The End

Back at Le Malentendu du Jura for a breakfast of jambon, croissant, and coffee. Apparently the restaurant's ambitions take the morning off. This is strict Parisian stock and I note, as I dine alone slowly, the irony of the twenty minute wait of hungover Republican revelers. We have come quite a ways in four years, haven't we?

My Palin-pique has subsided. The only remainders of my uncharacteristic outburst are my intentionally wide spread of newspapers at the bar, combined with an aggressive lack of bathing intended to keep the seats to my left and right empty. I have seen three solo diners return to the host stand so far. Bliss, my friends, is in the simple things.

The conventions are over and not a moment too soon. Initial poling suggests a tie or a slim Obama lead. Which considering all the bile slung his way this week would be not a small victory. Credit is due to the Republican machine who made damn sure that the Democratic National Convention ended as soon as Obama left the stage. And now, thankfully, we are left to ponder the questions of the coming months: Will Sarah Palin be allowed to speak to anyone not from The View or Fox News? Will the Vice-Presidential Debate draw more viewers a Survivor Finale? Will the Democrats come out swinging or wait to react to whatever Rovian mischief is being cooked up as we speak?

Kastelbaum read me the riot act yesterday. He felt my post represented the kind of anger best left to therapist's offices and punching bags. He argued that my readers (you few, you lucky few) in all likelihood agreed with me and needed no further reason for inflaming. And anyway, we knew it was coming. The hatefest was inevitable. Obama went tough so the Republicans went back to their basics.

Of course, what's going to be really interesting is the stuff that doesn't make the cable news. It's going to be how the house to house efforts of volunteers in Ohio, Michigan, Virginia, Colorado, Pennsylvania, and, maybe, Florida fare and the who wins the registration drives for new voters. I'll be looking to talk to those people more in the next two months. They're the ones who decide these things anyway, not Keith Olbermann and Sean Hannity.

I pay the check and make my way towards the exit, the airport, and my New York home. On the way out, the same Red Bull deprived chef from Monday's visit is arriving at work. His eyes linger on the concrete and do not look up. We all have a part to play in this strange country, I guess, even the loons.