Election Night in Eire

Courtesy of xkcd.com*

"Oh my god," said my apartment mate. "This is like, Katie's porn."

To be fair, I was on the edge of my seat, fingernails in my mouth, shouting at the TV for more, and practically having a political orgasm every time more polls closed. But it must be said that this was a night I would remember for the rest of my life -- the night America stepped up, chose the best man for the job, and voted Barack Obama not only for president, but as the first black president of the United States.

The day didn't start out well. I had been nervous and jumpy all day, trying to get reading done while frantically refreshing the New York Times webpage. It was around 2 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time when I finally did the math and realized that the earliest we'd hear anything was 11 p.m., and even then the results would be spotty at best.

It was like waiting for Christmas -- except this time, there was a chance that Santa would decide to bomb Iran, overturn Roe vs. Wade and amend the constitution to ban gay marriage before croaking and handing the country over to an unknown maverick-y maverick from Alaska.

I tried to keep myself occupied. I read. I went to lunch. I went to class. I did laundry. But it was hopeless, as all I could really concentrate on was the voice in my head screaming, "I WANT TO KNOW WHO WINS." I became more bitter over the five-hour time difference than ever before.

Finally, around 10 p.m., my apartment-mate J and I decided to head over to the Graduate Memorial Building, where we had heard that the College Historical Society (or The Hist) would be broadcasting the election results all through the night. The Graduates Memorial Building is absolutely beautiful, and to spend the night there with about a hundred other political dorks and Americans was pretty much the ideal situation, as far as I was concerned. And since we didn't have a TV and our only friend with a TV was otherwise occupied, it seemed like our best bet.

When we arrived, the lights were off and the door locked, without a political dork in sight. J and I looked at each other, crestfallen. Then one of us brokered the typical Irish solution:

"You want to try to find a bar?"

There are about four typical 'old-man bars' around our apartment, all of which would be quiet on a Tuesday night and all of which would be happy to accommodate two young American girls who just wanted to know what was going on in their country. That is, they would have been, had they had televisions, or had they stayed open past 11:30 p.m.

First we tried Kennedy's: No TV. Then the hotel bar: No TV. Then Foley's. There was a TV, but they were only open until half eleven, the barman told us, and suggested we try the Shelbourne Hotel bar down the street.

"Sure, there'll be lots of Americans there," he said, "and if you sneak in, they should turn a blind eye to whether you're actually staying there or not."

We thanked him profusely, and turned to head out. But he called us back, shouting, "But do you want me to tell you the results now?"

J shouted back, "Sure, what do you think?"

The barman smiled, utterly confident. "Obama. It's definitely going to be Obama."

It was around this point that I started praying that the Irish confidence in America's ability to choose the right man for the job wouldn't somehow jinx the results.

We pressed on, down the three blocks or so to the Shelbourne. It's important to know that the Shelbourne is where all the old, rich, American tourists stay -- a huge, really nice and extremely expensive hotel right on St. Stephen's Green. Naturally, we were intimidated, and a little apprehenisve about sneaking in. J decided that the best way to do it would be to keep cool, smoke a cigarette in the little smoking area, then walk into the bar like we belonged there.

We were putting this plan into action when an extremely drunk businessman walked by, blearily gave us the eye and muttered something that might have been, "Hello there" but also might have been a lewd invitation, before walking straight into the hotel bar. This was not looking good. Still, we had nowhere else to go, really, and so J finished her cigarette and we sauntered into the bar, trying to look as though we could totally afford to stay there.

Immediately, two things became blatantly clear: one, that there was not a TV, and two, the bar was full of lewd old men. Our friend from outside even made a detour in order to brush against J on his way to order what must have been pint number ten. I am pretty sure that we never really stopped moving; we just walked to one end of the bar, turned tail, and walked out.

For a while after, we weren't sure what to do. How could it be possible to not be able to find a late-closing bar in Dublin on election night? We decided to wander up Grafton Street and into Temple Bar, figuring we were sure to stumble on something there, what with all the tourists up that way. Surely some pub would be open late, and would be kind enough to put on the election for the American expatriates.

There was one bar that was, but sadly they were only open until midnight, and we were forced to continue our meander through Temple Bar until I spotted something in passing --

"Wait! Is that Hungry Harry's with the election on?"

It was. Hungry Harry's is a delightful little fast food place where the food is decent, but really fantastic after a few pints. For the moment, it was completely empty, and we ordered mounds of greasy food and planted ourselves in front of the BBC coverage of the vote. So far, it was Obama's 8 to McCain's 3, which (while I felt it was too close to call as of yet), seemed to exhilarate anyone who passed by.

Except, of course, the mad bunch of Italians who barged in, blocked our view, and began speaking very loudly about something I couldn't understand. Soon they were joined by five high-school-aged Irish boys, who (as Irish boys do), started to get a little rowdy. I was beginning to consider just going home and gluing myself to the New York Times web page, when suddenly--

Beep beep. Beep beep. J's phone, with a message from our Scottish friend A: "Hey ladies! U can come watch the election if you want cos the boy is gone and ill be up 4 ages yet!"

Within the half hour, we were happily installed on A's couch, where I was trying to explain the electoral college to both J and A. Not very effectively, I might add, as I'm a little shaky on the concept myself, but that didn't really seem to matter.

"Here, explain something to me," said A. "The whole middle of the map looks red, yeah? Which means McCain, right? So how is it possible for him not to win?"

I explained that it was based on population, and that in essence, California's 55 electoral votes combined with New York, the rest of New England and the Pacific Northwest, was enough to carry Obama. A lively discussion of states, populations, the likelihood of McCain winning, punctuated with a rehash of A's date that night and a rousing round of the States Game (during which A learned that Cincinnati was not, in fact, a state), lasted us until almost 4 a.m., at which point, I interrupted the festivities with a shout --

"WAIT. CALIFORNIA'S ABOUT TO CLOSE."

"What does that mean?" cried a startled A, while J responded with a laugh and the porn comment.

"It means we'll know who the president is in maybe fifteen minutes," I answered. I had barely gotten the sentence out before CNN blasted their "breaking news" theme, blocked out all the graphics that had been up with a big blue screen, on which was written: "CNN PROJECTON: BARACK OBAMA WINS PRESIDENCY."

I am pretty sure you could hear our screams on the other side of the River. After we settled a bit, we flipped to BBC to see them announce it, then to ITV to see them tell Ireland that America had elected their first African-American president.

I can barely remember what happened after, except that we waited forever for McCain to concede, and when he finally did, his speech was so dripping with condescension that even if I had wanted him to win before, I was now certain that Obama was the one for the US. (For the record, McCain is not my friend, and he might as well have just said, "Thanks for letting the black man win for once. Way to go, guys.")

We didn't stay up to watch Obama's speech. It was 5 a.m. by the time I got to bed that night, and I watched the speech on YouTube the next morning. But even though we didn’t technically see it through to the bitter end, I feel like we truly lived the expatriate election to its fullest, early-closing bars and empty fast-food restaurants just being part of the whole experience.

(* Cartoon above courtesy of xkcd, an awesome webcomic that you should all check out. Above image is cropped: full cartoon can be viewed here.)