Spanish Quesadillas For Obama

It's 12:47am in Vélez-Málaga, and the polls are about to close on the East Coast of the United States. I didn't sleep much last night, and I have to be out of my apartment to catch my ride tomorrow in less than seven hours. I'm keeping myself awake with the cold leftovers of the soup I made for dinner, rice cakes, and the promise of victory wine and/or Bailey's we bought last weekend. I've been watching BBC religiously for the past several weeks, and I've now seen today's news loop at least five times. Having not kept up with recent non-BBC television, I just got myself caught up on the latest SNL sketches with Senator McCain. All day, I've been refreshing my Facebook page in awe of the number of people who have "donated their statuses to get out the vote." My roommates went to bed a little while ago, and all the Americans I know seem to have gone terribly apathetic on me. Never have I felt such an intense desire to be in the United States, nor have I ever felt like I was missing out on something momentous to such the degree that I do now.

I wore my Qdoba "Quesadillas For Obama" t-shirt all day at school today. It turns out that Spain doesn't really understand the idea of a secret ballot, and I've been taking advantage of my own disregard for secrecy at this point. The principal, in particular, seemed to get quite a kick out of my shirt. In class, I inculcated my students with YouTube videos featuring Mexican mariachis and American actors and artists chanting and singing in praise of Obama. Everyone here agrees that Obama's got it in the bag; nobody understands why I should feel any sort of anxiety.

Even from my far-off vantage point, it really feels like we're on the verge of history. I wish I could have been in Colorado for at least one of the several occasions that Obama spoke, and that I could be there now to soak up the civic excitement and hope. As it is, I'll have to settle for what I fully intend will be some euphoric skype calls not too long from now.