I sat down with my father at a supposedly authentic Roman trattoria, anticipating a gluttonous, gluten-rich payload. Two Irish women sat down next to us. They really pack you in at these places. Being polite and normal people, though, we managed not to invade each other’s personal space. The Irish women were not so lucky with their American neighbour who took great delight in butting in and and telling them of his Irish heritage. He was a perfect parody of himself. He proudly told them that he was writing a novel in Rome, but was also here in protest at Trump’s inauguration, which was in a couple of days. He waited for swooning approval from the poor lasses. Nothing. He then added that his wife was busying herself, helping to organise the Washington protest. Again, they weren’t overly fussed. He asked them what they did. One responded that she was a prison officer. His interest instantly evaporated.

The next day my father and I accidentally walked 10 kilometres hopping between Rome’s basilicas, choc-full of Caravaggios, late antique icons and 11th century mosaics. We were desperate for some food. Motivated by pretension, I was determined to avoid the accessible tourist traps. We found a place tucked away behind the main street and were handed English menus after making it painfully obvious we couldn’t speak Italian. Looking up, I quickly realised the clientele were a serious, local crowd. Their eyes occasionally glanced at a mounted television streaming 24 hour news. A quick check on my phone revealed we were just off the Via Parliamento (we didn’t need Google Translate for that) and had stumbled across a Roman political-staffer haunt. Despite the trauma of Italy’s recently failed referendum and concomitant Prime Ministerial resignation, they were enjoying just as leisurely a lunch as the political class of Macquarie Street (and indeed the world), only they were immaculately dressed. I decided that this is where we would watch the inauguration.

It turned out that we would watch it on my laptop in our pokey Airbnb flat, as the inauguration didn’t line up with lunch or dinner opening hours. After a morning of yet more basilicas (leaving Rome illuminated by my votive candles alone), I hailed a cab. Upon agreeing on a destination, the driver and I sat in silence. Somewhere along the Corso Vittorio Emanuelle II, A news bulletin came across the car radio. The presenter’s voice bounced along ‘bippity boppity Presidente Trumpe! Bippity boppity’ etc. All of a sudden the Roman taxi driver became animated and joined in, ‘Trump! Trump! Presidente Trump!’ He excitedly turned to me, expecting a fellow traveller’s validation.

The day after the inauguration I visited the Pantheon, built by Agrippa, one of Emperor Augustus’ closest allies. The dome is what people come for. Most striking to me was the fact that the huge, bronze doors, installed in a pagan temple at the dawn of the Christian era, were still in their place. Less impressive, and quite a hindrance on the imagination as one crosses the threshold of this ancient wonder, were the pack of anti-Trump protesters gathered in the piazza. How exciting! A uniquely Italian iteration of a universal act of protest! No, not really.Every protest sign was in English. One said ‘I’m with her’ and had an arrow pointing at Earth. Almost every attendee of the protest was of Anglo-Celtic appearance. There was an American flag except instead of the stars there was a peace sign. Wow. Then whining over the megaphone was an unmistakeable American accent. It introduced the strumming of an acoustic guitar. The American spiritual song We shall overcome bounced back into the piazza from Agrippa’s bronze doors. Many would have us believe that these protests ‘around the world’ are grassroots phenomena, full of local women rising up in solidarity with their American sisters. The display outside the Pantheon revealed, instead, a protest involving almost no Romans. It was essentially two hundred or so comfortably wealthy American women who all happened to be on holiday, or perhaps writing novels, in the same city at the same time. In bringing their national protest to Rome, these unambiguously American liberal elites offered only a slight variation on the impolite, casually chauvinistic, stereotype of a Yankee tourist. Whether it’s the Roman taxi driver who lives far outside the Aurelian Walls, or the American elector from Flyover Country, those celebrating the Trump victory are celebrating at home. The protesters are on holiday.