by Ivana Trump
I said, “Our . . . oh, shit.”
We completely forgot to get it! Rossano and I got into an SUV and drove to the courthouse in West Palm Beach, but there were five hundred people in line ahead of us. We tried going into another office, the department of criminal justice or something, and asked if we could get a marriage license there. The woman behind the desk looked at me and said, “Hi, Ivana. What can I do for you?” I explained the situation to her. She said that, to get married in Florida, you have to get a license three days before the event, and it has to be approved by a judge. But if we had an address in another state, she could give us one that day. I told her, “Name it, I’ve got it,” and gave her my address in New York.
She made out the waiver. “That’ll be seventy-two dollars,” she said. “Cash only.”
Rossano and I emptied our pockets. I had a fifty, and he had twenty-two exactly. We just made it. The irony of it: I was throwing a ridiculously expensive wedding, and we were counting out quarters to get the license the day before. When we finally left the courthouse, we were starving from not eating all day. “Can you wait?” he asked me. The rehearsal dinner was starting with cocktails around the pool at five p.m., and later on, there would be a decadent meal and dancing.
My eyes were crossing from hunger. “I can’t,” I said. We found an ATM and went to a hot dog stand outside the courthouse. Rossano bought what seemed like twenty of them, and we sat down on the steps and ate them all. That night, I wore a Bob Mackie beaded, pearled dress that was so heavy, I couldn’t walk in it. I had to sit on one of the couches around the pool and wait for my guests to come to me. It was a beautiful evening, with a hanging moon and sparkling stars.
The next morning, we got hitched. The wedding party was huge. Twenty-five bridesmaids in pastel shades walked side by side with twenty-five groomsmen in white, and they ascended twin staircases on either side of the altar. First, the flower girls dropped rose petals down the aisle. Then Ivanka, my maid of honor, came down in a yellow dress. Don and Eric walked with me in my pink Zuhair Murad dress. Donald stood by the swimming pool to watch the ceremony, led by his sister. He attended dinner and had a good time. I sat him at a table with his business friends.
For the reception, we had to fit eighty tables in the ballroom, each one covered in lace tablecloths with unbelievable flowers. Waiters in white gloves and tuxedos served a gourmet dinner that included caviar, foie gras, and lamb. Rossano entered the room to the Rocky theme. Our first dance? A tango to a song from Damn Yankees, “Whatever Lola Wants,” but Rossano sang to me, “Whatever Ivana wants . . .” I’d changed into a long hot-pink dress with a feather tail, so the dancing wasn’t so easy for me. I was worried I’d get tangled in the tail. I was so busy chatting with our guests, I didn’t eat a thing. Rossano had a ball, jumping up on the stage and singing with the band. All the kids made a speech for us. Don’s was the funniest. He said, “Mom, Rossano, I wish you all the best. And, Rossano, if you ever do anything to our mother, we are in the construction business and we know how to bury the bodies.”
By three p.m., the wedding was over, but we still had the daunting task of going through ten thousand shots of the event as part of our exclusive rights deal with Getty, the photo agency that was selling the pictures to the media. I changed into a jogging suit, and we plowed into the job, finishing fourteen hours later (with a few short breaks) at six a.m. We hadn’t eaten all day (again), not even a nibble. The kitchen was closed, so we drove to West Palm Beach and bought day-old sandwiches at a 7-Eleven and ate them. Some wedding feast! Then we drove back to Concha Marina and went to bed.
Before the wedding, I admit, I had second thoughts. I had a great prenup, so I was protected financially, but, as much fun as we had together, I wondered if he was using me. After the wedding, we didn’t go for a honeymoon. He went to Miami and I went to France, and we didn’t see each other for a while. While in Saint-Tropez, a very small town, I learned that Rossano had a girlfriend, a Cuban girl he’d met in Miami and brought to France. This was only a couple of months after the wedding!
