The Inauguration - Mother/Daughter(s) Behind the Barricades

In this month's issue of O, Michelle Obama said that she would love to see a tape of what was going on down on the Mall during the inauguration. This is a record of what was going on outside the Mall - Behind the Barricades.

January 16th. Abby, my oldest daughter and an Obama volunteer, calls to say she may be able to get a ticket for the inauguration. Also, there are these inaugural balls at night. What do I think? History. You must go. I'm in. I'll go. (My husband likes to say I'll go anywhere.)

January 17th. At a family dinner in New York - if we provide the restaurant - they will come - Abby and I convince Vicky to join us and take Tuesday off from work. Vicky's in.

January 19th. I push Abby to get hard tickets for our inaugural events. When she calls, she learns that tickets must be picked up in person by three P.M. in DC so she takes the Amtrak train down to pick up tickets (hers) for the viewing stand and (ours) for the inaugural ball. She reports to us via cell that if the ticket pickup was a sign of how the Obama administration would be run we will be in great shape. This gives us false hope. Yes, she had an orange ticket.

Ten-thirty A.M. Vicky and I leave New York. I had done some googling and had a sheaf of information on the inauguration, metro maps, and driving directions to our friends' home in Potomac, snacks, a book on cd, hand warmers-footwarmers were sold out, and a newly-minted Ipod. En route Vicky was reading He's Just Not That Into You and we would discuss the ancient art of courtship, relations or rate the songs set up on my Ipod. Dark Eyes??? Vicky wisely, as it turns out, refused to let me listen to my book on cd in spite of or maybe because it's on the bestseller list.

Noon. I ask Vicky to determine whether a radio-flashlight combo- loot from a benefit party bag - would be worthwhile to bring to the inauguration. It does work after a fashion but I decide to leave it at a New Jersey rest stop - Grover Cleveland, Joyce Kilmer - with a note in the women's room to either trash this monument to technology or recycle it. Vicky wanted no part of this beneficence so pretended she wasn't with me but I thought it could occupy some antsy five-year-old for a good twenty minutes. I am ecstatic to learn that New Jersey has gas attendants - Vicky thinks it's a state law.

One P.M. We learn via cell that Abby is ditching us and the edgy-lessness of suburban Maryland and will be staying with a friend from New Orleans, who has relocated to DC. Vicky and I would rise above this slight. The driving was uneventful, the media hype on traffic was just that - hype.

One-thirty. It begins snowing right around Maryland and traffic now slows.

Three. One navigation error - I miss an exit and take this with a lack of civility. We recover.

Three-thirty. We arrive in Potomac. Since the friends' son, our host, is not yet home - we are early - we decide to Mall it. The other mall.

Three-forty. We stop at the community house entrance for directions to the mall and are delighted as only road travelers can be for the use of the rest room and clear directions.

Four. We arrive at the Montgomery Mall, navigate it, and head for the movie theater. Decide on a five-thirty showing of Doubt, dissing, Mall Cop and Hotel for Dogs. While we wait for the movie, we get our hair done - the Turkish Lady - via her business card-trimmed Vicky's and a transplanted Alaskan - and no, I did not mention SP-did mine. Then, we grab a snack at California Pizza Kitchen.

Five-thirty. Doubt. The movie seemed a perfect choice-raising questions, no pat answers. Meryl gets that Bronx Irish-American accent down so perfectly.

Seven-thirty. Back to Potomac, take our friends' son and his fianc� out for dinner in Bethesda at Redwood - a self-described Californiaish restaurant. Only caveat was that I would not, could not drive. Went in the dad's maroon thunderbird, "merlot" as dubbed by their adult children.

Ten. Fall into bed---try not to think of tomorrow and its logistics.

January 20th. Inauguration Day. I am up early, which I view as either a gift or an affliction. Vicky begs for the proverbial fifteen minutes more. Matt has provided us with directions to the Metro, Smart Trip passes, and has suggested a little spot at the Willard Hotel for breakfast. We pack the car and our carefully selected shopping bags - McLaughlin for me, Banana Republic for Victoria with all we would need for the inaugural ball. We carry no pocketbooks - we are prepared for security.

Eight. This is as early as Vicky would allow. Since it is nineteen degrees out, I am anxious about the prospect of all those hours in the open air. We leave the comforts of Potomac. The media made me think we would have trouble parking the car at the metro station - not the case. The metro is packed but efficient.

