Small, sun-bleached billboards read “The Most Scottish Town in Italy” along the winding roads into Barga. Along the road that splits the old city from the new, the St. Andrew’s Cross alternates with il Tricolore. The town’s Scottish pride comes from Scottish-Italian expats returning to the Tuscan town their forebears left when work was scarce in the 19th century.

Yet, for all the Saltires, Barga’s residents have an equal appreciation for Old Glory. 

Locals sport cheesy American shirts and tank tops. By day, vintage shops sell a wide array of second-hand Americana, and the local children’s store is full of Captain America merchandise (though the comic book hero does not evoke as much patriotism since the MCU’s hostile takeover of the cinema). But Barga’s esteem for America can’t be captured by tchotchkes or t-shirts. After the sun sets behind the mountains that hide Barga from the world is when her admiration for America shines through. 

The small piazzas that dot the old city are separated by just a few hundred feet of narrow, crooked alleys. They each have their own bars, restaurants, and seating areas. By night, to entertain patrons and passersby, each has their own musical performance. It’s unintentional, but a bar crawl through these piazzas might leave one with the impression that it’s designed to be a tour of American music in the later half of the 20th century.

The sounds of snares and cymbals and familiar chord progressions echoing through the corridors beckoned us to the piazza. The cigarette smoke billowing up from the small square was thick. Settling in on a stone bench, we lit our own. 

Across the clearing, a local band played the greatest American hits of the ’50s and ’60s. The lead singer showed off a greaser cut and a red and white bowling shirt. The band all wore bowling shirts, too, theirs black and slate gray. 

“Jailhouse Rock,” “Folsom Prison Blues,” and “The Twist” brought nonnas to their feet. They approached a group of men who looked to be in their late twenties wearing mostly unbuttoned linen shirts and slim-cut pants. They all started to swing, twist, and jitterbug. A beautiful middle-aged woman in white sneakers and red dress made her way to the dance floor and proceeded to dance seemingly an entire number from the movie Grease. As she skipped around the piazza, the crowd cheered. She pointed at her husband, who stood at the cash bar operated by the local football club, Gatti Randagi F.C. He was loving every second. Their three children, however, who stood in front of their father, appeared ready to die of embarrassment.

At another piazza, a young woman played acoustic pop hits from the ’70s and ’80s. Carole King’s “I Feel the Earth Move” was a particular favorite of the crowd. The music rang out into the early hours of the morning. The crowds stayed, smoking cigarettes and sipping wine or spirits until the musicians had to break the news to onlookers that their performance was coming to an end. Without their announcements, I’m not sure the crowds would have gone home.

This American night in the most Scottish town in Italy reminded me of several conversations I had had during my three weeks in Krakow. On several occasions, participants in the fellowship from European nations asked almost the same questions verbatim: “I hear there are serious domestic problems in America right now. Is that really true? How bad is it?” Each time, this line of questioning prompted a long rant—which I don’t think my European inquirers were prepared for—as well as several other comments from Americans in the group. 

Our replies ran the gamut of issues, from immigration and trade to abortion and transgenderism. The gist of our replies: “It’s worse than you think.”

It wasn’t the response they hoped for or thought they’d receive. To many Europeans, whether they’re Poles or Italians, America is as strong today as it was when the Soviet Union collapsed. The wars in the Middle East, some think, may not have gone the way America planned, but those were just minor incidents for a hegemon as powerful as the United States. They know our domestic problems—the gutting of our manufacturing and energy industries to our porous border and broken immigration system—are real, but have little conception of the extent of the damage. Surely, Uncle Sam has a solution. 

Their unconscious nostalgia for an America they never really knew was oftentimes endearing. Just as Barga’s piazzas filled with music that defined the Cold War era and the West’s eventual victory, the young women who attended the fellowship in Krakow could be overheard talking about how they loved movies like Sixteen Candles and Singin' in the Rain.

For these Europeans, it’s still morning in America. I pray they are right: Maybe it really is darkest just before dawn. For dawn to come, however, America and her allies need to realize she’s an empire in decline. She needs to understand her limitations. Uncle Sam can’t fight the monster under the bed while destroying chosen monsters abroad. Making America great again begins at home.