It stung. I wouldn’t call it a deep cut, though. By this point, I’d been down this road before and had the experience and wisdom to get over it quickly. I filed for divorce and was free within a year. It was very quiet. No publicity. No acrimony. I just couldn’t be married to a cheater again or be bound to a user. But I genuinely like and care about Rossano, and after some time apart to get over the hurt feelings, we became good friends, and still are today. He’s opening up a pizza place in West Palm Beach near Mar-a-Lago, and I wish him the best of luck. I’ve known him for over ten years. He’s like family.
But what’s a mature woman with an attraction to younger men to do? I’m certainly not going to marry a man who cheats or tries to control me. Since men are men, and many men cheat and control, I don’t see another marriage in my future. But romance and fun will always be a part of my life. Right now, I’m seeing a few (young) men, and enjoying their companionship and sense of humor very much.
-23-
BAN ON BRATS, COUCH POTATOES, AND DRUGGIES
Don went to college at Donald’s alma mater, the Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia, and Eric went on to Georgetown University in Washington, DC, and had a great time there.
Ivanka also went to Georgetown University, and perfected her French, Italian, and Czech. After two years, she told me she wanted to transfer to Wharton to concentrate on business classes. She made the switch and graduated from there two years later with honors.
When the kids went to college, I saw a lot less of them, which was the downside. The upside for them: they were shielded from the press. Sending them away was their best chance for a close-to-normal life. I would go visit them for Parents’ Weekends or for special occasions, but I was busy working and traveling. They had their studies and social lives. Donald and I split holidays and spring and summer breaks. During their last teen years, whole months could go by without my seeing my children.
I wasn’t worried that, without my constant presence, they’d automatically turn to drugs and alcohol. But I was concerned that if they befriended one bad apple, it could undo years of solid parenting. Say they started hanging out with druggies and drunks and were lured into slacking off and wasting themselves? I’d put too much into my kids to see it all fall apart because of some loser. It was my deepest fear, what I prayed wasn’t going to happen.
At the beginning of each semester, if my schedule allowed, I went to the kids’ colleges and took their friends and roommates to lunch. A lot of parents did the same thing, but I wasn’t offering just to be nice. I was conducting a stealth interrogation. It wasn’t at the same level as the Soviet secret police, but I did a thorough job. I could tell in fifteen minutes if one of my kids’ roommates or friends was a bad influence. My checklist:
1. Do they smoke? None of these kids would dare smoke in front of me, but I can tell if someone is a smoker if they are within ten feet of me. My nose is very sensitive. Cigarettes or pot, I can sniff it out.
2. Do they drink? Again, if a high school or college kid ordered a glass of wine or beer at lunch with me, I would have hit the roof. No way! These were smart kids, and none was so stupid as to try that. (But if I wanted a glass of wine, I certainly would have one.)
3. Are they late? You know how I feel about lateness. Being late for lunch? Forget it. They’ll be late with homework, too, and might slack off about graduating on time, or try to get my kids to put off their deadlines, too.
4. Are they rude? Manners are even more important to me. Kids who didn’t say “please” and “thank you,” look me in the eye, and have proper table manners (napkin in lap, waiting for everyone to be served before eating, etc.) were not going to cut it with me. If they were rude or impolite to a waiter? The worst!
5. Are they lazy? Taking extra classes, playing sports, and being active in clubs, student government, and the arts? Fabulous! Busy kids with full lives don’t have time to slip off
track. But slackers who coast in class and don’t have anything better to do than smoke pot on the couch? Nope.
My strategy was to speak to them like a normal parent, but the whole time, I was picking their brains. I asked about their class schedules and activities. I looked at how they ate. Were they sloppy? Did they order unhealthy, fried, greasy food? Did they listen or interrupt when other people spoke? I asked what they did with their time, what their goals were, what they loved to do. If they couldn’t answer me with enthusiasm and passion, I had to wonder if they were trouble.
I watched it all. I registered every morsel of information I could find. For the most part, I liked all of my kids’ friends. But if something didn’t seem right, you better believe I called the school and asked for a roommate switch. I was always polite and respectful, but I got my point across.
I’m sure the kids hated that about me. School was their chance to get away from Trumpland and all the influence and pressure that came with it. They needed to carve out their own lives and identities apart from us. Their desire to be independent was proof they were growing up. I didn’t want to squash that by calling and interfering, but maybe I wasn’t as ready as they were to let go.
