A second Trump administration was sure to come down hard on whichever Latin American country first defied it—few in the region expected otherwise. But Colombia was perhaps the United States’ most steadfast friend in South America, and the speed with which a 100-year relationship seemed to crumble last night was frightening.

Or perhaps exhilarating, if you were a Chinese diplomat in Latin America observing the presidential spat.

First, Colombia’s president, Gustavo Petro, refused to allow U.S.-military deportation flights that were already airborne to land in his country. Petro balked at reports of migrants arriving handcuffed and said that Colombia would allow such flights only if deportees were treated with “dignity and respect.” President Donald Trump’s response—grossly disproportionate—was to threaten tariffs, visa restrictions, and even banking sanctions against a strategic U.S. ally. The two countries worked out a late-night deal that seems to have averted a crisis, but the speed of escalation left much of Latin American unnerved.

[From the September 2024 issue: Seventy miles in hell]

If Americans are under the impression that Trump’s penchant for reckless, heat-of-the-moment policy making is unique, they don’t have the measure of Gustavo Petro. Colombia’s radical left-wing president has appalled friends and foes alike with X tiffs and stunts such as repeatedly tagging a parody account for his defense minister and amplifying false rumors that Colombian kids lost in the Amazon jungle had been found. Some of his posts come across as just plain bonkers—such as the one he wrote to Trump in the middle of yesterday’s crisis.

At 4:15 p.m. on Sunday, diplomats were working furiously behind the scenes to smooth over the rift between the two presidents when Petro hit back with a long, incoherent rant. Starting with a curt dismissal of tourism in the U.S. as “boring,” the missive went everywhere: Petro slammed American racism, asserted his refusal to “shake hands with white slavers,” and celebrated Walt Whitman. He also recalled the U.S. involvement in the 1973 coup against Chile’s leftist president Salvador Allende, celebrated Colombia’s putative roots in the caliphate of Córdoba, and protested the execution of Sacco and Vanzetti, a Coolidge-era U.S. scandal involving the supposed racial profiling of two Italian American anarchists. In other words, at a moment of peril for his country, Colombia’s president posted a word salad—and then pinned it to the top of his X account.

The moment called for careful diplomacy, not a fit of pique. In Brazil, where the mistreatment of deportees on U.S. military flights had already caused controversy, Colombia’s spat narrowed the Brazilian government’s room for maneuver still further. And throughout the region, governments struggling to figure out what to do with large numbers of deportees found themselves staring into the abyss: Most Latin American governments do not like how the U.S. government is behaving but cannot afford a trade war with Uncle Sam.

Or can they? Zoom out a bit and one might wonder. The era of uncontested U.S. leadership in the region is fading fast in the rearview mirror. These days, China provides an obvious alternative to the United States in the realms of trade, finance, and technology. In fact, most of South America—including big countries such as Brazil, Argentina, Chile, and Peru—now trades more with China than with the United States. If you exclude Mexico, Chinese trade now dwarfs American trade in the region.

[Juliette Kayyem: The border got quieter, so Trump had to act]

After Trump was reelected, discussion in the region centered on how to balance growing Chinese influence with existing ties with the United States. Most countries were of a mind to try to stay neutral between the two powers and maintain good relations with both Washington and Beijing. Countless university seminars agonized over what a war in the Taiwan Strait would mean for Latin America: No country in the region would want to take sides, though many recognized that they might not have a choice. All along, the assumption tended to be that a crisis that started outside Latin America would have repercussions within it. What few at the time foresaw was that the region could be delivered to China through Trump’s sheer impetuosity, or his inability to think before posting.

For now, Trumpian aggression has won the day: U.S. and Colombian diplomats—who know each other well and are used to collaborating closely—had little trouble finding a compromise to de-escalate the crisis. That de-escalation can be expected to last about as long as the two countries’ intemperate presidents manage to stay off X.

