It was in the nave of Notre-Dame that Donald J. Trump made his first meaningful appearance on the European stage following his re-election. The occasion was the solemn reopening of the cathedral, five years after the devastating fire. French President Emmanuel Macron, the host and orchestrator of the ceremony, stood at the altar not merely as head of state but as would-be architect of a new transatlantic axis. Alongside him: Italys Giorgia Meloni, Ukraine’s Volodymyr Zelensky and Germany’s President Frank-Walter Steinmeier. Notably absent: Ursula von der Leyen.
The exclusion of the European Commission President was no oversight. Macron’s office had grown wary of von der Leyen's insistence on reviving the Mercosur deal, which Paris—guarding its agricultural interests—considers toxic. The signal was unmissable: in France’s vision of diplomacy, the nation-state still reigns supreme. As Macron assumed the mantle of Europe’s de facto representative, Meloni, despite her symbolic presence at Trump’s inauguration, was relegated to the second row.
Friends Among Unequals
The contrast could not have been sharper with Washington's inaugural celebrations. In January, At Trump’s inauguration, Italian Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni and Argentine President Javier Milei were prominently featured, underscoring their close alignment with the US administration. Additionally, several European right-wing leaders attended the ceremony, including Tino Chrupalla of Germany’s Alternative for Germany (AfD), Santiago Abascal of Spain's Vox party, Eric Zemmour of France's Reconquête, and Nigel Farage of the UK’s Reform UK party. This ecosystem of selective esteem, America had made it plain: some friends are more equal than others.
J.D. Vance, newly appointed Secretary of State, formalised this worldview weeks later in a controversial speech at the Munich Security Conference. “What I worry about is the threat from within, the retreat of Europe from some of its most fundamental valuesn,“ he declared. The timing was sensitive. In Germany, debate had recently emerged over the so-called Schwachkopf affair, in which police searched the home of a satirical artist who had posted a meme labelling Economy Minister Robert Habeck a “Schwachkopf” (a German insult roughly translating to “dimwit”). A 60 Minutes exposé appeared soon after, implicating Lower Saxony's prosecutors in monitoring social media satire.
Outrage in Europe followed. The German Defence Minister, Boris Pistorius, called the remarks “unacceptable”, accusing the Vice President of casting doubt not only on Germany’s democracy but on Europe’s liberal order at large. Foreign Minister Annalena Baerbock, speaking on the same day, warned against “a false peace imposed over the heads of Ukrainians and Europeans“. Italy’s Giorgia Meloni offered a rare note of approval. Vance, she told reporters, had “touched something deeper—identity, democracy, freedom of speech.”
A Continent Fractured
As commentators speculated that Trump might split Europe, it was the war in Ukraine that proved the real fault line. France and Britain coalesced around a “hard posture“: joint patrols, increased materiel, even a European Reassurance Force. Others, like Germany and Italy demurred. The clearest evidence of Europe's waning relevance came when it was excluded from the Riyadh peace talks. Macron, seeking to reassert continental influence, flew to Washington.
For a fleeting moment, he was hailed as Europe’s emissary. Yet no seat at the negotiating table was won; no concessions obtained. Worse, on his return to Paris, fellow EU leaders voiced their displeasure and felt bypassed. Europe, it turned out, did not need Trump to split—it fractured under the weight of its own disunity.
Meanwhile, Berlin remained inert. Still without a functioning government by April, and with Friedrich Merz yet to assume the chancellorship, Germany offered little more than electoral theatre. Headlines obsessed over a conversation between Elon Musk and AfD’s lead candidate Alice Weidel; conspiracy and comment supplanted policy. Merz, long known for his Atlanticist leanings, has also sought to carve out a distinct European posture. During the first coalition meeting, he pledged a new special defence fund to bolster the Bundeswehr’s capabilities.
Brussels Bypassed, Rome Reconsidered
Brussels, too, found itself sidelined. Trump has yet to speak with von der Leyen, a deliberate slight given her centrality in trade matters. When EU envoys sought dialogue over escalating tariff disputes, their entreaties were dismissed days before Meloni’s Washington visit.
That visit, in contrast, was lavish. Trump declared a 100% chance of a trade deal with the EU—though tellingly, he used Rome as his interlocutor, not Brussels. The shift fits the so-called “Munich Doctrine“: cooperation with partners who share not merely interests but convictions. The prospect of a transatlantic free trade area, designed to exclude China and cement a Western economic bloc, was dangled.
The essence of Meloni’s visit was unmistakable: Trump’s America no longer conceals its preferences: values and loyalty trump consensus and protocol. The transatlantic bond endures—but now as a lattice of bilateral alliances rather than a shared project. Europe, for its part, must decide: adapt to this new dispensation, or risk irrelevance.
Statement
Trump’s European doctrine is clear: bypass Brussels, reward bilaterals, and leverage division. By favouring national partners, he exploits fissures the EU has yet to seal. The customs dispute shows just how sidelined the Commission has become—ironically, in a domain where its authority is undisputed. With Germany poised to re-enter the diplomatic stage, a shift may come. But unless Berlin and its peers resist the temptation to outshine one another, the deeper risk remains: that Europe, by chasing relevance individually, accelerates its own fragmentation. The chief beneficiary of today’s divide-et-impera diplomacy is Giorgia Meloni — a Roman proconsul in American robes.