. They seated themselves in a booth across from Kennedy, while a knot of reporters hovered nearby. Kennedy was smaller than Branch had imagined, but something else about him made a bigger impression: his intense blue eyes.

Then, for the next couple of hours, Kennedy probed and proselytized, trying to understand why the two preferred McCarthy to him and seeing if he could change their minds. Breslin got at least some of it down and, alone among the reporters, wrote it up. The others were, as reporters like to say, just “gathering string.”

Though Bobby Kennedy was one of the most famous men in the world, Sylvester wasn’t cowed. Instead, she let him have it, criticizing his inconsistent stance on Vietnam, lambasting his ineffectual campaign workers, and complaining about the unfair advantage Kennedy enjoyed simply by dint of his famous name. When Kennedy asked the two what they now planned to do following their candidate’s setback in this most recent primary, she didn’t mince words. “We’re going to stay,” she answered. “Most of them will. The ones who like McCarthy don’t want you.”

The more Kennedy pressed, depicting McCarthy as a racially insensitive dilettante who didn’t really want to be President, a man who was taking advantage of his volunteers, the more Sylvester and Branch dug in. And the deeper they dug in, the more Kennedy admired, and coveted, them. “I remember him complaining that McCarthy got the A students and he got the gentlemen’s-C frat boys,” Branch told me. Meanwhile, according to Breslin, two female Kennedy campaign workers sitting at the table squirmed. “What I wouldn’t give for that girl,” one told the other.

“He had won in Indiana, but he couldn’t win over those kids, and they really got to him,” a key Kennedy aide, Fred Dutton, later recalled. “For days afterward, he talked about that boy and girl in the airport coffee shop—how great they were, in their idealism and determination.” Kennedy never forgot the pair; it’s pretty fair to say, though, that that understates the impact they’d had on him, for he was to live only four more weeks.

For Branch, too, Sylvester was a revelation. The undergraduate school in Chapel Hill was still nearly all male; there, and in his native Atlanta, he’d met few young women like her, so audacious and politically engaged. “We communed,” he recalled. He told her so, and it stuck with her. “He said that he was surprised to be able to communicate so well with a girl,” Sylvester wrote to a friend, shortly afterward.

Breslin’s account ends on a happy note, with Branch and Sylvester leaving the airport with Kennedy after he offered to get hotel rooms for them. To Breslin’s eye, Kennedy’s wooing was working; it marked his second triumph of the evening. “It was, last night in Indianapolis, a very good night for Robert Kennedy,” he wrote.

In fact, the two had spurned Kennedy’s offer—“we said we’d be fine,” she later wrote—and opted to spend what was left of the night in the deserted terminal. But, rather than trying to catch some sleep, they decided to write Kennedy a letter. Taking turns on a yellow legal pad, they worked on it until dawn, composing what Branch called “a frenzied, sleepy-eyed rehashing” of their discussion, letting him know that, while he hadn’t won them over, he’d impressed them anyway.

As day broke, they walked to a nearby motel where they thought Kennedy was staying and slipped their manifesto—“a treatise, really,” Branch said—under what they believed to be his door. “For all I know, they gave us the wrong room number, or they threw it in the trash,” Branch recalled. Then the two separated, without exchanging phone numbers. After all, Branch had other things on his mind; his draft physical was coming up, he was graduating soon, and getting married after that.

According to Leon Fink, her boyfriend at the time and now a retired history professor from the University of Illinois, Sylvester was “bemused” by Breslin’s article, which appeared the next day. (It was only from reading it that Sylvester’s politically conservative parents, from whom she was largely estranged, learned that Pat had even been in Indiana.) And, for the next half century, Breslin’s account of that evening, and of Pat Sylvester, was all that history had.

But Branch didn’t forget her, and at one point he tried tracking her down—to learn, as he put it, how their shared experience “had settled” with her afterward. He would ask after her whenever he ran into former McCarthy volunteers or women who had gone to Pembroke, a women’s college, later swallowed up by Brown, to which he believed she’d gone. He reached out to Brown as well. No one knew anything. And, unsure whether he and Breslin even had her name right, he’d simply given up.

