WASHINGTON — I first came to America 40 years ago. It was the summer of 1977, and I was 20 years old. Jimmy Carter had moved into the White House a few months earlier. I and five friends rented a motor home in Bethlehem, Pa., and drove manically to Santa Barbara, Calif., and back, following the imperious orders of Fleetwood Mac — “Don’t Stop,” the ubiquitous hit of that summer. The day Elvis Presley died in Memphis — Aug. 16, 1977 — we were driving across the South, not too far away. But our English was tentative, and we missed the news.

Since then my English has gotten better, and I’ve revisited the United States many times. I’ve come as a tourist, a resident, a husband, a dad and a son — in 1987, my parents ordered me to drive them around Arizona for two weeks. I’ve come as a journalist, a teacher, a lecturer and a writer (I wrote a book about life in America in the carefree mid-1990s).

I came for conferences and long train journeys — from Portland, Me., to Portland, Ore.; from Washington, D.C., to Washington State. I’ve come for presidential elections, book tours, sports events and interviews. I remember Madonna, in Los Angeles, who didn’t like me; and Bruce Springsteen, in Buffalo, who during the sound check asked the E Street Band to play “Lost in the Flood” “for our Italian guest.”

This time, it was for an annual conference designed to foster dialogue between Europe and North America. It included more than 100 political leaders and experts from industry, finance, academia and the media, from 30-odd countries. We spent three great days together. One could tell the Americans and the Europeans at first glance — the hosts in their shirts and light summer dresses, and the guests wearing sweaters and windbreakers against the ferocious air-conditioning. The main conference room was huge. Not big enough, though. There was a blond elephant inside, and he didn’t go away. His name was Donald Trump.