The Democratic Convention (Last Year)

Diana Plater was in Denver and St Paul for the US presidential conventions. Here she provides a day-by-day perspective on democracy at work, American-style.

Wednesday August 27:
I arrive in Denver, Colorado for the Democratic National Convention.
The town's hopping with delegates, lobbyists, congressmen and women, senators, observers, protesters, celebrities and media from all over the world. Down at the 16th Street Mall I'm handed a leaflet from a woman holding a "Bird Porn" sign, which says bird watchers are more sexually active than others, possibly the strangest of the literature I see distributed during four days of partying.
Outside a juice shop I meet Jarrot R Jordan, a political strategist from Atlanta, who's excited to be in town to see the first African American candidate for the White House - Barack Obama - accepting his nomination.
"For me it's historic," he says. "I had to be here."
I catch a shuttle bus to the Pepsi Centre with scores of others after walking past stall after stall of political paraphernalia - everything from T-shirts of Obama next to Martin Luther King saying Dreams Do Come True to laughing Hillary Clinton pens.
That afternoon, the traditional roll call showing how the states voted is suspended with the backing of a laughing Hillary Clinton, allowing Obama to be officially nominated. The Clintonistas are not so happy. I speak to several who feel the country has been robbed of the chance to have a woman president.
But as proceedings continue delegates appear united in support of Obama and his vice presidential candidate Joe Biden, with a choreographed holding up of "Biden", "Change" and other sloganed signs. Other speakers include former president Bill Clinton and an injured female helicopter pilot who complains that the "warriors" of Iraq are not being looked after by the government.
At the media bar in one of the tents in the grounds of the Pepsi Centre free alcohol flows and a black woman anthropologist from Minneapolis says she doesn't see any clash between a black and a woman candidate.
"Obama's the president America needs now, he reflects the diversity of the country. Can you imagine if an Aborigine ran for leader of your country, what kind of breakthrough that would be?"

Thursday August 28:
The event at Invesco Field, a football stadium outside the city centre where Obama delivers his acceptance speech, is more like a rock concert than a political gathering - except for the thousands of American flags. Obama reminds his audience it's 45 years to the day since people in Washington came to hear a "young preacher from Georgia speak of his dream". Confetti - an environmentally friendly alternative to balloons - rains down as fireworks blast the summer night sky.
Later an American colleague says the election on November 4 will come down to "who's afraid of the dark?".
"I believe race is really an excuse to mask the fears," he says. "Yet there's no logical explanation to these race fears."
On Friday August 29 Republican Presidential nominee John McCain announces his running mate - Sarah Palin, the governor of Alaska - and the spotlight is immediately lifted off Obama. The debate begins about who has more executive experience - the hunter, fisher and "hockey mom" of five or the black senator.

Monday September 1:
I'm in St Paul, one half of the twin cities of Minnesota (the other's Minneapolis) where the Republican National Convention is to be held. Only the convention isn't happening - it's been postponed because of Hurricane Gustav. But everybody's saying that's an excuse not to have McCain seen on prime time television with the unpopular President George Bush.
It's Labor Day and the town is dead as we drive in from our Days Inn chain motel at Eagan, a suburb kilometres out near the airport and The Mall of America, one of many hotels to which delegate and media have been designated, with infrequent shuttle services into the city.
The contrast with Denver is almost surreal.
While first ladies Laura (Bush) and Cindy (McCain) speak to the almost empty convention, a radical group has broken away from a planned huge demonstration and is going wild in the streets. Police spray some of them with mace, which they attempt to wipe off with vinegar brought along for the occasion.
One of the protesters, Ragnar as he wants to be known, tells me he's 18 and this will be the first presidential election he can vote in.
"In the past eight years a lot of freedoms have been flushed away in the name of security," he says.
Lee Beauduy is one of several people holding red and white banners saying "Victory over terrorism. Let our soldiers win" who whistle and clap the police for their anti-protesters action.
"We have not been hit since 9/11 because of the war," he says.
Soon around 10,000 people start marching past, with banners covering every issue from anti-war to immigration.
Back at the Hilton Garden Inn I meet musician Al Williams III who is tinkling the ivories of a grand piano in one of the reception rooms. He's killing time because his gig - playing between speeches a the convention - has been cancelled.
"They're trying to fit me in tomorrow," the flautist and saxophonist says. He doesn't want to get into a political discussion.
At a bar in the hotel we watch CNN's news flash - Sarah Palin's 17-year-old daughter Bristol is five months pregnant. (Later it emerges that Palin disclosed the pregnancy to rebut rumours that her Down Syndrome baby son, Trig, is actually Bristol's child.) Over and over on TV there's the same footage of the poor girl clutching the baby.
Is life imitating art? I wonder, as I have just seen a play written in the 60s by Gore Vidal, Weekend, which is all about a Republican presidential candidate finding out his son's black fiance is pregnant, which could ruin his chances of being nominated.
In the room with the piano a reception is starting for the Conservative Movements Leaders - the party heavies. Red and white "I Vote Pro-Life" badges are strewn across the tables and a priest wanders around drinking a glass of red wine.
Women in tight pencil skirts and stilettos are talking about how Palin has "energised" the election, admitting they thought they were on a loser until McCain's unorthodox choice of running partner.

Tuesday September 2
Breakfast at the Days Inn, Eagan. Portly Republican delegates choose between waffles and cereal and watch TV as outside rain threatens.
"It's no big deal, " says one, commenting on the by now famous pregnancy.
At the Foreign Press Centre at the convention centre congressman for Puerto Rico Luis G Fortuno, briefing journalists, says Hispanic women who loved Clinton may now vote for Palin because they believe she represents family values.
"It (the pregnancy) shows a typical family with typical issues," he says.
That night George Bush speaks to the convention via satellite and former presidential candidate Law and Order star Fred Thompson receives rapturous applause when he supports McCain and describes Palin as a breath of fresh air.
Al Williams' band finally gets to play.
Outside in the street pretty girls in yellow t-shirts give out badges advertising condoms, which "save lives". On the next corner a replica Guantanamo prison has been established and people in orange overalls give out leaflets.
At Minneapolis a fund-raising function for the Young Guns is being held at Brits Pub - an organisation of young people dedicated to targeting seats held by first-term Democrats.
Later that evening tango, flamenco and belly dancers entertain solar power industry lobbyists hoping a senator or two will drop in.
Next door a gay bar is almost empty except for two men on the dance floor.
"Maybe they're all at the Log Cabin reception," somebody quips - that's the group that represents Gay Republicans.
God Bless America!