Frida, watching me put Max’s longest socks on and noting that he has two knees, suggests that they should be called ‘knees socks’.
Tobias, answering my question about our attendance at next Wednesday’s anti-G20 demonstration, patiently explains that Trump a.) is an elected official, and b.) does not care what I think (or yell and scream.)
I somewhat less patiently explain that the demo isn’t meant to change Trump’s mind (although isn’t that a delicious thought,) but to remind the consumers of the demo – neighbors, passersby, city leadership, our cops – of the importance of voting for a candidate who will do the right thing. I’m charged up, glad that my German has come far enough to talk American politics even though it’s dead easy right now: smack the forehead, explain that even with Trump out of the picture there are still millions of Trump supporters feeding off of Russian Fact Soup, say something simple about how capitalism is bad.
Max, trying on a dress from the Nigerian stall at the street festival, twirls and twirls and laughs and twirls.
We are as good as we’re going to get.