# ‘What the hell’s happening to your country?’ Traveling as an American under Trump 2.0





There was no adulation for the US on this trip, a far cry from the standard enthusiastic response to hearing I’m from California. In nearly five weeks, I didn’t hear a single “Oh, I’d love to go to America” or “I have a cousin in Boston I’d like to visit.”

_“Believe me, I’m American and I’m just as confused as you are.”_

I do my best to avoid being labeled as an ‘ugly American’. But it seems the ugliest of all Americans has trumped even the most hideous stereotypes.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I have to go back home today,” I muttered, slumping down in my seat after releasing a herculean sigh.

“America seems so angry,” he continued. “All the guns, the mass shootings, and now Trump and his henchmen. How is everyone coping?” he asked.

It’s a good question. “I’ve heard everything from bingeing on chocolate, cheap wine, Cheetos and Netflix to taking up knitting or mahjong, or adopting a cat. Anything to preserve our sanity.”

“My family escaped Kosovo in the late 90s,” he said. “We lived in a one-room flat in Glasgow and my brother still lives there, but my mother died back home in the war.”

My heart plunged into my stomach. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Here I am prattling on about how ‘bad’ things are in the United States and I’m not going home to a war, famine, or mass displacement …”

His eyes searched to meet mine in the rear-view mirror as we pulled up to the departure gate.

“This is true. Not yet, anyway … but the seed has been planted in your country and so, we are afraid for you.”

_Yes, a very orange seed._

His voice was consoling.

I was struck by his compassionate tone, his need to make sense of the chaos from across the pond, and his genuine concern for not just me, but for America as a whole – something I’d never experienced before in such abundance while traveling. From Inverness to London, I found solace in the voices of strangers who wanted to talk about what’s going on (most of whom were far more versed in US politics than the average American).

“Do you think the UK would adopt me?” I asked.

He let out a gentle chuckle, pulled out my suitcase from the boot, and reached out to shake my hand.

“Take care of yourself,” he whispered. “Keep your family and friends close and be kind to your neighbors.”

This kind of human connection when you’re far from home is incredibly comforting, not just for a solo menopausal traveler prone to bouts of tears and emotional outbursts, but for an American headed back to the US; and for the first time, feeling more terrified about the next four years than of flying.

I’ve always been slightly embarrassed as an American abroad, cringing at the sight (and sound) of fellow citizens behaving badly, and I often contemplate saying I’m Canadian. I do my best to blend in, to respect the culture, and most of all to read the room – anything to avoid being labeled as an “ugly American” (arrogant, crude, self-absorbed, and ignorant).

But it seems that in the second coming of Trump, the ugliest of all Americans has trumped even the most hideous stereotypes. Because, really, what could be uglier?

- Shanti L Nelson is a writer and photographer

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