But for excellent historical reasons, Latin Americans hate being dictated to by gringos and won’t support leaders who meekly allow it. Trump’s hyper-aggressive approach to Latin America risks tying up the region with a bow and leaving it on Beijing’s doorstep. Most Latin American leaders will resist a decisive break with Washington—the U.S. is still too important a trade and diplomatic partner to antagonize just for kicks. But Latin American leaders will not wish to be seen submitting passively to the United States in full imperialist mode. Not when the Chinese embassy is just one phone call away.

Updated on January 25, 2025 at 2:31 p.m. ET

Dear Mr. Secretary,

Tradition dictates that I begin by congratulating you on your confirmation. You seem like a man who appreciates frankness, and so I will spare you empty decorum: It would be disingenuous of me to deny that I have been opposed to your nomination to lead the Department of Defense from the moment it was announced. But the Senate has voted, and you are now the leader of the most powerful military on the planet.

Rather than offer you insincere congratulations, I hope you will accept—in the spirit of the love of country that I know we both share—some unsolicited advice. You face unique challenges: You are among the least qualified major Cabinet nominees in modern American history, you have no background in leading a large organization, and you come into office with serious questions about your character and fitness, even from some in your own party. I must tell you that I believe you should have told Donald Trump last fall that you could not, in good conscience, accept his offer.

But you did accept it, and so I write to you today not as a critic, but as a fellow American. I know—as you do—that your success is essential to the security and safety of our nation, and so all of us with something to offer owe you our best efforts, including our direct and honest views.

I send these thoughts to you without partisanship or ill will: The time for that is over. We live in dangerous times and you cannot fail in your new duties. I have no interest in lecturing you about your personal life, or your reported use of alcohol. I have been through such struggles myself, and I believe that even—perhaps especially—in challenging moments, you will choose to approach your new responsibilities with both physical and intellectual sobriety.

I worked in national security and defense affairs for nearly 40 years, including a quarter-century in which my responsibility was to educate American officers. I do not know how to be a Secretary of Defense, but based on my experience, I have three recommendations for you that I hope will contribute to a successful tenure leading America’s military.

First, and most important, I implore you to listen to the men and women working for you who have served our nation. Listening is a sign of strength, Mr. Secretary, not weakness. Every bad senior leader I ever encountered in my career, including generals, admirals, and elected officials, all had the same flaw: Insecurity. They talked and opined and issued orders instead of listening. (From your own military days, you probably remember this expression: They only had Transmit Mode, no Receive Mode.) I know you’ve been charged with shaking up the Pentagon, but the dangerous world around us will not put their plans on pause if you get distracted by a superficial domestic culture war.

You will have the power of decision on almost anything that crosses your path, but you are not omniscient. You are surrounded by a wealth of experience and expertise. Yes, some of the people under you will not be happy about the election or your confirmation, but they respect the terrible burden you’re carrying, and they are there to help you. They share your love of country, and your sense of duty. Their success is your success. They are not the enemy. Hear them out.

Speaking of enemies, you must contend with the reality that you are entering office with almost no credibility with your opposite numbers in Moscow and Beijing (and elsewhere). I say this not as an insult, but to describe in plain terms the conditions you face abroad. I have long experience with the Russians, in particular, and while they will treat you with formal courtesy, make no mistake: These are hard and dangerous people who will have no respect for a former O-4 and talk-show host. I realize it is an uncomfortable truth, but defensiveness about this will only distract you from the work ahead.

You must cover a lot of distance with those opponents. Your previous skills as a public commentator will be of no help and in fact will prove counterproductive in such situations. You cannot bully and speechify your way to respect with such people; they are tough in a way that cannot be countered with macho posturing or rants about DEI. The facile charm that worked for you in public life will be a vulnerability in dealing with our enemies, who will seek to exploit every thoughtless word. The combative punditry that works so well on cable television in America might have helped you burn time during your confirmation hearing, but none of that will serve you well in negotiations or discussions with our dedicated foes. (It won’t do you much good talking to our allies, either.)

