Her remarks, which came as part of a lengthy Independence Day address, came as protests continued in the capital Lima.

As coca production surges, Indigenous communities in Peru fear addiction and violence are encroaching on their lands.

Lamoille County, Vermont, is home to 26,000 people living in small towns nestled among the woods and mountains. It’s known for two ski resorts—Stowe and Smugglers’ Notch—and a winding river where locals and tourists fly-fish and canoe. In 2020, a ProPublica analysis identified Lamoille as the one county, across the entire United States, that could be most protected from the combined effects of climate change, including sea-level rise, wildfires, crop damage, and economic impact. But that was before the floods.

Earlier this month, five to 10 inches of rain fell in Morrisville, near the center of the county. Roads were destroyed in nearby Wolcott. Thirty people were evacuated as floodwaters from the Lamoille River swirled around Cambridge. Entire harvests were wiped out, and major roads became impassable. Jennifer Morrison, Vermont’s public-safety commissioner, called Lamoille County “the hardest-hit area” in the state.

July’s flood is just the latest in a string of extreme weather events in Vermont this year. After a historically warm January, a late-May frost may have destroyed more than half of the state’s commercial apple crop. By summer, smoke from Canadian wildfires choked the once-clean air. Then, during the week of July 10, heavy rains flooded the state capital, Montpelier, and washed out homes and businesses across the state. It was the worst flooding since Hurricane Irene, a “100-year” storm that struck only 12 years ago.

Vermont is no longer the haven many believed it to be. And if this tiny, bucolic state isn’t safe, far from the ocean in one of the coolest parts of the country, it’s hard to imagine a place that is.

Academics have long had an interest in identifying “climate havens”—regions that may be less likely to suffer extreme heat, sea-level rise, and inland flooding as the global temperature continues to climb, and that may have the capacity to accommodate climate refugees. Vermont towns are often on these lists. One, compiled by the Tulane University real-estate professor Jesse Keenan just last year, included Burlington, Vermont, along with cities such as Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and Asheville, North Carolina. And yet, 100-year storms could hit Pittsburgh as frequently as every two decades, according to a recent analysis by the climate nonprofit First Street Foundation; in the coming decades, Asheville is predicted to be prone to drought, extreme heat, and extreme precipitation. If conditions look this bad in the so-called havens, we’re in for a much-needed awakening.

[Read: When will the Southwest become unlivable?]

When you live in a supposed climate haven, it’s easy to get complacent—to think of the climate crisis as something that happens in other parts of the nation. I’ve covered climate change for a decade, almost as long as I’ve lived in Vermont. I knew the science and the predictions: stronger storms and more extreme precipitation events. I shouldn’t have been shocked when the Battenkill River flooded its banks eight miles north of me and angry waters rushed into my friends’ homes and businesses—but I was.

That perception of safety is widespread. According to local news, a recent survey found that one-third of Vermont’s new residents moved here for climate-related reasons. My friend Joe Dickson is one of them. He and his husband used to have a farm in Bastrop County, Texas, an area that was witnessing more wildfires and flash flooding every year. In 2017, Hurricane Harvey washed out a bridge and stranded their community. They moved to Peru, Vermont, only a year ago. After the flooding last week, Joe told me, he felt a “deep and anxious vigilance”—staying up all night to check the forecast, despite the fact that his house is on high ground. It was just like when he’d wake up every hour or two during storms back in Texas, going out to check the rain gauge and look at the creek, waiting for the moment it would overflow.

Longtime Vermonters have been similarly shocked by the floods. On Saturday, I ran into my friend Brad Peacock, who has lived in Shaftsbury for decades, at our local organic farm. “I don’t think I’m the only farmer who thought Vermont was better prepared for climate change,” he told me. We’re used to living in a northern, nature-forward state with progressive climate policies. We don’t expect to be caught unprepared, as we were during Hurricane Irene and again last week.

[Read: ‘Things don’t always change in a nice, gradual way’]

My daughters have lived in Vermont their entire lives. On the day Hurricane Irene flooded the state, my oldest, Frasier, was 2 years old, dancing in the rain at a friend’s wedding while I held her infant sister. We had no idea that soon entire towns would be cut off from the world as highways washed out. But last week’s storm was different. My daughters, now 14 and 12, got flood alerts on their phones; their friends sent videos of water rushing through their houses. After the initial rainfall, we drove north on Route 7A to survey the damage. Our tires splashed through several inches of standing water on the highway. The contents of basements were dumped into front yards for emergency safekeeping. The local park and putting green were completely submerged, and the Battenkill River—typically clear—was brown with runoff, and so high it was licking a local bridge as it roared underneath.

