Pajamas for Obama

My roommate Jenny and I woke up early this morning to watch Obama’s speech at the Democratic National Convention on Voice of America TV.

She is a better waker upper than I, so she catches the whole thing; I only catch half.

But for 20 minutes, we both sit on the floor of our living room, munching on leftover pizza in pajamas, raptured by Obama’s speech.

We cheer when the crowd cheers, laugh and conjecture when the seemingly-out-of-place country song plays at the end and wonder out loud if his wrist ever gets sore from waving.

For those minutes, we are in that Denver stadium.

Then we brush our teeth, put our laptops in our bags, and walk past the mango stands and the black smoke emitting cars and scrawny dogs to work in our cement office in Kathmandu.

Meanwhile, Americans also brushed their teeth, then let the dog out for a last pee, and are now turning the pages of the latest John Grisham novel in bed as their lids turn to steel.