Instead, you will find that you must rely on people who have been in the rooms you’ve never seen until now. You are not required to take their advice, Mr. Secretary, but when your counterparts call you, your staff will be able to assist you in ways you might not have considered. They can warn you about your opponent’s strategies—and weaknesses—before you even pick up the phone. Your previous career has rewarded bombast and bluster; now you will have to master judiciousness, restraint, and the strategic use of silence.

Finally, I hope that you will leave behind the kind of rhetoric that brought you to prominence. I know that you gained this post by being a loyal soldier for President Trump. The truth is that most Americans—including the Americans who serve in the U.S. military—don’t really care nearly as much as you’d think about the cultural issues that brought you into the Trump administration. You are no longer a pundit or a provocateur: From today, your fellow citizens are trusting you with the lives of their children. (“Thank you for giving us your son,” a general told one of my friends whose boy, like you, went through ROTC. “We’ll take good care of him.”)  

The rest of us are trusting you with all our lives. You could well be the last person to speak to the president before he decides to go to war—or considers using nuclear weapons. Partisan attachments will be meaningless at such moments.

When I was barely 30 years old, I advised a Republican senator who was trying to decide whether to support President George H. W. Bush’s 1990 decision to go to war against Iraq in Kuwait. “Am I doing the right thing?” he asked me. At that moment, I felt as if the world had fallen on my shoulders. Nothing else mattered. “Yes, I think so,” I stammered. And then we spent hours in the gloom of a winter afternoon discussing his eventual vote to send young Americans into battle.

You will face decisions galactically greater than my one small moment with my boss 35 years ago. Some decisions you make will feel small to you, but they will have an impact on hundreds of thousands of people in the military community, and others will live with them long after you’ve left government service. More importantly, some of your answers may have existential consequences for humanity itself. The election and the speeches are over. The lives of millions—or perhaps billions—now depend on things you say that no one but the president might hear.

You are a man of faith, Mr. Secretary. We have that in common. And so I’ll close with my sincere wish that the Lord keep you and guide you in the days to come.

This article has been updated to correct Hegseth’s rank in the Army.

Greenland’s prime minister, Múte Egede, looked like he was being chased by an angry musk ox.

“Mr. Prime Minister, have you spoken to President Trump yet?” I asked as he fled a lunchtime news conference on Tuesday in the capital city, Nuuk (population 20,000). Egede, who is 37, wore a green zip-up sweater, stared straight ahead, and was walking toward me. He said nothing.

“Prime Minister Múte Egede,” I tried again, using his full name this time, for some reason.

He remained … mute.

I made one more attempt—“Have you talked to President Trump?”—to no avail.

As he walked out the door, Egede looked flushed and somewhat stunned. The briefing room had been tense, crowded with about three dozen journalists, several from other countries. This is—I’m guessing here—two and a half dozen more journalists than typically show up at his press conferences.

“This is not usual for us,” said Pele Broberg, a member of the Greenlandic Parliament and an off-and-on Egede nemesis, who had come to enjoy the spectacle and watch Egede squirm.

The briefing had lasted about 30 minutes and consisted of Egede giving a canned statement and then taking eight or nine questions, all on the same topic.

“Do we have reason to be afraid?” one Greenlandic journalist asked.

“Of course, what has happened is very serious,” Egede replied in Greenlandic. He projected the grave aura of a leader trying to be reassuring in a time of crisis; his tone and language seemed better suited to a natural disaster than a geopolitical quandary.

“We have to have faith that we can get through this,” Egede said. His hands shook slightly as he sipped from a glass of water.

“In Greenland,” he said, “there is a lot of unrest.”

Extreme cold was predicted for Donald Trump’s inauguration in Washington, D.C., so I figured I’d decamp to somewhere warmer: Nuuk.

