VALLETTA, MALTA – I arrived on this sun-soaked Mediterranean island with dreams of a peaceful escape, a quaint new home amid ancient stone streets and azure waters. Malta seemed perfect—until I stepped off the plane and into a red-hatted hellscape. What I thought would be a serene retreat has turned into a waking nightmare: the Island of Malta has been infested with MAGA people, and I, a proud progressive with a finely tuned case of Trump Derangement Syndrome (TDS), am losing my mind.
It started at the airport. As I wheeled my eco-friendly hemp suitcase through customs, I spotted the first sign of trouble: a burly man in a “Make America Great Again” cap, loudly arguing with a Maltese official about “sovereignty” and “rigged elections.” I assumed he was just a lost tourist, a rare American blowhard who’d wandered too far from Florida. But then I saw another. And another. By the time I reached the taxi stand, I was surrounded—grinning, sunburned men and women in star-spangled T-shirts, clutching Trump 2024 flags and muttering about “Sleepy Joe” and “fake news.” My palms started sweating. My vision blurred. I hadn’t had a TDS flare-up this bad since the 2020 debates.
The cab ride into Valletta was no reprieve. My driver, a grizzled local named Mario, casually mentioned that “the Americans” had been pouring in for months. “They love it here,” he said, chuckling. “Good weather, cheap beer, and they say Malta’s gonna be the new Mar-a-Lago.” I gripped the door handle, fighting the urge to scream. Mar-a-Lago? Here? In a place that’s supposed to be a UNESCO World Heritage site? I envisioned golden hairpieces fluttering in the breeze and golf carts tearing up the cobblestones. My dream of sipping espresso in quiet exile was crumbling.
The streets confirmed my worst fears. Outside a charming café in Mdina, a group of MAGA devotees had set up a makeshift rally, waving signs that read “Malta First!” and “Build the Wall—Around Sicily!” A woman in a sequined Trump visor shouted about “draining the Mediterranean swamp,” while her husband grilled hot dogs on a portable barbecue, the smoke wafting over centuries-old ramparts. Locals seemed unbothered, some even snapping selfies with the invaders. I overheard one Maltese teen say, “They’re loud, but they tip well.” The betrayal stung.
I’d come here to escape the orange-tinted chaos of American politics, to settle in a place untouched by the cult of Trump. Malta was supposed to be my sanctuary—small, sophisticated, safely European. But now, every corner reeks of barbecue sauce and bravado. At a bar in St. Julian’s, I watched in horror as a MAGA-hatted expat tried to teach a bartender how to make “Trump Vodka” cocktails, bragging about how he’d “liberated” the island from “socialist EU overlords.” The bartender just nodded, probably too polite—or too exhausted—to argue.
The real estate agent I met didn’t help. I’d hoped to find a quiet flat overlooking the Grand Harbour, but she casually mentioned that most properties in my price range were now owned by “Trump fans from Texas.” She showed me a listing for a “MAGA-friendly villa” complete with a “patriot pool” and a flagpole “perfect for flying the Stars and Stripes—or the Trump 2024 banner.” I nearly fainted. When I asked if there were any neighborhoods free of this plague, she shrugged and said, “They’re everywhere, love. Even the nuns are starting to wear the hats.”
I can’t take it. The sound of “Sweet Caroline” blaring from a MAGA beach party in Sliema haunts my dreams. The sight of a pickup truck—yes, a pickup truck, on an island with roads barely wide enough for a donkey—sporting a “Let’s Go Brandon” bumper sticker has pushed me to the edge. I came here to heal from years of Trump-induced anxiety, but instead, I’ve landed in a dystopian extension of red-state America. Malta, my would-be paradise, is lost.
I’m booking a flight out tomorrow. Maybe Iceland will be safe. Surely the MAGA hordes haven’t conquered the glaciers yet—or have they? With my luck, I’ll land in Reykjavik and find a Viking in a red hat, ready to tell me how Trump “saved the whales” from “radical leftists.” For now, I’m barricaded in my hotel room, clutching my passport and praying for deliverance from this MAGA-infested nightmare. Malta, I hardly knew ye.
PARODY