My cousin Frances, who’s 93, loves Donald Trump. She’s adored him ever since the beginning, from the fateful escalator ride at Trump Tower to Billy Bush and beyond. The morning after he won, when I was hungover and she called to gloat, we had some words and didn’t talk for weeks. Afterwards we vowed never to let politics get in the way of our friendship.
Then a few months ago, after the umpteenth controversy to come out of the White House, I asked her what she thought of Trump now.
“What do I think?” she said. “I like him even more. In fact, I’d drive clear to Washington just to shake his hand.”
“Then I’ll drive you myself,” I said, kidding. “We’ll go together.”
But the joke took on a life of its own until it was no longer a joke, and here we are, driving 2,000 miles to try to meet the man. I assure myself that he’s a germaphobe and won’t shake my hand anyway.