Temperatures in the icy capital were in the low 30s, or several degrees balmier than those in Washington. More to the point, this autonomous Danish territory—the world’s biggest non-continental island—has surfaced as a subject of diplomatic dispute.

Trump had first announced his interest in America buying the territory in 2019. At the time, the Danish prime minister promptly rebuffed the overture (she called it “absurd”), to which Trump responded predictably (he called her “nasty”). And then, after a few weeks, the episode melted away. That is, until Trump managed to get himself reelected and started piping up again about how he still coveted the place. Ever since then, his renewed designs on Greenland have become a source of global fascination. The furor grew earlier this month, when Trump, in response to a reporter’s question, refused to rule out using military force to resolve the matter.

“Greenland is in the center of the world,” Egede proclaimed a few days later in Copenhagen, perhaps overstating things but still offering a whiff of the heady sense of relevance that’s been sweeping through Official Nuuk.

I went to Greenland to watch this peculiar production unfold in this most unlikely of places. Another big objective was to meet Egede, the young and ambitious prime minister. Like many other minor global figures who become overnight attention magnets, Egede had seemed at first exhilarated by all the interest, then overwhelmed, and then regretful. Watching his recent public appearances from afar, I had noticed his demeanor sometimes shift from the burly confidence of a local wunderkind to the nervousness of someone fully aware that his actions were being observed closely, especially by Washington and Copenhagen.

[Anne Applebaum: Trump triggers a crisis in Denmark—and Europe]

“We are Greenlanders,” Egede often says, robotically, when asked—as he is constantly—about Trump’s continued focus on his country. “We don’t want to be Americans. We don’t want to be Danish, either.”

Egede just wants to be left alone, is the impression he is leaving these days. I learned this before I set out for Nuuk, when I placed a few calls to his office in an attempt to watch Trump’s inaugural speech with the prime minister. He shouldn’t be that hard to track down, I figured, given that the total number of humans in Greenland, which is roughly three times the physical size of Texas, is 56,000—smaller than the population of Bethesda, Maryland.

“Can you call back tomorrow?” his communications aide, Andreas Poulsen, pleaded on the phone. “We are very busy right now. Thank you for understanding.”

I tried the next day.

“Can you call back tomorrow?” Poulsen said again. “We are very busy right now.”

I sensed a pattern.

“Hi, Andreas,” I said when Poulsen picked up again on the third day. (Clearly Greenland’s government offices need more robust call-screening protocols.) “Do you have a second to talk now?”

“Can you call back tomorrow?” he said again. “I am very busy right now.” Poor guy sounded more beleaguered with each call. I empathized.

“Well, I’m going to be on my way to Greenland tomorrow,” I finally said, “so I’ll be in the air.”

(Silence.)

“Andreas, are you there?”

It’s not easy being in Greenland. Especially in January: never-ending snow, frigid winds, and maybe five or six hours of daylight, if you’re lucky. Greenland is known as Kalaallit Nunaat in the native tongue, which roughly translates, fittingly enough, to “Land of the Greenlanders.” Residents of Nuuk account for about one-third of the national population, the great majority of whom are all or part Inuit.

Greenland is also not easy to get to, even though Nuuk is in fact closer to the East Coast of the United States than to Copenhagen. There are currently no direct flights from the U.S., though United Airlines says it will begin direct routes to Nuuk from Newark in June. The few flights currently available, via Reykjavik, are often canceled due to weather. Until a recent renovation of the Nuuk airport, flying to the capital had required a stop in Kangerlussuaq, a former U.S. air base to the north, and then switching to a smaller plane. The airport-modernization project has been a source of local pride in Nuuk and a godsend of convenience to its visitors (no more nightmare layovers in Kangerlussuaq!).

On the Thursday before the inauguration, I managed to get the last seat on an Icelandair flight from Washington, which miraculously went off without major complication. When I arrived in Nuuk, I found the people of the capital to be nothing but warm and welcoming, starting with my cab driver from the airport. When I mentioned I was from Washington, he asked if I was in town “because of this situation with Trump.” Correct, I said.

