The airport was Obamafest.
The plane was pressfest. You can always tell the TV people because they’re dressed nicely, with heavy makeup and immaculate hair, at 7 a.m., whereas the print guys and the geeks are wearing whatever they rolled out of bed in or found on the floor that didn’t smell too much like last night’s party. A much more experienced reporter than I gave me some awesome advice once: If you can’t run five miles in it, don’t wear it. Spike heels stay home, no matter how hot they make your ankles look, and pack light. Again, with the running. You never know when you’re gonna have to chase someone down.
In any case, a sea of reporters, political operatives (the guy sitting next to me, a young Aaron Eckhardt type with a check shirt and a new iPhone, said, “I have one of those jobs where I’m not allowed to talk to the media,”) and people in Obama shirts getting cheered at and high-fived by the above receiving line when they got off the plane, like returning high school football champs.