Nine. We arrive at the Metro Center stop where we hit a bit of a logjam in exiting the turnstiles, but the crowd has an air of patience and respect-not usually seen on New York City subways. We find ourselves at F, 12th, and Pennsylvania. The restaurant, Oceanaire, where we have a three-thirty reservation is directly in front of us, a good sign. A few steps later and we see the gated barricades. This is where any plans we have begin to fall apart. Since breakfast at the Willard is unreachable, we stop at Café Phillips. Here, the management reports to our fellow patrons that a customer has walked off with the rest room key, rendering the facilities unavailable. About now, a smidgeon of, yes, doubt, enters my mind that this was an intentional ploy. OK, so a tiny black cloud on our day. Break the lock, I think. We leave the warmth and the bathroom issue behind us to seek out the nearest line. This strategical decision, breakfast, put us further back in what was known as the General Admission line.

Nine-twenty. We begin waiting in line. Not really a line- more of a human herd. I break out the hand warmers. They work. I praise the mad scientist in that lonely lab who created hand warmers. Vicky and I try to be generous and tell one another Abby deserves "special" placement since she had volunteered, uprooted herself, taken a leave of absence from her cushy job, and went to live in Lima, Ohio where she knew no one and we had not. Still, our jealousy translates to a numbness, or maybe it was just the 19 degree weather. Vicky whispers passages to me from He's Just Not That Into You.

Eleven. An inauguration volunteer stands on a column to announce the other General Admission line is moving. We switch lines. One of a foursome standing next to us holds up a radio with NPR reporting on the inauguration.

Eleven-thirty. We hear the chosen people - those on the Mall - clapping. We hear music. Then, we hear from somewhere in the front of the line that a fire marshal has declared no one else will be allowed on the Mall. Backup plan.

Plan B. Find a coffee shop, not the Phillips, a restaurant, anywhere with a television. There in front of us is - manna from heaven - a Christian Science Reading Room. Yellow, warm, no television but a laptop streaming coverage of the inauguration. About twenty-five pilgrims have assembled, line standers all. In silence we watch Obama's speech in what was an intimate, almost religious moment. We stand as one to sing the Star-Spangled Banner I choke up with the nobility of it, the democracy. The mouse-like, spectacled, wispy staff member generously offers her motley congregation coffee and hot chocolate. She asks if any of us wanted to write prayers for the day. Some do. Although the experience has been priceless, I leave a few dollars in a glass bowl on the counter.

One-fifteen. Although our reservation is for three-thirty, Vicky and I decide we need to thaw, eat, and sit down. The restaurant is nearly empty and the maitre d' welcomes us. We call Abby with the change of plan and she approves of the change, one never knows, and is on her way. I call Dan, my daughter, Susan's fiancée, and he will get there as soon as he can. Vicky and I experience the warmth, the cushioned banquette, the gracious staff, and decide to order. We may never leave. We have no place to go. Fifteen minutes later, Abby arrives, breathless, reporting she sat 100 feet from the podium, proving it with a picture of her and the Boss, Bruce Springsteen, on her cell. She sat behind Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson. The staff continues to be attentive when Dan arrives. We all report on our doings. Dan stood by the Lincoln Memorial and could see a Jumbotron in the distance. We call Susie in Chicago who watched the inauguration at the University's history department and reports on some historical quibble on whether Obama is the 44th President. I am glad she was with other people sharing this moment. We order dessert to prolong the afternoon. As we leave, we launch a new plan to buy souvenirs, then find a Starbucks to wait for the balls. Dan asks the maitre d' to take our picture. My husband's response to the picture : "You all look so cold."

Three-forty-five. We buy T-shirts, pins, a hat - my brother has called and asked us to get souvenirs for his granddaughter. We bargain - although transactions are executed in a speedy manner.

Fourish. We arrive at a Starbucks situated between Embassy Suites on one corner and the Washington Conference Center - site of my inaugural ball on the other. Abby leaves to get the tickets she has left behind at her friend's apartment. Vicky finishes reading He's Just Not That Into You. We eavesdrop on our Starbucks neighbors - the President of a California college and his wife who meet a college librarian of another California college. The librarian had been to the Clinton inauguration as well. The academics had been at some gathering the night before. I sip my apple cider, try to read the Washington Post, which I decide will be another souvenir. Because of our bag lady stance, we have been very discriminating about what we choose to lug around. Surveying the scene, I look over at the Embassy Suites and decide this will be the spot of my glamour makeover while Vicky leans towards the Starbucks restroom.