In the grand and feverish scheme of Trump’s early agenda, Greenland remains a remote curiosity next to his higher-profile priorities such as mass deportations, mass pardons, and trying to end birthright citizenship. But his ongoing fascination with the country can’t be dismissed as merely the frivolous object of one egoist’s manifest destiny. For a variety of strategic reasons—energy, trade, and national security, among others—Greenland has become a legitimately prized territory. Melting ice has made for better access to valuable mineral deposits and potential oil bounties, and easier trade passage through Arctic waterways. To varying degrees, both Moscow and Beijing have shown that they want in on Greenland. “For purposes of National Security and Freedom throughout the World, the United States of America feels that the ownership and control of Greenland is an absolute necessity,” Trump wrote in a Truth Social post.

A Trump hat in Nuuk, Greenland  (Juliette Pavy / Hors Format)

Not surprisingly, this message has been received as something rotten in Denmark. The NATO ally has held sovereignty over Greenland for more than a century. (Greenland was a colony until 1953, when it became a territory of the Danish kingdom, though it gained home rule in 1979.) Although the Danes provide about $600 million in subsidies to the island each year—about half of Greenland’s annual budget—critics of its stewardship have said that Denmark lacks the will and resources to fully realize Greenland’s potential or protect it militarily. A strong majority of Greenlanders—68 percent—want independence from Denmark, according to a 2019 poll.

The degree to which Greenlanders would welcome closer ties to America, much less actually becoming a part of the United States, is unclear. For the most part, Trump’s proposal has been met with something at the junction of amused, flattered, and resistant to being associated with such a thundering and aggressive entity, as embodied by its president. These qualities, to say the least, run counter to the affable, happily innocuous, and slightly mysterious national image that Greenlanders have traditionally preferred.

[From the July/August 2024 issue: A wild plan to avert catastrophic sea-level rise]

If nothing else, Trump’s Greenland campaign has set off a blizzard of conspicuous attention from Copenhagen. Denmark recently increased its military spending on the island, stepped up its government services, and offered two new dog-sled patrol teams. In a truly magnanimous pander to Greenland from His Majesty, the Danish king even slapped a big new image of a polar bear onto the monarchy’s royal coat of arms.

“It’s a show for the Danes to try to reassure everybody else that they still have full control of Greenland,” said Broberg, the member of Parliament, who is a strong advocate for independence from Denmark.

I met him last Sunday, at a televised forum of Greenlandic political officials that was broadcast across Denmark and Greenland. The event, which included the prime minister, was held at a theater next to the Parliament building and drew a packed house of engaged students and professionals, similar to a suburban Manchester or Nashua town hall before the New Hampshire primary. The panelists included Greenlandic and Danish politicians debating the various permutations of “independence,” how realistic they would be, and the merits of Danish and U.S. proprietorship, if any.

“It’s a historic time that we live in,” an audience member named Niels-Olav Holst-Larsen, who moved to Nuuk from Denmark 18 months ago, told me. “Today was, I think, the biggest television-broadcasting event from Denmark in Greenland in a lot of years.”

Trump’s inaugural address the next day was shaping up to be another major television event in Greenland. “Don’t we all have to watch this speech?” Qupanuk Olsen, a candidate for Parliament who describes herself as “Greenland’s biggest influencer on social media,” told me.

I first encountered Olsen, who goes by “Q,” via a delightful YouTube video titled “How Do We Say ‘Hello’ in Greenlandic.” I resolved to find and meet her. This did not take long. Olsen told me that she considers Trump’s interest to be an “amazing” boon for her country, at least from a PR perspective. Spreading Greenland’s abundant charms, she said, is something of a life’s mission for her. “I’ve been working on showing the rest of the world what Greenland is really about.”

