“Louise was blessed and fortunate enough to be raised in a Scottish castle, and to not understand the reality of some human beings with a different background,” said Louise Linton’s friend in this Elle profile. In fact, I do not think that profile did a good enough job of showing how down-to-earth Louise Linton is at all. Here is another attempt.
It’s the simple things in life. That is what Louise Linton has always felt. That is why she wants to take me on a tour of her custom-built Petit Trianon where she goes to experience the simple things the Trump-supporting taxpayer always experiences.
Louise is eager to show us how down-to-earth she is, asking to be photographed only with small bills, and requesting that her chateau be cropped out of the frame. Formerly, the image of Louise Linton was that she could not engage in more conspicuous consumption if she were the main character of La Traviata. But someone told her it was a good idea to do this profile, so here I am!
First, Louise leads me into the failing factory. She had it built at three-quarter scale, sparing no expense to replicate the unsafe and unsanitary working conditions many Americans face on a daily basis.
“I just think it’s important to stay grounded,” she observes. “You have to be like, how do I keep this factory going? How do I feed my family?” She invites friends over to contemplate these puzzles with her. She describes this as “trying” — contemplating the threat of having your job outsourced to automation, or not being allowed to use “summer” as a verb. The activity is very popular with her friends, who laud Linton as one of the most down-to-earth people they have ever met. And some of them have met Elon Musk.
Next we proceed to the diner. “Howdy, Tucker,” she says. Tucker, an actor, doffs his “MAGA” cap. We drink a cup of real coffee, flown in from a real American town, and Linton marvels at its texture and flavor. Over this real coffee, Louise tells me about how she made a real friend at the dog park when a strange dog got hold of the solid gold bone that her dog was struggling to bury. She now regularly invites the dog to tea and grooming parties while its owner sleeps on a park bench.
With Tucker’s help, Louise leads me in one of her favorite exercises: pretending to craft a Kickstarter campaign for a family member’s life-threatening medical emergency before the clock runs out. We don’t succeed. Louise feels awful!
No time to process this: We have to go to SoulCycle! Louise is just like regular people, she tells me. In fact, her SoulCycle T-shirt says “Regular Person” on it.
After SoulCycle, Louise leads me around her model farm, where she and husband Steve often go to tend their pastel sheep and imagine what it would be like to be members of the third estate. She has a lot of compassion, her friend (a model) tells me as we walk from the model farm to their model factory (different kinds of models).
We punch out at a Faberge clock before we board her personal subway, clinging to the poles as someone makes us a sandwich.
Has she ever seen an actual subway? I ask.
She smiles knowingly. No time to process this either! We are climbing on a private jet.
Louise’s friends hasten to assure me that she likes the things regular people like: breathing air, Ivanka Trump-branded products, getting upset on the Internet, going to galas, calling the plumber when the diamonds from the bathtub where she sleeps get stuck in the drain. She gets it!
We get off the jet at another model farm, where we join several other members of the Trump administration to don custom galoshes and imagine what it might be like to need soybean subsidies. There is another diner here, this one a bit larger, where we go and complain about our economic anxieties. The only thing on the menu is hamburgers. They arrive on blue china and we cut little pieces out of them with our silver forks and knives.
“Louise has a lot of compassion,” her friend, a model, explains, “but she grew up in a Scottish castle.”