It was just a month ago that I was drinking a truly delicious schwarzbier while discussing a new offering from the New York Review of Books, a surrealist dystopian novel translated from its native Russian, and I distinctly recall everyone saying that they were voting for Harris. But after last night, I am not sure they were all being honest. I mean, if everyone in my coed book club, even the people with only minor graduate degrees from state universities, voted how they said they would, I just don’t see how it is possible that Trump won.

A few weeks back my Mom and I were doing a historic homes tour through Inman Park. Y’all should have seen some of the amazing art collections. I was especially impressed by one couple’s collection of post-constructivist neo works on paper. It was as if all the YBAs had an orgy and birthed the art. I am a naturally talkative person, so I chatted up quite a few of the homeowners about the upcoming election. They were all so excited for Harris to be our first woman president. So how could this happen? Make it make sense.

I know what you’re thinking by now, “Eric, you only talked to white intown liberals, you live in a bubble.” But that isn’t true. When I was on a ski trip to Park City, Utah last year I talked to a number of Republicans while riding the gondola up to some truly epic tree skiing. I found them to be a representative cross-section of the average American Republican voter. And each one of them told me how much they missed George W. Bush, how distasteful they found Trump, and that it would be impossible for them to vote for him. I don’t think these investment bankers and commercial realtors would change their mind just because Trump is promising to extend some tax cuts.

Okay, I will admit, on my summer road trip I did encounter a few people wearing MAGA apparel, but I took a break from complaining to the Citgo manager about their lack of sparkling water options to give these ill-informed Americans some very disapproving looks. Honestly, I think I may have changed a few hearts and minds in flyover country.

Over the past few years I traveled all over this country. From Sedona, Arizona to Burlington, Vermont. I rode my mountain bike in Steamboat Springs, Colorado and Big Sky, Montana. Closer to home, I went on long runs along Atlanta’s BeltLine and through the tree-lined streets of Decatur. Harris. Signs. Everywhere.

I just don’t understand how this could have happened. Must have something to do with the Russians.