Five-thirty. Although I do feel uncomfortable with my interloper status, I change and apply makeup in the ladies' room of the Embassy Suites. Vicky has guarded our spot at Starbucks. When I return and give her the lay of the lobby, she follows and changes at the Embassy Suites as well. She is sporting cowboy boots, her prom dress, but has chosen to keep her jeans on beneath it. Clearly, weather has trumped glamour. Abby arrives with our tickets, seems impressed with our resourcefulness, our stab at fashion. Since my ball, the Mid-Atlantic, is a block away and their ball, the Youth Ball, is 1.7 miles away (Google) at the Hilton, we make plans for our final rendez-vous - nine-thirty at the Dupont Circle metro.

Six-twenty-five. I enter the Washington Conference Center for my ball. The ball does not officially start until eight, but the doors open at six. I arrive early - I have learned my lesson. Bypassing the photo ops, I am alone and have no camera, I enter Ballroom A. The food is pasta, crudités, on plastic plates. Perfect. A staff member tells me the assembled seats are for the disabled and, yes, all guests will be standing at the ball. He then tells me Jean Wyclef will be performing as will the Grateful Dead and some VERY IMPORTANT DIGNITARIES. I scope out the room and nudge close to the stage. Then, it hits me - I can stand in the very front row. Finally, justice. Perhaps, those who sign on/show up early have an easier time of it. Something to mull about. Within minutes, a man stands to my left who turns out to be an economics professor from Princeton. When I ask if he has provided any input to the administration, he says yes. Since my husband is an inveterate watcher of financial shows, I ask what his input has been. Minimal growth in the GNP - less than one per cent - and labor will be a problem for 2-3 years. A college student/law school student who has made a cell phone call earlier reporting on his grades -4 A's and a B+ and the price of Korbel - 12 dollars a glass - at the ball- returns to his spot and cuts me off from the professor. On my right and behind me, I am gradually being surrounded by an army of Deadheads. My only connection with the Dead is that Abby wore a black armband to her high school when Jerry Garcia died. When I report this to the lifelong deadhead on my right who has flown in with his wife from Ashland, Oregon , he confesses that he is wearing a Jerry Garcia cummerbund. More talk of the Dead. Jean Wyclef performs and works the crowd. A member of the Dead walks on stage and many in the crowd begin yelling, "Bobby." I am out of my league. A Blackberry message to my daughters - let's meet at ten-thirty. From them, make it later. From me-we'll meet at the car. The Dead come on stage. By now, I have been listening to Dead stories-concerts, sightings from men, parents at the Sidwell-Friends school. Yes, that school. A board member, no less. Fifteen minutes into the Dead, I turn to leave - rendering the fan behind me speechless and ecstatic at his new position.

Ten-twenty. I switch shoes, find the Chinatown metro, and get on the Shady Grove line for Maryland. Twenty-five minutes later, I reach the parking space, heat up the car, and begin playing my sappy book on cd. An email message-getting off the metro. A phone call - Abby and Vicky have arrived

Eleven-twenty. I pick them up, find 495 East, and we report on our balls. The VERY IMPORTANT DIGNITARIES danced at their ball. We share stories. I drive north - they sleep. A stop for gas. More sleep for them. I make it to Wilmington.

Two-ish. We check into a Sheraton. Collapse.

Six-forty-five. I'm up and showered. Drag the worker bees out of bed. Check out. Head for the Bridge. Fifteen miles north, a noise that cannot be ignored. Yes, a flat. It is nine degrees out. We pull out the manual. I take everything out of the trunk and tug the spare out. I assess, get back in the car, and decide to wait for help. I accept my limitations. Some grumbling in the car. A state trooper shows up - makes a call at my request, and fifteen minutes later a van shows up. Forty dollars later - that included a very nice tip, we are on the road again.

Ten-forty. I drop Vicky off at her job, Abby at her apartment.

Eleven-thirty. I slump into my apartment and begin reading He's Just Not That Into You. Thrilled - no other word. Thrilled.

© Carole Gaunt