Tom Shea, a journalist with the Springfield Republican, also looked for her. He had learned of Sylvester in 1973, from reading a biography of Kennedy by Jack Newfield, a Village Voice reporter. He met Newfield sixteen years later and asked him about her. Every year on the anniversary of R.F.K.’s assassination—this Thursday is the fifty-first—Shea wrote a column about Bobby Kennedy, and he had devoted the 2011 edition to her. It marked one last attempt of his to find her—“a message in a bottle,” he said.

A few years ago, determined to track her down for a biography he was writing of Kennedy, Larry Tye turned to Accurint, a search engine connected, it boasts, to more than sixty-five billion public records. No dice. I searched twice, in 2017 and last year, while researching and then publicizing a book I wrote on Kennedy and King. I, too, had grown curious about Pat Sylvester. Who was she? What brought her to Indianapolis that night? And what had become of her since? How well had her idealism served her? Or, more likely, what had been the depth of her disappointment?

I contacted various Sylvesters in Milton, Massachusetts—her home town, Breslin had written. And Milton High School. And Milton Academy. And the University of Massachusetts. And Brown, which was more than ready for me. “We have received this same request a number of times in the past year, so I know the back story and we have an answer already on hand,” Brian Clark, the school’s director of news and editorial development, wrote back. And veterans of the McCarthy campaign in Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Indiana, and Washington, D.C., all the way up to Sam Brown, McCarthy’s youth coördinator. And the curator of the Eugene McCarthy papers, at the University of Minnesota, who scoured the roster of campaign volunteers for me.

There was no trace of her anywhere. Nor did a short online piece I wrote for Time produce her or anyone who had known her. In the Google era, it’s pretty hard for anyone to vanish, but, somehow, Pat Sylvester had managed to. One New York newsman mocked my persistence, and naïveté. “You’ve now learned what many of us knew throughout his career: Breslin made stuff up,” he said to me, in an e-mail.

Then, in March of this year, a Milton Academy graduate named Reva Seybolt, now a life coach in Vermont, stumbled upon a note I’d sent her via Facebook in December, 2017. What she wrote me was thrilling, then crushing, then intriguing. “I just saw your message,” she said, adding, “patsy died of breast cancer a long, long time ago. If you still need info, I can get you in touch with her daughter.”

And she did. With breathtaking speed, I was in touch with people who’d known and loved her, and reading the letters she’d written around the time of her meeting with Kennedy. Patsy—she was never Pat to her friends—had died, but now some part of her had come back to life. I wrote to Branch, saying simply that I’d cracked the story. “Is she alive?” he quickly e-mailed back. “If so, might she speak with me?”

Patsy had attended Milton Academy, but only through the ninth grade. She’d then moved to the Westtown School, a Quaker institution in West Chester, Pennsylvania, where she became politically active and, in June, 1966, was elected co-president of the student body. A picture on the front page of the school paper, Brown and White, showing her with a pixie haircut and pearls, captured her free spirit, though not her uncertainties or her flaming red hair. She graduated in June, 1967, shortly after taking a bus to New York to march in the Spring Mobilization against the Vietnam war.

She had indeed been at the University of Massachusetts in 1968, just as Breslin claimed. But, even before Indianapolis, she’d shown a penchant for fateful airport encounters, the by-product of a probing, improvisational life style. It was in a second such rendezvous that she’d met Leon Fink (she’d been reading Sartre when he struck up a conversation), and it was during another chance encounter that a Harvard boy had invited her to campaign for McCarthy in Indiana.

And, as far away as Indiana then seemed, she up and went. As her letters make clear, she was at loose ends at the time, quoting Rod McKuen and W. H. Auden, subsisting on cigarettes and coffee, careening between nihilism, activism, and radicalism. (Two nights before the balloting in Indiana, she’d experimented with pot and Scotch, and her stomach had gone haywire.) With his detached and cynical mien—he didn’t seem to take either himself or politics too seriously—McCarthy appealed to her; Kennedy was all gung ho in a way she found off-putting.

