Bigotry lines the route through Trump country
Making a rare excursion from his 'metropolitan bubble', Donal Lynch takes a road trip through the Red States and is shocked by what he finds
If you'd asked me a few years ago, I would have confidently said I already knew "Trump Country". Back then that would still have meant martinis, models and skyscrapers - I had spent the better part of my 20s and 30s living in the shadow of Trump's Fifth Avenue building.
The Rust Belt and the Bible Belt seemed about as far away from my day-to-day life as Ballymun in those years. On my rare excursions out of the city in my work as a TV booker, I bonded with other journalists over the unsophisticated food and horrible coffee.
They nicknamed me 'the Donald' - mainly because they couldn't say my name properly - and I was everything my blowhard namesake raged against; a poor immigrant, a diehard liberal, a metropolitan elite, and seemingly out of touch with the political reality of my adopted homeland.