Window 21 to the World

There were pink Post-its on all the glass windows. “Window 21” was scribbled on the one I approached, while my brother Nick stood at “Window 20” to the left, and my friend Rebecca at “Window 22” on my right. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought a small child had gone around sticking these on for fun, but we had been strictly advised in an e-mail: “There are a total of 26 windows pre-approved by the Secret Service to be open for viewing for our floor. All other windows MUST have the shades CLOSED at all times. Please don’t open and close any shades from the approved 26 windows while the parade takes place. This will alarm the Secret Service Snipers allocated on neighboring buildings.”

I began to ask the woman who had escorted us into the building, “So, just to be clear, you mean, like, if I open the shade on one of those windows over there–”

“–you run the risk of being shot,” she interrupted.

“Alrighty then.”

We were on the 15th floor of the Citibank building, overlooking the parade route. Directly below “Window 21” we saw Pennsylvania Avenue, lined with police officers from all over the country, heading towards the Capitol in one direction and stretching back towards the White House in the other. For over two hours we had maneuvered our way through throngs of people fighting to get a spot along the parade route or amidst the chaos of the Mall. It was bitterly cold outside, and security consisted of four officers attempting to hand-check the bags of thousands of people. But the excitement was palpable. The pushing and shoving and complaining all suddenly ceased when a camera crew arrived on scene, and, within seconds, everyone in the crowd began to chant “Obama” and flaunt their paraphernalia: posters, pins, shirts, rhinestoned beanies, earrings—you name it. Mustering up just enough energy in our face muscles to fight the cold, Nick, Rebecca, and I turned to each other with beaming smiles that said: “This is what we came for.”

We had thrown ourselves headfirst into the epicenter of Inauguration madness. Streets were closed. Newsstands were indistinguishable from vendors of Obama merchandise. Burger joints served “Eggnoguration”-flavored shakes. Given the extent of Obamamania, we had been surprised the night before when the restaurant we had gone to served no such drink as “The Obama.” Street vendors sold Obama condoms, but this overflowing eatery hadn’t thought to create a celebratory cocktail? Unacceptable. “If you come up with one, and it’s good, we’ll put it on the menu,” our waiter told us. Or rather, challenged us. As it turns out, he had told the bartender to come up with a rival concoction, and he would decide the winner based on a random taste test among other customers. After a few minutes of brainstorming, we called our waiter over.

“Here you have it,” we told him. “The Obama: Kahlua, Vodka, Baileys, and coconut liqueur, served over ice. Kahlua for his black side, Vodka for his white side, Baileys for the mix, and coconut liqueur for his Hawaiian heritage.” He gave our recipe to the bartender, and the taste test ensued. The verdict? Against all odds, team inexperienced beat out team bartender, and “The Obama” was introduced to the masses. Yes we can.

While it was quite the experience wading through thousands of die-hard Obama fans to get to the Citibank building, Nick, Rebecca, and I felt we had the best of both worlds when we took refuge inside of it. We could go down to street level for a taste of the craziness, and we could go up to the rooftop (where Secret Service Snipers patrolled with binoculars) for a bird’s-eye view, but we could also watch TV within the warm confines of the 15th floor and actually hear the speech and the rest of the ceremony. When NBC announced that the motorcade was leaving the White House for the Capitol, we waited by “Window 21” and watched it pass below. When it announced that the helicopter was carrying Bush away, we got on the rooftop as it circled around the Washington Monument. When it announced that the parade had begun, we hurried down the elevator and saw the Obamas walk alongside their car.

After the presidential pair passed us by, we raced to fight through the crowds once again, throw on black-tie attire, and make it on time to New Jersey’s inaugural ball (the “Garden State Inaugural Gala”). Obama went in and out of several balls, but he stayed at ours the whole time. I tried to leave with him at the end, but to my dismay, New Jersey had other plans for the life-size cardboard cutout.