“This is so damn exciting,” she wrote to her Westtown roommate, Margy Frysinger. “I’m a politician at heart when I became involved, and I am involved. Right to the roots of my hair. We all live, breathe, eat McCarthy.” Naturally, she said, she was “anti-Kennedy, but not anti his workers. They’re just misguided.” To her, by contrast, McCarthy’s volunteers were unbelievably dedicated, putting their grades and even their lives (the men had jeopardized their draft exemptions by dropping out to work for him)—on the line.“We are mentally prepared for defeat—but won’t accept it easily,” she wrote on the eve of the vote. “For McCarthy we pray.”

Kennedy may have “neutralized” Branch that night, as he later put it, impressing him in particular with his sensitivity to racial issues, but he didn’t have the same effect on Sylvester. “In the airport at 1:00 a.m., a guy and I were sitting with our McCarthy stuff in the middle of the hall,” she wrote. “We were discussing our anti-Kennedy feelings, when, lo, along comes a group of Kennedyophiles. In the second wave of them, the Senator walked toward us. He smiled, shook our hands (and put his arm on my shoulder) and invited us for breakfast.

“For an hour + 45 mins we talked with him directly and openly,” she went on. “We learned a lot of stuff from him. Accordingly we told him a lot of stuff. We were open in our criticism of Kennedy’s workers—how dumb they were and how they couldn’t satisfactorily explain why they were for Kennedy over McCarthy.” To her, even the Republican governor from New York, Nelson Rockefeller, may have been preferable to Kennedy. “We now have some serious thinking to do before we decide for whom we really are,” she wrote. “And it may end up being Rockefeller. One cannot be a-political. I was not involved before, and now I am immeshed in everything that’s going on.”

To her friends, the encounter with Bobby Kennedy—and particularly her attempt to place a McCarthy hat on his head—was not just the product of an anti-authoritarian Quaker education; it was pure, vintage Patsy. “She would do outrageous things every now and then, for someone who would act pretty proper and reserved most of the time,” Frysinger, now a retired administrator in Pennsylvania, said. “She was very feisty,” Nina Brown, a landscape architect in Boston, said. “She had the ability to tell you a difficult truth about yourself and make you laugh.”

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During the despondent summer of 1968, with both Kennedy and King now dead, Sylvester had forsworn waiting tables—“I just cannot push $300 worth of pots + pans in people’s faces when they should use the money for something else”—and worked full time for McCarthy. Branch slowly soured on McCarthy, but the candidate remained “imbedded in my bones,” Sylvester wrote. Unbeknownst to either of them, they both attended the Democratic Convention, in Chicago, that August: he was inside, as a McCarthy volunteer; she was outside, getting tear-gassed.

When she returned to college, it was to McGill; it wasn’t only draft-age men who fled to Canada in those days. After graduating, she remained in Montreal, married briefly, raised a daughter by herself, forsook politics and subsisted (barely) on freelance writing and editing. She died in August, 1990, ten days after turning forty-one.

Her daughter, now Nicole Fournier-Sylvester, an education manager for the Global Centre for Pluralism, in Ottawa, was fourteen at the time. Though she remembers how apoplectic her mother grew upon learning that her parents had voted for Ronald Reagan, she never heard her talk about meeting Bobby Kennedy. She’d learned of that only after happening upon Breslin’s column among her grandmother’s personal effects, and from picking up a Kennedy biography at a book fair in Martha’s Vineyard.

All these years later, she told me, her mother’s life in politics remains elusive to her. But did she recognize the firebrand Breslin described? “One hundred and fifty per cent,” she replied. She recalled her mother chastising her for wearing earrings shaped like peace signs without bothering to learn what they represented. “She had no patience for frivolity and wanted me to understand the importance of taking clear and informed positions,” she said. “For better or worse, she was frank. Some people didn’t experience it in a positive way. But, luckily, Robert Kennedy did.”