Past Dupont Circle, where a week ago Friday people threw their shoes at a giant, inflatable George Bush; where all weekend it felt like rush hour, as bodies moved in mass, smiling ever so softly, laughing ever so easily, as if it were a holiday season past, as if there were a bit of opiate in the water.

In a cab with an Ethiopian driver, who observes, "I've never seen this. Regular people never go to inauguration. That's for the rich."

Standing alongside a black kid who organized for Obama in a rural, white Southern district, in towns where he kept his hair cropped short and wore his best clothes, and tried to believe the message he was carrying, the message offered by another black man, might resonate louder than Harvard or Crowe or Hussein.

Past enough armored cars and Humvees and FBI SWAT teams that it might well be the end of days, or hours of martial law.

To the checkpoint where an old neighbor -- old enough that he might have seen Hoover take the oath -- ventured out carefully into the cold to bring coffee to the young guardsmen. Troops in camouflage but without M-16s or bulletproof vests for the first time in a long time, for the last time in a long time.

Past a black daughter on her father's shoulders whose tears she can't understand. Past rows and rows of street vendors, selling shirts and buttons and hats and posters, anything to capture a slice of history that nobody quite comprehends, yet.

To the balcony of the Labor Department to watch the motorcade.

Dozens of cars and motorcycles, none at all important alongside a single Cadillac carrying the next leader of the free world, the old leader of the free world and the hopes of an entire world.

Across the street to a corner of the mall to hear Bush and Cheney take the stage to grumbles and boos.

Finally a glance down a corridor of a million souls, too many to be counted, but somehow still too few, knowing how many would be here if they could. Those who will watch, and listen, and sigh as one from afar.

Weaving through dozens of people who can't see, who won't see, but couldn't resist standing in the cold for hours nonetheless, to just be, to have been.

Looking back at a black cop, who raises a fist in celebration, snapping a picture of a brother taking the oath.

Back north, away from the chaos and commotion, past police gathered around radios and people on the clock but huddled around TVs nonetheless. Moving against people still streaming in, those subtle smiles now having grown, too late but somehow not disappointed.

But my mind is somewhere else. Once the confetti is cleared, once the glitterati return to New York and the celebrities return to Hollywood, once D.C. stops feeling like Times Square and returns to dull, white-collar K Street hustle once more -- yes, you did, America, and now the challenge begins.