Don especially set out to bury his identity as a rich kid. His first year at the Hill School, I drove him to Pennsylvania in the limo, which he found embarrassing enough. It was the end of our brutal year—the separation, our seclusion at Mar-a-Lago, the summer on the move. Don was ready to stay in one place, away from the paparazzi and the city, to be just a normal kid among other normal kids. We spent the afternoon walking around the campus and setting up his room. He was polite and patient, but I could tell he wanted me to go. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye to him just yet. It’d be the last I’d see of him until Thanksgiving (or so I thought; we’d see each other in just a month when my father died). I said, “Let’s go out to dinner!”
He said, “Okay, Mom, but not here. Let’s go to the next town over.”
“Why?”
“Because other families will be having dinner in town and if I walk into a restaurant with you, they’ll all know who my parents are.” They’d figure it out eventually, but he wanted to delay the inevitable.
He wasn’t ashamed of Donald and me. He just wanted to be treated like everyone else, which I understood. We took the limo to a neighboring town and the only place to go was a Taco Bell.
We walked in. I really did try not to be obviously me. I smiled at the man behind the counter and said, “We’ll have . . . tacos, please. That seems to be your espécialité. And I’d like a glass of Chablis, too. Thank you.”
The man blinked at me. “Chablis?”
“Yes, white wine, please.”
“Um, we have Coke, Pepsi . . .”
FYI: they don’t serve wine at Taco Bell. One learns new things every day.
The bill came and it was $15 for a plastic tray of tacos and soda. All I had on me was a $100 bill. I gave it to the man behind the counter and he looked at me like I’d just fallen off the moon. They didn’t have enough cash in the register to make change, so our driver had to go find someplace that would break a hundred.
We sat down to eat, and Don and I just started laughing. The joke was on me—what do I know about Taco Bell?—but laughing with him, just the two of us with the plastic tray at the table bolted to the floor, was a real moment. It was a relief. He was escaping city stress and starting over with some level of anonymity. It was his chance to be his own young man. I would miss him, but he needed to be away. I understood.
Unfortunately, the next day, our picture was in the paper. The headline on the full-page article and photo was something like, “Ivana Trump Eats at Taco Bell!” Oh, well. Don’s chance to be “normal” didn’t last long.
The same thing happened a year later, when Donald and I took him back for his second year at the Hill together. We drove in the limo, which Don was as uncomfortable about as always. When we walked with him to his dorm room, I realized I’d forgotten to pack some essentials—bedsheets, extra towels, and shampoo. Donald and I left Don at school and drove to the nearest place, a Kmart, to buy what he needed. The next day, a photo ran on the cover of the New York Post with the headline “Guess Who Shops at Kmart.”
When I took Eric to the Hill for his first day, we made sure he had everything he needed in one big suitcase. Everyone looked shocked, as if they assumed he didn’t go anywhere without twenty pieces of matching Vuitton luggage. Poor Eric. He had to carry a lot of baggage, yes, just not a lot of luggage.
-24-
TRAVEL MAKES YOU RICH
Like education and the arts, travel is an expenditure that makes you rich. The more you spend, the wealthier you are. As a mother and as a European, I felt it was essential to show my children where I came from and for them to be able to speak at least two or three languages. I speak Czech, Russian, and English fluently, as well as some French, Italian, and German. To be a citizen of the world, you have to see it and be able to communicate with different people. Every summer when the kids were young, they’d visit my mother in the Czech Republic at her city house in Zlín and her country chalet.
* * *
ERIC
The first floor of the chalet had a living room with a hardwood table, two benches with a table in between them, a wood-burning stove, and a tiny four-by-four kitchen. No TV. No computer. It was totally isolated. To get to the second floor, you had a pull-down ladder into an attic. The only thing up there was a handmade goose-down mattress. My grandparents slept on it. When we were little, we’d all pile in and hang out up there.
