It begins with a sentence as banal as it is meaningful: "Hi, I'm Donald Trump." There it stands, in black and white, in the middle of the glitter of Fashion Week 1998, as a choreography of models, cameras, and vanity unfolds in New York's Kit Kat Club. And in the midst of it: a young woman from Slovenia, setting out to become part of a myth that will devour everything else.
Melania, as she would later call herself, is not looking for a messiah that evening. She's jetlagged, just back from Paris, hesitating between choosing glamour or exhaustion - ultimately opting for the former. Then comes the phone call, the invitation - and finally the meeting, which in retrospect feels like a scene from a carefully staged film: music, lights, celebrities, and an outstretched hand with a sentence that has since made history.
Chapter 5
"Hello, I'm Donald Trump."
On a Friday evening in September 1998, as I settled into my New York City apartment after a whirlwind trip to Paris, my phone rang. It was a friend of mine.
"My boyfriend is throwing a party at the Kit Kat Club tomorrow night," she said. "Please come. We haven't seen each other in so long."
"I just got back from Paris," I said.
"Please, it'll be fun. Lots of people will be there. We'll pick you up."
Although I was tired and jetlagged, I liked the idea of spending my weekend with friends.
I’ve always been selective about how I spend my time and where I direct my energy. A big, loud party wasn’t always my first choice for a Saturday night. I preferred a quiet dinner, a movie, or time with close friends. Even though I didn’t avoid social occasions, such gatherings were usually not my thing.
I accepted the invitation anyway - after all, it was Fashion Week - a time of glamour and sophistication. I was genuinely looking forward to chatting with industry insiders and trendsetters.
As I stepped into the sleek black cab my friend had sent, I felt like a celebrity on the way to a gala. When we arrived at the Kit Kat Club, we were greeted by the energy of the crowd and the bright lights. Inside, the dark, crowded room buzzed with models, photographers, editors, and designers mingling on that Fashion Week Saturday night. I settled into the VIP section at our table, where the atmosphere was one of style and camaraderie. Some guests danced, others engaged in lively conversations - and we all enjoyed the evening.
I saw my friend pointing at someone behind me. When I turned around, I noticed a man and an attractive blonde woman approaching us.
"Hi. I’m Donald Trump," said the man as he reached our table. "Nice to meet you." I recognized the name, and I knew he was a businessman or celebrity, but not much more. He extended his hand to introduce himself.
"Hello," I replied. "I’m Melania."
His gaze was full of curiosity and interest, and he sat down next to me to start a conversation. He asked me about my life in New York, my Slovenian background, and my work. It was a moment of connection, a brief encounter that left a lasting impression. I was curious about this new acquaintance.
Because he was good-looking and had something to say, I admit: at first I saw our conversation as nothing more than a polite exchange at a fancy event. The music was loud, the crowd thick - it was hard to really focus.
But from the moment our conversation began, I was captivated by his charm and ease. There was so much presence and joy in the way he spoke, how he focused on me - it made me feel like I was the center of his world. It was a welcome departure from the usual superficial chatter, and I caught myself being drawn to his magnetic aura.
The text she shares on social media today reads like a cross between a fairy tale and a marketing brochure: the description of a man whose gaze is magnetic, whose interest is sincere, whose charm is irresistible. It’s as if Gatsby had entered the stage - only in a worse suit, but with a bigger ego. The Trump of these lines is not a real estate shark, not a future president, not a demagogue - but a projection surface. An encounter told in the language of glorification.
But behind the words lies a quiet echo. It’s the tone of a country that clings to its own fairy tales. Melania’s account is not an intimate confession, but a cultural incantation: the belief in upward mobility, destiny, power - and in romantic salvation through wealth. Her story is not private, but public, not introspective, but emblematic. It does not want to remember, but to affirm. Not to question, but to make believe.
And yet the question remains: what does this chapter say about him - and what does it say about us? Perhaps that the sentence "Hello, I’m Donald Trump" is by now more than just an introduction. It’s a promise. A warning sign. A marketing slogan. And in a country that moves between Bible, screen, and bestseller, sometimes that’s all it takes.
English 
German 
Irgendwie kann ich nicht anders, als mich tot zu lachen.
Diese Beschreibung klingt, als ob sie sich das selber oft genug vorgelogen hat.
Wie kann man wohltuende Gesprächen mit einem Mann führen, der kaum einen Clarence Satz Herausforderungen bekommt?
Der das geistige Niveau eines 3. Klässlers hat.
Was sagt das auch über Melania aus?
Geld ist der treibende Faktor.
Sie genießt ihr priviligiertes Leben ohne Moral und Anstand.
Ehrlich gesagt ist mir Angst und Bange, was für ein Mensch deren Sohn Barron ist und was da noch kommt.
Die Saat des Hasses muss in ihm ja noch viel tiefer stecken, als in den anderen Kindern.
Die schon erwachsen waren, als die Radikalisierung extrem wurde.
Tja, eine Frau im selbst gewählten goldenen Käfig…
Möglich, dass er zunächst charmant war und dass sie erst später hinter die Maske dieses Narzissten blicken konnte, aber sie bleibt trotz allem an seiner Seite und trägt alles mit.
Am ehesten erinnert mich ihre Rolle noch an die von Eva Braun.