Member-only story
Travels with my Hat
Donald Trump’s first year as president was the first year I went to Europe. I was so embarrassed to be an American after that travesty of an election in the world’s most pushy democracy that I felt the need to wear something to shout to the world — “I didn’t vote for that idiot!” So I bought a hat.
It said “Dump Trump” and I hoped its simplicity would convey my existential heartache in every language I bumped into. I wore it everywhere.
Most of the time people laughed when they saw it. In Florence, Italy, a server at a cafe near the Duomo nodded sympathetically and said, “Capisco. Ricorda Berlusconi?” (Yes, they too had elected a womanizing buffoon) In Nerja, a seaside town in Spain, an expat from Australia with two huge greyhounds at her side stubbed out her cigarette and said, “I just love your hat.” In Seville, though, while having dinner with friends in an upscale eatery, an elderly man angrily stared at me. Circling our table, he glared at my hat and then strode out of the restaurant. Probably something was lost in the translation, I guess. He couldn’t have been a devotee of The Donald. Could he?
It wasn’t until the plane trip back to Philly where another elderly man in the seat in front of me looked at my hat, shook his head, and solemnly said, “He’s the greatest president we’ve ever had,” that I got a thumbs down on my attire.
