What do you wear on a visit to one of the world’s most notorious prisons?

If you’re Kristi Noem, the homeland security secretary who visited El Salvador’s massive Terrorism Confinement Center on Wednesday, the answer was a white long-sleeve top, gray slacks and a baseball cap emblazoned with the Immigration and Customs Enforcement logo.

Oh, and a gold Rolex Cosmograph Daytona that sells for about $50,000.

Ms. Noem traveled to the prison, known as Cecot, where the Trump administration this month sent hundreds of Venezuelan deportees. Earlier this week, the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit denied the government’s attempts to restart the deportations, which a federal judge had blocked earlier in March. On Friday, the Trump administration asked the Supreme Court to allow it to resume the deportations.

At Cecot, as Ms. Noem filmed a video in front of a row of prisoners that were crowded tightly into bunks behind bars, her flashy watch bulged from her wrist, standing out in an austere scene.

The display led to a great deal of criticism on social media from people who questioned the taste of wearing such a pricey watch for the visit. Cecot, which opened in 2023 and was designed to hold as many as 40,000 prisoners, was a signature initiative of Nayib Bukele, the El Salvadoran president who has gained an international reputation for dealing with his country’s gang problem through mass incarceration — a campaign that has been criticized by multiple human rights groups.

In a statement about the watch, Tricia McLaughlin, homeland security’s assistant secretary for public affairs, wrote that Ms. Noem used the proceeds of her books “to purchase an item she could wear and one day pass down to her children.” Ms. McLaughlin did not address the decision to wear that potential heirloom to Cecot.

It is perhaps not a surprise that Ms. Noem, formerly the governor of South Dakota, owns a Rolex — the Swiss brand has been a watch of choice for politicians for decades. Former president Joseph R. Biden Jr., a known watch enthusiast, wore a Rolex Datejust to his inauguration — a choice that led to some criticism from the right. Presidents Trump, Ford and Reagan all wore Rolexes. And even the former Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev made a concession to the fruits of private industry when he wore a gold Datejust.

According to the watch journalist Brynn Wallner, the founder of Dimepiece, a site for female watch enthusiasts, the Daytona is among the most sought-after Rolexes. First produced in 1963, the watch shot to popularity when Paul Newman started wearing one. Today, the watch is hard to get — buyers typically have to sit on a yearslong wait list to buy it from an official dealer — and as a result, many resort to paying inflated prices on the secondary market.

“If you’re buying it, you’re flaunting the fact that you can even get one,” Ms. Wallner said. “And you probably pay a little more for it than you had to. It’s a flex piece. It’s a signifier of wealth. It’s not subtle at all.”

Paul Altieri, the founder and chief executive of Bob’s Watches, an online marketplace for the resale and trade of watches, agreed.

“Rolex intentionally keeps supplies limited to maintain exclusivity,” he said. “Most customers won’t be offered one unless they have a longstanding relationship with the dealer or are high-priority clients.”

That Ms. Noem’s watch was quickly identified was to be expected. “Watchspotting,” the internet sport of identifying the watches of public figures, has flourished in recent years.

At the Super Bowl in February, enthusiasts immediately identified a Jacob & Co. Caviar Tourbillon on Tom Brady’s wrist, which retails for more than $700,000. Jay-Z was even more extreme at last month’s Grammy Awards, wearing a Patek Philippe Minute Repeater Perpetual Calendarwatch, which retails for more than $2 million. Mr. Trump is often spotted wearing luxury watches beyond just Rolexes, and also has his own line of signature watches that cost as much as $100,000 each.

Watchspotters often pay close attention to any glimpses they can get of watches during awards shows and galas, and they quickly report what they find online.

Now, thanks to Ms. Noem, they have expanded their purview to prisons.

I met Jacob at an overcrowded Abba-themed dance night. He was wearing a faux-fur head wrap. He seemed so young. I was 33. Still, I thought he was cute. When we locked eyes on the smoking patio, I thought the feeling was mutual.

We got to chatting. Jacob said he worked “in music,” which I took to mean he sometimes played the guitar. He asked what I did, and I brushed off the question. I didn’t feel like talking about work.

A week earlier, my ex had moved out of our apartment. After six years together, he said, “Anna, I don’t think this is working.” And just like that, we were over. There were plenty of reasons. We argued too much, had different timelines for children. And then there was the sex — or lack thereof.

Couples therapy helped with the arguing but not the intimacy. When he finally handed me his key, I sat in my half-empty apartment and cried.

Now, with Jacob, I thought about how most of my friends were starting families and buying houses. And here I was at Abba Night, drinking a vodka soda.

He asked for my number. I gave it to him, not expecting much.

The next day, he asked if I wanted to get a drink. We met for margaritas. I was early. I realized that I barely remembered his face. All I knew was that he seemed young. As I waited at the bar, I wondered just how young. Finally, he appeared, looking like he was dressed for Coachella — baggy cargo pants and chunky, layered necklaces. I could barely meet his gaze.

He was 24, almost a decade younger. I was embarrassed, but Jacob shrugged.

“Age doesn’t matter,” he said.

Which of course, wasn’t true.

He told me he was a rapper and that his tracks had done well on Spotify. I was surprised. Impressed, even. He said a manager was interested, but he’d have to fork over a huge chunk of his profits.