After we got home, our collective mood was somber. “I can feel myself anticipating something bad,” Frasier told me. Later, as we watched news footage of the flooding on the living-room couch, Zephyr was melancholy. “I feel scared that I have to grow up in a ruined version of Vermont,” she said.

Vermonters, like other rural Americans, tend to feel a deep bond with the earth around them. My farmer friend, Brad, was devastated for the locals whose fields were flooded. Some “may never get back on the land they so lovingly tended, and that truly hurts my heart,” he wrote to me. “I know what it is like to be connected to the land, and the thought of having it taken away in the blink of an eye is heartbreaking.”

Around the country, in climate havens and known risk zones, families are terrified of losing that tie to home. Farmers in Georgia are grieving the lost peach crop. Homeowners in Florida are eyeing the 90-degree sea, waiting for the day it laps their front lawn. Folks in Louisiana are watching the ocean rush underneath the stilts of a family cottage, coming ever closer to carrying it away.

[Read: Summer in the South is becoming unbearable]

In Vermont, we are fixing flooded tractors and raising money for lost crops, donating to farmers and flooded bookstores. But we know that this heartbreak is everywhere, and only poised to increase. We will find new ways to love the land and grow food. We will help our neighbors reap their harvests before the next flood. But after this summer, I suspect we will never again believe ourselves to be out of harm’s way.

President Dina Boluarte has faced criticism for her government's heavy-handed response to anti-government protests.

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Elon Musk and Joe Biden are the unlikely tag team changing the way American journalists approach their jobs.

First, here are three new stories from The Atlantic:

The gravitational pull of supervising kids all the time There’s no such thing as an RFK Jr. voter. Everyone has “car brain.”

An Unlikely Tag Team

Reporters spend lots of time critiquing the president, so perhaps it’s only fair for Joe Biden to take a turn as a media critic.

During an interview last week with MSNBC’s Nicolle Wallace, Biden recounted a story that a reporter at “a major newspaper” told him. According to Biden, this reporter’s editor told them, “You don’t have a brand yet.”

“They said, ‘Well, I am not an editorial writer,’” Biden continued. “‘But you need a brand so people will watch you, listen to you, because of what they think you’re going to say.’ I just think there’s a lot changing.”

I’m curious from whom Biden heard this, because he speaks on the record to the press less than any president in recent memory—he’s given the fewest interviews and press conferences since Ronald Reagan. But for most reporters today, the dynamic the president is describing will be very familiar. Celebrity reporters have always existed, as Elliot Ackerman’s great recent article on the famed World War II correspondent Ernie Pyle underscored, but over the past 15 years, even cub reporters have felt intense pressure to become public personalities, whether the impetus comes from one’s editors or peers or the marketplace.

Yet as I watched Twitter melt down this weekend, I started to wonder whether that moment might actually be starting to pass—a casualty of the unlikely tag team of Joe Biden and Elon Musk. The two have, respectively, helped kill the demand and the means for journalists to brand themselves.

Donald Trump isn’t responsible for the celebrification of the press, but he supercharged it, especially in political journalism. During his presidency, the American public was more fixated on the news than it had been in decades. Journalists, in turn, became celebrities in their own right: Maggie Haberman of The New York Times became a household name thanks to her perpetual stream of Trump scoops. CNN’s Jim Acosta’s press-room grandstanding elevated his renown. The TV-retread Tucker Carlson found his moment as Trump’s greatest media apostle. Books about Trump seemed to shoot up the best-seller lists on a weekly basis.

This has all slowed to a crawl in the Biden era. The president has intentionally pursued a strategy of being boring and normal, and the result is much-reduced attention from the press. It’s hard to think of any reporter who has become a new, massive star since 2021. No Biden-book boom has ensued. Readership at news sites dropped after the 2020 election, and so have TV-news audiences. The calmer mood reverses an infamous tweet: The change is good for our country, but this is dull content.

Musk’s purchase and gradual demolition of Twitter is an even bigger part of the equation. Twitter was a branding machine that allowed reporters to make a direct connection with consumers. A clever or funny or piquant or simply hyperactive journalist could bypass the traditional gatekeepers of their outlet and become famous for something other than—or in addition to—whatever appeared under their byline.

Now Twitter is disintegrating for reasons of both ideology and technology. Although it has always been true that Twitter is not real life, the site brought together an unusually wide spectrum of the population, all in one place. Musk was mocked for calling Twitter a “town square,” but he was right. And because so many journalists were on the site, getting big on Twitter was usually enough to get big outside of it. But Musk’s takeover has encouraged the metamorphosis of the site into what my colleague Charlie Warzel has called a “far-right social network.” That drives away centrist and liberal reporters, but more importantly their audiences. Meanwhile, the site is mired in technical chaos much of the time, which is a problem for users of any political persuasion.

