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  Date / Time: 2/22/2009 8:25 PM UTC

  Flying on Air Force One With the Obamas
  

  Greetings accomplished, the Obamas disappeared into their section of the plane toward the front, while we settled in for takeoff. There is nothing unique about a presidential takeoff. An airplane is an airplane. Except! The flight attendants on Air Force One don’t nag you about stuffing every little thing under the seat in front of you. Your seat doesn’t have to be in the upright position, nor does your tray have to be in the locked position. I briefly considered walking around during takeoff, rather than repeating The Lord’s Prayer as I usually do, just to mock death because I probably could.

  Once we reached our cruising altitude, as they say, we were summoned to the conference room. The Obama ladies were nowhere in sight, presumably ensconced in private quarters we never saw. Obama, wearing white shirt and tie (sans presidential bomber jacket— too much drama?), again greeted us with yet another round of smiles and handshakes. At this point, I have lost count. We took our seats around the table—alpha dog positioning as one might expect—got out our notebooks, pens and tape recorders and…

  

  Courtesy of Kathleen Parker

  “How are we going to run this thing?”

  Eh? The president was asking us how we wanted to proceed. For the record, this is very un-Bush. At several meetings with the former president, including a one-on-one interview aboard Air Force One, there was never any question about how we would proceed. Bush ran all shows. Either Obama hasn’t figured out yet that he’s the boss or, quite possibly, he doesn’t care. As a veteran White House correspondent suggested to me later, “Maybe he knows he can handle whatever we toss his way.”

  I’ve written about the interview for my regular syndicated column, so I won’t belabor it here. Suffice to say, we focused on the stimulus bill that Obama signed Tuesday in Denver. As someone who has written both favorably and critically about the president, most recently focusing on his greenness and political inexperience, I was curious to gain whatever insights one can from a closer encounter.

  What struck me most was his immense calm. I kept looking for fissures in the façade, some signal that the cool cat is a defense mechanism or some tactical ploy to deflect or defuse an opponent. Nary a crack. You may as well try to find the Dalai Lama’s Achilles heel. I suspect that if you cut Obama open, you’d find a little Buddha sitting inside, smiling.

  Before a crowd of thousands, Obama the Orator is a performer. In a small room with a few journalists, he is a teacher, mindful that his students are trying to write down what he says. He speaks slowly. I took this as an act of consideration and thanked him for it. Even though we were promised a transcript—and though tape recorders cluttered the table—we were all still scribbling furiously. It is a habit of old reporters and, besides, one never knows.

  Except for a few worthy quotes, not much new surfaced during the interview and the trip was otherwise gloriously uneventful. But one thing did emerge with greater clarity. Quality. If one judges people in part by the way they and their family comport themselves—and we all do—then the verdict is clear. The Obamas are the family for which less-fortunate children wish upon stars.

  The Return Trip

  Yes, yes, I hear you. Air Force One. Big deal. Sucking up to the prez. Piffle. Know this, my fellow Americans: The romance ends on the tarmac. Once we landed in Chicago, the Obamas descended the red-carpeted front stairs to their awaiting helicopter and we unworthy wretches dropped from the belly of the beast to the pavement and our waiting… nada. Zip! No, actually, a Zipcar would have been delightful.

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