After my grandfather died, it was just Babi, Ivanka, Don, and me in that simple, beautiful house for several weeks at a stretch. We’d play in the woods all day, build things, go hiking, and figure out how to entertain ourselves. At night, we’d make a fire in the stove and play cards—gin rummy and war. We’d crash, and then wake up the next morning and do it all again.
* * *
After their time with their grandmother, they’d come cruising with me in the Mediterranean. We motored to Monaco for the Grand Prix, Portofino, Rome, Venice, Capri, Positano on the Amalfi Coast, Sicily, Corsica, Sardinia, Saint-Tropez, Turkey, Greece, and Croatia, and anchored to snorkel, fish with lines and spears, visit villages, cook together, and enjoy the good life. We’d say, “Where next?” and then we’d go. We were incredibly fortunate to be able to see the world this way, and I made sure the kids knew how lucky they were to get to experience such pleasures.
For most of the nineties, Riccardo was the man in my life, and the captain of Stilyani III, a sixty-five-foot yacht. It was two stories high, and we’d jump off the top platform into the sea. Riccardo was great in the water and taught the kids how to snorkel and where to find the best fish. In Corsica, he knew every hot spot. He’d dive down with gloves and a knife to cut the sea urchins off the rocks and bring them back up for lunch. He’d cut them open, and I’d put a drop of champagne in each one. The kids didn’t like them at first. It is an acquired taste, but you grow to love it.
We always stopped at Cavoli Beach on Elba, a very popular beach for kids, and go snorkeling all the way to the far edges of the swimming area. One time, there was a huge eel wrapped around the pole of the warning sign. Riccardo grabbed the spear gun and killed it, and we brought it back to the yacht. The kids and I were totally grossed out but laughing hysterically as he cleaned and cooked it. It was awful! A mushy, overcooked mess.
Another time, we anchored in Ponza, an island in Italy, to water-ski and snorkel. The kids decided that they wanted spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, so we went into the tiny village to a butcher and bought ground sirloin. Bad choice. You need more fat in beef for meatballs. We tried to eat them, but they were hard as rocks. I put them in a Ziploc baggie in the fridge. The next day, while the kids were swimming, I snuck up behind them and emptied the meatballs into the water. Then I screamed, “Kids! Get out of the water! There’s poop all over the place!” They scrambled back on the boat in
ten seconds flat. It was hilarious! Practical jokes were a big thing on the yachts. Don once swam under and attached his fishhook to the bottom of the boat and then pretended like he had a monster on the line. Eric tried to reel in the yacht for ten minutes before he realized what Don had done.
At the end of one summer, we were anchored off Sardinia to get one more day of swimming before the kids and I had to go back to New York. It was starting to get dark, so I called the kids in, and we weighed anchor. But something wasn’t right. We couldn’t find the lights of the harbor entrance. We drove very slowly in the pitch blackness looking for it, and then boom! Riccardo hit a rock and the boat ended up on top of it. We were stuck in uncharted waters in the dark, teetering on a rock.
We didn’t know what to do. It was possible the hull had been punctured and the boat was sinking. Of course, I thought, Radio for help! But if you call for a rescue and are towed to port, the rescuer can claim ownership of a portion of the boat. So the plan was to go to the tender (the small boat attached by a rope to the yacht, to use for traveling from ship to shore) until we figured out what was happening and see if we could do anything about it.
I said to Ivanka, “Go get dressed.” I meant for her to just throw something over her bathing suit, but she went to her cabin and packed up her entire suitcase, in case she needed her party dress or toothbrush while we were stranded in the tender. Don jumped into action and immediately started helping Riccardo and the deckhands. I went to my cabin and got my diamond ring and all of our passports. The crew helped Ivanka, Eric, and me into the tender. I was completely coolheaded, saying, “If the boat sinks, it sinks. It’s the end of the season anyway.” But then, as I was going down the slippery steps in the dark, I broke a nail. And then I totally freaked out.
We sat in the tender for an hour until a wave came and lifted the yacht off the rock. No puncture, no damage. We got back on board, and Ivanka went to unpack her suitcase. I ran to my room to perform an emergency manicure.