Vang: Stars, stripes and side-eye abroad?

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It’s that time of year where I’m plotting the family’s summer calendar like it’s the Normandy invasion. Camps, tutoring, travel. It’s all laid out in text messages and shared Google calendars with the deep, eternal hope that my three kids won’t spend their entire summer break glued to screens like caffeinated garden gnomes.

But there’s one part of this ritual that’s giving me palpitations this year: international travel. Not because of the usual logistical chaos — passports, exchange rates, that one child who packed six hoodies for a desert climate — but because of a creeping dread I’ve never felt quite so intensely before: the fear that the world hates us now. Meaning, they don’t want us as tourists in their countries.

Not “us” as in my Vang family, per se — we’re charming in that Midwestern, Hmong kind of way, which means we’re only moderately loud in restaurants — but “us” as in people from President Donald Trump’s America. The big, bold, McDonald’s-scented collective that apparently now hates Canada, but loves Russia. Which has made me wonder, if the world really hates Trump’s version of us, maybe I should just stay put in the good ol’ U.S. of A. where the fries are familiar and nobody glares when I ask for ketchup.

As an American who’s been to over 50 countries, I used to take pride in being a cultural ambassador. I’ve gobbled vegemite sandwiches to the wonderment of Australians, gotten lost, then found in Hong Kong subways, and mangled French verbs with enough flair to make new friends in Parisian cafes. Through all these experiences, I have always made a point to tell the people I’ve met around the world how lucky I am to have grown up in Minnesota.

But lately? I worry the global Yelp review of America has plummeted to one lonely, greasy star. It’s a rating that is well deserved because of our president. Every day he creates fresh diplomatic dumpster fires. Whether it is his tariffs, his bullying of leaders or his withdrawal from climate change agreements, the world hates us now except for Russia, North Korea and random despotic countries.

I have two friends with dual citizenship, and they are now exclusively using their other passports. Another friend is stitching little Canadian flags onto her kids’ travel backpacks — not because they’re Canadian, but because saying “sorry” a lot and loving maple syrup is more palatable than, say, explaining Ron DeSantis’ war with Mickey Mouse.

I’ve even caught myself rehearsing a British accent in the mirror. “Oh, terribly sorry, mate!” I must say it’s not that bad from my time living in London for a semester in college and from hours of watching Masterpiece Theatre.

And then I remembered: this is exactly what Trump wants.

He wants Americans to be scared. Isolated. Huddled in front of our televisions, bingeing outrage and pretending that the Mona Lisa isn’t real or relevant. He wants us to believe the world is a threat. That everywhere beyond our borders is chaos, violence and weird cheeses. That our ignorance is our safety blanket. That we should stay home, be fearful of our neighbors across the border like Canada until we are also scared of our neighbors across the street.

But here’s the thing: I know that travel is precisely what makes us less fearful. It’s standing in a crowded market and realizing you don’t know the word for “toilet” in the local language, but you do know how to mime desperation. It’s hearing music you can’t identify but suddenly love. It’s learning that the world, while flawed, is also funny and friendly.

Of course, my anxiety isn’t entirely irrational. I think, too, about legal immigrants and international students — people on visas who are terrified of leaving the U.S. for fear they won’t be let back in. Families caught in limbo, holding tightly to paperwork and prayers, wondering if a quick trip to visit grandma in Mumbai might result in a lifetime apart. I feel really privileged to be able to travel on vacation.

After much soul-searching — and by that, I mean doomscrolling — I canceled our family’s summer trip to Yellowstone National Park. Apparently, thanks to Trump firing park rangers and gutting staffing, the place is now less “majestic wilderness” and more “DIY trash pickup with bears.” So instead, I bought airline tickets to Iceland and France. At least if we’re going to get side-eyed, it’ll be in a country where their leaders don’t hate their national parks and the people who care for them.

If I’ve learned anything from years of travel, it’s this: The world may roll their eyes at Americans, but they still have room for the ones who show up curious, humble and willing to learn. Even the ones like myself, who pronounce croissant like “krah-sant” — rhyming with ant, as in “The ant ate my krah-sant.”

Bon voyage, my fellow passport-clutchers. I’ll see you in Paris.