What comes after Twitter is a much more fragmented landscape. Many social-media sites command significant audiences, but no single platform can do what Twitter once did. A journalist can make a big bet on one platform, or they can try to hedge and be active on Reddit, YouTube, TikTok, Substack, and, as of this week, Meta’s Threads—give or take a dozen more. But who has the time? And besides, you don’t get the same reach. TikTok and YouTube command enormous but typically niche audiences. Substack grows slowly and seems to mostly reward writers who were already well-known before migrating to the platform, such as Matt Taibbi or Matt Yglesias. As Twitter refugees joined Bluesky this weekend, my following jumped by roughly 20 percent—to 221. Compare that with the nearly 34,000 followers I have on Twitter. (If I have a brand, it’s a boutique label.)

I’ve been working on reducing my own Twitter use, and I have mixed emotions. Not feeling the pressure to be part of the conversation each day has been freeing (of my time, among other things), though I miss the validation of a clever remark getting lots of engagement. I am not so naive as to hope that the era of journalist branding is over, but with a little luck, 2023 might someday look like a turning point on the road to its demise.

Related:

The White House spent four years vilifying journalists. What comes next? (From 2020) “I was an enemy of the people.”

Today’s News

A suspicious powder was found in the White House while President Biden and his family were at Camp David this past weekend, and tests confirmed it as cocaine. The world’s hottest day ever was recorded on July 3, a record that was subsequently broken again on the 4th. Yesterday, a district judge prevented Biden administration officials and certain federal agencies from working with social-media companies to discourage or filter First Amendment–protected speech.

Dispatches

The Weekly Planet: E-bikes are going to keep exploding, Caroline Mimbs Nyce explains. We’re stuck in battery purgatory. Work in Progress: Leading economists said we’d need higher unemployment to tame inflation, Adam Ozimek writes. Here’s why they were wrong.

Explore all of our newsletters here.

Evening Read

Joshua Roberts / Reuters

The Great American Eye-Exam Scam

By Yascha Mounk

On a beautiful summer day a few months ago, I walked down to the part of the Connecticut River that separates Vermont from New Hampshire, and rented a kayak. I pushed myself off the dock—and the next thing I remember is being underwater. Somehow, the kayak had capsized as it entered the river. I tried to swim up, toward the light, but found that my own boat blocked my way to safety. Doing my best not to panic, I swam down and away before finally coming up for air a few yards downriver. I clambered onto the dock, relieved to have found safety, but I was disturbed to find that the world was a blur. Could the adrenaline rush have been so strong that it had impaired my vision? No, the answer to the puzzle was far more trivial: I had been wearing glasses—glasses that were now rapidly sinking to the bottom of the Connecticut River.

If the whole experience was, in retrospect, as funny as it was scary, the most annoying consequence was the need to regain the faculty of sight. I did not have any backup glasses or spare contact lenses on hand. The local optometrists did not have open slots for an eye exam. Since the United States requires patients to have a current doctor’s prescription to buy eyewear, I was stuck. In the end, I had to wear my flowery prescription sunglasses—in offices and libraries, inside restaurants and aboard planes—for several days.

Then I went to Lima, Peru, to give a talk. There, I found a storefront optician, told a clerk my strength, and purchased a few months’ worth of contact lenses. Though my Spanish is rudimentary, the transaction took about 10 minutes.

Read the full article.

More From The Atlantic

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Culture Break

Cheryle St. Onge

Read. “Outdoor Day,” a new poem by Nicolette Polek.

“In elementary school, my mother rides the red bus to ‘defense class.’ / Station one she crosses a brook with knotted rope.”

Listen. A collection of some of June’s most popular Atlantic articles, presented by Hark.

Play our daily crossword.

P.S.

I’m mourning the recent death of the great German free-jazz saxophonist Peter Brötzmann. The usual euphemism is that he’s an acquired taste, but unlike with, say, whiskey or coffee, most people never feel a need to acquire a taste for him. His widest exposure may have been a 2021 cutting contest with Jimmy Fallon, but back in 2001, the saxophonist and former President Bill Clinton told the Oxford American that readers would be surprised to know he was a Brötzmann fan. I emailed Clinton’s spokesperson for comment on the death, but so far I’ve received no response. (If you’re reading this, Mr. President, call me!) The truth is that not all of Brötzmann’s output is difficult listening. This 2022 live performance with the Gnawa master Majid Bekkas and the drummer Hamid Drake is even trancily soothing.

— David

Katherine Hu contributed to this newsletter.