Abstract:
Coming out of the DC subway at Federal Triangle on election night, I checked the news headlines on my phone and cursed. Half-past nine and it might be all over. Having been en route to a media centre to file a first report, I’d stopped off at a couple of bars to get some local colour, roaring supporters and the like – Capitol Square, a Republican one where the boys all wear the blue suit-red tie-white shirt uniform, and the twenty-year-old girls are in pearls and satin cocktail dresses, like they were posing for 50s cookbook illustrations. They were pumped there, at first drinks, ready for a win. At the Democratic hang called, inevitably, Busboys and Poets, it’s all Zooey Deschanel big glasses, kooky beads and black bangs. And the women are even worse. Everyone’s too tense to touch their microbrew pilsner, the chai is going cold. Everywhere, everyone thinks it’ll be a long night, and maybe go into the morning, there might be vote stealing, lawyers, the Bush vs Gore nightmare redux.
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