I started to give him advice — as a TV writer, I had experience with predatory contracts. Then I stopped myself. Did I sound like his mother? We talked more. We didn’t have much in common, but I wasn’t ready to give up. When we finished our margaritas, I suggested a second bar.

The next place was swanky. The bartender gave me a funny look. Was he judging me? Maybe nine-and-a-half years wasn’t that much, but I’d never been on this side of an age gap. In my early 20s, I had dated a handful of older men. At the time, I found their age alluring, but hindsight had made me skeptical of their attraction. I once heard that adult brains aren’t fully developed until the age of 25. Was my young self simply easier to manipulate?

Sitting with Jacob, I wondered if now I was the creepy older man. I ordered myself an orange wine and he blinked. “What’s that?” he asked.

I explained it had something to do with the grape skins. He nodded blankly, then he asked what I was working on. I told him about my horror script about a girl who loses her mind in the woods. He listened, eyes wide. He told me it sounded “like a real movie.” I knew he meant it as a compliment.

Jacob was a gentle lover, if a bit nervous. He lingered in my living room for an hour before kissing me. I didn’t mind. He was a good kisser. And when he ran his fingers along my arm, the age gap disappeared. We were just two people on a fitted sheet, trying to feel less alone. For once, sex felt effortless.

On our second date, Jacob showed me his music. It was chaotic and loud. Even his voice — deep and full of swagger — felt unfamiliar. I didn’t understand it.

On our third date, lying naked in bed, I told Jacob I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I explained that I was emotionally unavailable because of my breakup. He said that was OK. Perfect, in fact. Because he wanted to focus on his music, not love. We agreed to keep things casual.

“Casual” meant seeing each other once a week. He always offered to pay, but usually I grabbed the check. I knew my TV writer salary exceeded his Spotify profits. He lived in a cramped studio apartment and slept on a futon. I had slept there once, but my back hurt so much from the flimsy cushions that I vowed never to do it again.

Two months in, we went clubbing with his friends in a sweaty basement bar where everyone seemed younger than me. I was dressed in high-waisted Zara jeans and a tank top I’d bought in 2017. The other women wore low-slung pants with tiny crop tops, oozing the kind of confidence you feel when you’re still on your parents’ health insurance.

One vented to me about her on-again-off-again boyfriend. I suggested couples therapy. She looked at me like I had told her to eat a shoe.

The next morning, I peered into my bathroom mirror, hyper-aware of the wrinkles on my forehead. I had turned 30 in the first year of Covid. Prepandemic, I didn’t remember ever having wrinkles. Post-pandemic, my face seemed centuries older.

After three months, I found myself falling for Jacob. On Valentine’s Day, I took him to my favorite sushi restaurant. Afterward, in bed, I told him how I felt. I said I didn’t need a serious relationship, but I wanted to take things to the next level. Maybe a weekend trip?

He grew quiet. “Maybe,” he said.

During our next date, Jacob dumped me. We had just ordered our entrees when he dropped the bomb, saying, “I think we should roll things back romantically.”

I didn’t get it. Was this about the weekend trip? He said it was everything. I never understood his jokes. We had different interests. And hadn’t we agreed to keep things casual? Didn’t I notice that when I told him I was falling for him, he never said it back?

The waiter returned with our entrees — salad for me, and a big bowl of mac and cheese for Jacob. Waiting for the bill, I wanted to cry, but I refused. It was one thing to date a 24-year-old in a faux-fur head wrap; it was quite another to get dumped by one.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. At 3 a.m., I opened Spotify and clicked Jacob’s first track. I listened over and over until the music no longer confused me. What had initially sounded chaotic now seemed urgent and driving.

I searched Spotify for similar artists. It was as if dating Jacob had opened my eyes to the fact that there was a new generation of people creating art, and it was worth trying to understand. Obvious, maybe, but I’d missed it.

Jacob and I had only dated a few months and barely scratched the surface of our emotions. We were, by all accounts, a “situationship.” And I had spent most of it focused on myself. Because I paid for things, I chose what we did, what we ate. And it wasn’t just that. He seemed endlessly impressed by my writing career. He made me feel like I had things figured out. But I hadn’t considered how it all made him feel. That maybe the constant focus on my life made him feel small and unmoored.

A month later, I willed myself onto the dating apps. When I met Jacob, I was reeling from heartbreak. But things had changed, and I had to admit that sex with anyone would now, inevitably, lead to feelings.

I soon matched with a guy named Lucas. He was 45, with eye wrinkles and gray hair in his beard. On our second date, he took me to a fancy restaurant and ordered the orange wine. He had just bought a house in Encino and redone the floors. After our fourth date, he suggested a weekend trip. Maybe Santa Barbara?

I liked Lucas, but what was I doing flinging myself so far across the age spectrum? Lucas wanted something serious. Was I ready for that? I told my therapist I was thinking of breaking it off. She asked why. I said, “Because he’s old!”

She laughed. “If you like him, that’s all that matters.”

I said yes to Santa Barbara.

A year after my breakup with Jacob, he texted me. He was now 25, meaning his brain had officially finished developing. When he asked if I would like to meet up, I was shocked. Did he finally realize that he couldn’t live without me? He clarified that he still didn’t want anything serious, but would I be interested in a no-strings hookup?

I politely declined. Lucas and I had plans.