I asked Olsen whether she was hoping for an inaugural mention of Greenland. She paused for several seconds before declaring herself a yes. “If he doesn’t mention Greenland”—she turned strangely plaintive—“we’re just going to be forgotten again.”

I spent much of January 20 visiting members of the Greenlandic Parliament. Called Inatsisartut, or “those who make the law,” the Parliament consists of 31 members, who, from what I can tell, represent 31 nuanced flavors of pro-Greenlandic-independence. Egede, for instance, is a former member of Inatsisartut, where he represented the left-wing Inuit Ataqatigiit party, which supports independence. But as the nation’s chief executive now, he recognizes the pragmatic benefits of the status quo, which requires working closely with Denmark, especially given the recent uncertainty that Trump has introduced.

The low-slung parliamentary-office building felt a bit like a small college dorm. MPs wandered in and out of conference rooms, bantered in hallways, and shouted to one another across a courtyard. My first stop on my tour of Greenland’s greatest deliberative body was a meeting with Broberg. A member of the (also) pro-independence Naleraq party, he served for a while as foreign minister until his anti-Danish rhetoric began to wear thin in Copenhagen, as well as with key figures in Nuuk—notably, Egede.

Broberg told me he admires politicians who eschew niceties and jump right to the point. He appreciates this about Trump, whose pursuit of Greenland he says has been a blessing to the cause of independence. I noted the obvious contradiction here: that Trump’s desire to “buy” Greenland is by definition antithetical to independence. Broberg argued that existing laws and treaties would make it impossible for the U.S. to actually “own” Greenland. Still, Trump’s public zest for the country enhances its cachet, Broberg explained. It also brings the added benefit of freaking out Denmark, he said.

As he spoke, I noticed a bright-red baseball hat on a shelf. I pointed to it, wondering if it was a Trump hat. In fact, the cap was emblazoned with the words Great Greenland, which Broberg told me is a Greenlandic company that makes sealskin furs and jackets. He added that he is not a Trumper; he enjoys watching people react to the hat.

At the end of the interview, Qarsoq Høegh-Dam, a top official with the Naleraq party and an adviser to Olsen, popped in to say hello. Høegh-Dam is a gregarious politico, of a familiar sort you often find in insular government towns. He said he was trying to organize a “watch party” for Trump’s inauguration.

I noticed that he was wearing a massive claw on a necklace. A polar-bear nail, he told me. As I studied the menacing trinket—roughly the size of a small croissant broken in half—Høegh-Dam launched into an aside. “It’s an age-old debate,” he said—who would win a fight between a tiger and a polar bear? I told him I was just here to learn. “I’ve seen a tiger,” Høegh-Dam said. “I was surprised how small they were.” He told me his sister had once almost been eaten by a polar bear. “Nobody is for polar bears eating people,” Høegh-Dam said—a seemingly safe position, even within the blood sport of Greenlandic politics.

[Jonathan Chait: The intellectual rationalization for annexing Greenland]

This was all riveting, but I was late for a meeting with Aqqalu Jerimiassen, a conservative member of Parliament, who was waiting down the hall. I noticed a photo in Jerimiassen’s office of him wearing a Trump shirt and drinking a Guinness. He told me he belongs to “likely the most right-wing party in Greenland.” This does not mean he would call himself a Trump supporter (and, in fact, he told me a few days later that he had taken down the Trump-shirt photo). If he lived in the U.S., he said, he would probably have voted for Nikki Haley.

Still, Jerimiassen appreciates the recognition Trump has brought to his country. “If someone asked me 10 years ago where I’m from, and I say Greenland—for example, if I’m in Europe, in Bulgaria—nobody knows where that is,” he said.

Before we finished, Jerimiassen detoured to a topic about which he becomes endlessly animated: how the Nuussuaq Peninsula, near where he is from, boasts the finest-tasting reindeer in all of Greenland. Up north, he said, the reindeer eat more moss, as opposed to grass, which makes for a more piquant cervine experience. “The smell. Aromatic. It’s very, very aromatic, and the savoriness,” he raved. And the reindeer in Nuuk?

