The dream come true

I just returned from the Democratic National Convention in Denver, attending the last night not as a delegate, but as a private citizen. That day, I endured a five-hour car ride, a 2½-hour plane trip, a flat tire in the rental car and a bomb threat on the light rail. Then I stood for over two hours in a line a mile long to enter the venue. As I walked slowly across the Colfax Street bridge, an elderly woman remarked that it reminded her of when she marched to Selma; I did not complain. While waiting, I observed a vast array of people, young and old, rich and poor, fit and infirm. Despite the wait, none of them turned back. There were also many entrepreneurs hawking their souvenirs, with a multitude of protesters expressing their opinions, and I realized that this is all part of the American way.