As Obama-mania engulfs America, I feel that I’m living in the middle of a historical bubble.
As Obama-mania engulfs America, I feel that I’m living in the middle of a historical bubble. The palpable excitement that began two months ago, when Obama was elected president, has grown into a great thumping worldwide lovefest. I have never seen such immense pride in a new president. His every move and those of his wife and kids is chronicled, yet amazingly he hasn’t (yet) apparently put a foot wrong, even when snapped chomping on a chilli-dog in a diner. Obama is awe-inspiring. On his train trip from Chicago to Washington, he descended at many stops to speak confidently and eruditely, as he always does, and every speech was different.
At the inaugural celebrations we had a terrific front-row seat in front of our flat-screen TV, to which I was glued for several days. The Sunday afternoon concert outside the Capitol Building was fabulous. Every star was superbly dressed, no shabby jeans or tacky T-shirts; but their mostly black clothes were sober, as if mirroring the credit crunch that’s engulfing all of us. The cameras were so close on all the performers that you could almost see the hairs in Bono’s nose. Obama’s little princesses, looking adorable in pre-teen chic, snapped away excitedly at the singers while Barack and Michelle grooved to an exquisitely attired Beyoncé.
The actual inauguration started at 11 a.m., so in LA I was up and ready at 8 with a cup of coffee and almost as much sense of anticipation as the one and a half million people who stood patiently and excitedly in front of the Capitol Building cheering, screaming and waving their little star-spangled banners. When Obama appeared, they wolf-whistled at him as if he were a pin-up girl. He arrived in a specially made Cadillac, constructed to withstand a nuclear attack, which had been taken apart piece-by-piece by the Secret Service to ensure it was not bugged.
The sky was blue and clear, even though the temperature was frigid and the wind-chill fierce. You could tell the temperature by the brick-red faces of some of the male guests, and also their ladies, whose careful blow-dries flew everywhere. Those who wore hats looked the best, and woolly caps with Obama slogans proliferated in the massive standing-room-only audience. As a card-carrying hat-lover I don’t understand why more women didn’t cover up what was obviously doomed to be a bad hair day. Laura Bush looked great in simple dove grey, with an immaculate coiffure (but since she has better hair than anyone, that was not surprising). Maria Shriver Schwarzenegger pushed her mother, Eunice Kennedy, who was sadly in a wheelchair, as was wicked Dick Cheney, and the new Vice-President Joe Biden’s mother, Jean, a feisty 92. Joe’s wife, Jill, unsuitably dressed like a teenager in a mid-thigh dress and above-the-knees Red Riding Hood coat, looked utterly freezing. Don’t these women have stylists to guide them? Michelle Obama wore buttercup bouclé with bling collar. I thought it a touch evening-ish, but right now she can do no wrong in the eyes of the US fashion press. However, diamanté before noon? Tut, tut.
It was a touching moment when all the former presidents arrived. George Bush Sr, leaning on a stick, with the redoubtable Barbara, who hasn’t changed in 30 years. Jimmy Carter, the 39th President, seemed chipper. Al Gore, the big loser against George W. in the 2000 election, looked rueful; and of course Bill ’n’ Hill, he still smirking, she still hopeful. The new Chief of Staff, Rahm Emanuel, wore a suitably tough expression, as befits the brother of a ruthless Hollywood super-agent.
Obama’s speech was, as expected, electrifying. Obviously taking a leaf from Gore Vidal’s philosophy of ‘there’s nothing wrong with plagiarism’, he borrowed and paraphrased from the speeches of Lincoln, FDR, and Kennedy after he took his oath on Lincoln’s inaugural bible. ‘It is time to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and begin again the work of rebuilding America.’ His rich baritone boomed, to huge cheers, that, ‘a man whose father 60 years ago would not have been served in a restaurant now stands before you to take this sacred oath.’ Emotional stuff, which brought tears to my eyes. The post-lunch inaugural parade seemed endless: 13,000 people trudged and sang and danced and it went on until 7 p.m. as the freezing folk in the bleachers disappeared, as did most of the guests in Obama’s tent.
That night we attended a small dinner for Nancy Reagan at the brand new Montage Hotel in Beverly Hills. The former first lady, accompanied by three secret service agents, confessed that she too had been watching the telecast avidly and that Michelle had called her a few days ago to ask for advice. ‘What did you do?’ I breathlessly asked. ‘I gave it to her,’ she replied flatly. We occasionally glanced at the soundless TV screen they provided so we could see the Obamas’ appearance at the ten inaugural balls. Unfortunately, I was not impressed by Michelle’s choice of a white meringue prom-frock. Then I suddenly realised that Obama had finally put a foot wrong, sartorially at least: wearing an ordinary dinner jacket over what seemed to be white tie just didn’t look right to me. But judging from their body language, they’re obviously madly in love. Now everyone waits with baited breath for the new Prez to pull the rabbit out of the hat and get us through the ‘winter of our hardship’ — a Churchill quote. In the meantime, the nation is having one giant all-American orgasm for O.