“Very plain,” he opined.

Nuuk, Greenland (Juliette Pavy / Hors Format)

The inauguration watch party took place in a Naleraq meeting room near Broberg’s office. Broberg was there. So was Olsen, or “Q,” the influencer, along with a few parliamentary staffers, operatives, and assorted European broadcasters on hand to capture “the scene.” As with most watch parties, this “scene” was not much to watch: a bunch of people sitting around staring at a TV and sharing a communal bowl of Bugles, or whatever the Greenland equivalent of those crunchy cone-shaped snacks is.

“Greenland, Greenland, Greenland,” Broberg called out as the newly sworn-in Trump began speaking at the Capitol. I took this to mean that he wanted Trump to mention Greenland, but Broberg had told me earlier that he couldn’t care less. “We are getting all the attention that we need anyways,” he said.

Soon, the room turned quiet. Trump’s dark and aggressive tenor appeared to make the viewers uneasy. I watched Olsen, who kept fidgeting whenever it seemed Trump might name-check Greenland. This was something she was no longer wishing for, it appeared.

“Here it comes,” I heard one person say, when Trump started talking about changing the name of the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of America, and how the U.S. should retake control of the Panama Canal. But the president did not mention Greenland.

[Franklin Foer: Emperor Trump’s new map]

The speech still had a ways to go. Trump stated his goal “to plant the stars and stripes on the planet Mars.” He declared that “the spirit of the frontier is written into our hearts.” Olsen began nervously tapping her black boot on the floor. She grimaced. A few minutes later, the speech ended. No Greenland. Harpoon, dodged.

“Can you feel the sigh of relief in here?” Høegh-Dam remarked.

I asked Broberg what he thought of the speech. He chuckled and read aloud a text he’d just received.

“Greenland has a code name now,” he said. “Mars.”

Before I blew out of Nuuk, I figured I would make a final approach to Egede for an interview. His press conference on Tuesday felt like my best bet.

A pack of international journalists filed into the briefing room, like scavengers descending on a fresh caribou carcass. There were cursory checks of our press IDs, but no security checkpoints or metal detectors. The prime minister wandered in pretty much by himself, with no visible protective detail.

Egede, who has been Greenland’s prime minister since 2021, hewed closely to his scripted lines about how Greenland will decide its own future, and to a theme of national unity. “We are a small population, but togetherness is our strength,” he said via translation headphones issued to the press. He urged Greenlanders to stand firm, and said, “Together, we can get over this incident.”

[Eliot A. Cohen: Drop the outrage over Trump’s foreign-policy bluster]

As Egede’s news conference wore on, and the questions became more pointed, the prime minister looked a bit frozen. I noticed a guy in a black T-shirt standing behind a pane of glass, waving to get Egede’s attention. He looked familiar. I soon realized who it was: Andreas Poulsen, the PM’s snowed-under communications officer, whom I’d been harassing for days. He was trying to tell Egede to wrap things up.

I made a point of introducing myself to Poulsen, who stepped out from his glass booth. “I’m sorry I kept calling you last week,” I said. Not to worry, he replied. Nothing is normal in Nuuk these days. We chatted a bit, and then I shot my last shot.

“Would it be possible to interview the prime minister while I’m in Nuuk?”

“Not today, not today,” Poulsen said.

“How about tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “We’re very busy.”

Postscript: I was supposed to leave Greenland on Wednesday, but my flight home got snowed out. I was stuck indefinitely. (Nuuk in January, man. Next year, I’ll bring my whole family.) As it happened, I had a phone interview scheduled for Thursday, related to another project: a conversation with, of all people, Paul McCartney.

“Greenland?” McCartney greeted me when he came on the phone. Apparently someone had told him about my situation.

Yeah, I seem to be stranded here, I told him.

“Trump’s gonna buy it,” Sir Paul said. “So don’t worry.”