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Soon Obama is fielding questions. One silver-haired gentleman recounts a conversation he recently had with a fellow Jew who had reservations about supporting Obama. "He said if [the candidate's] name was Barry, he would vote for him." The man beams and then bows as a few tense chuckles bounce around the ballroom.
Here's a knuckleball. Obama seems unsure whether to treat this as a joke. Then he slams a triple by explaining his name was derived from the Hebrew word baruch, which means "blessed." The term, he continues, "should be pretty familiar to this group."
On Friday just before noon, advance people begin planning Baruch's appearance before the Cuban American National Foundation at the InterContinental Hotel in downtown Miami. Outside, two twentysomething Cuban-Americans are protesting in the parking lot. Wendy Padron's current favorite is Ralph Nader. "I vote for policies, not personalities," she insists.
Clearly no candidate has less personality than Nader.
Her friend, Gabby Jimenez, a registered independent, is leaning toward McCain, based on his Cuba policy. "The Republicans are a lot more knowledgeable, and they figure out a way to work with [Cubans-Americans] without hurting [those on the island]," she says.
Inside the hotel, silver-suited Cuban men enjoy $12 cocktails in the anteroom before taking their thousand-dollar seats in the ballroom.
Soon Obama's living, breathing form materializes. He calls the Castro regime a "terrible, tragic status quo." His Cuba strategy "would be guided by one word: libertad." The candidate promises to demand freedom of speech, assembly, and religion on the island. He says he would meet with Raúl Castro, but stops short of setting the conditions Cuban-Americans insist upon.
After Obama climbs down from the stage to meet and greet, Mary Ellen Tracy follows him, wearing a shoulder bag with Stephen Colbert's face on it and holding a flower pot with an orchid. As she draws close, she balances the plant above her head. Within the tightly packed crowd, the two bulbs bounce like a couple of alien antennae.
Mary Ellen's pupils are dilated — the mark of a brush with Obama. But she doesn't get close enough to get her copy of The Audacity of Hope signed. "He reminds me so much of John F. Kennedy," says Mary Ellen, who saw that president give a speech in 1960, when she was 10 years old.
Outside, a Cuban woman named Florangel is hugging her signed book. She decided months ago to vote for Obama, joining her kids but not her parents. "I think he can get the Cuban votes from people 40 and under," she says, "but the Cubans over 50? Forget it."
Three hours later in Sunrise, Obama plays the BankAtlantic Center. It's a free event, assuming one doesn't mind sweating like a junkie in a decathlon and sharing space with surly kids. Chants pass from line to line. "O-bam-uh! O-bam-uh!" goes the most popular one. "Tell yo' mama, vote Obama!" goes another.
The candidate greets the crowd with a cheery, "Hello, Sunshine!" Nobody tells him he's actually in Sunrise, maybe because his greeting sounds a bit more romantic. Barack is dreamy. Just ask the young man sitting in the section over Obama's shoulder. After the senator names the long list of the groups he would unite — "black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, young, old, gay, straight" — the man puts his hand over his heart and begins to cry.
"Hey, you gay?" asks a tall black man with a booming voice.
After the young guy says yes, the black man claps him on the back and says, "That's cool. We're all Americans."
The glow from Obama's speech lasts only through the long walk to the car. But when Obama Nation turns on its ignition, the buzz is gone. Drivers of merging cars become pariahs. Gridlock ensues. They have basked in Obama's "Sunshine" for a few hours, but now it's back to the real America.
Brandon K. Thorp contributed to this article.