In Sderot, an arid town near Israel's border with the Gaza Strip, the rockets have stopped dropping from the sky — for today, anyway. A local official has just informed the reporters gathered outside the police station awaiting Barack Obama's press conference that it takes about fifteen seconds for a rocket fired from Palestinian territory to travel its seven-mile arc to a rooftop of an Israeli house. More than a thousand rockets or mortar shells have made the trip this year, and the husks of several dozen are stacked on shelves behind the podium. When Obama emerges in a tight throng that includes Israeli defense minister Ehud Barak and foreign minister Tzipi Livni, the Israeli security officers in short sleeves and sunglasses begin noticeably elbowing the suited Secret Service agents traveling with him.
This is not the fun part of a presidential campaign. In fact, it's starting to feel like Obama's candidacy of hope has suddenly come face-to-face with reality. The hurled criticisms by the McCain campaign are one thing; there's also the small matter of whether a guy who four years ago was a state legislator in Illinois can speak with authority to world leaders while winning over Jewish voters back home. But the issue right now — and every day, to some extent — is his personal protection. Nine hours before Obama's arrival in Jerusalem, a terrorist in a bulldozer attacked three cars and a city bus just down the street from his hotel. Obama's manner is still determinedly sunny, however, and in the blaring heat he talks about the carrots and sticks of Middle East diplomacy in that precisely vague diplomatic-speak that suggests he hears both sides.
The following day, Obama readies himself for his epic outdoor rally in Berlin, having jetted there for his first of three visits with European heads of state (Paris and London are up next). He has stationed himself in the Hotel Adlon, near the Brandenburg Gate. Red-and-white stanchions and green-and-white polizei vans keep the crowds and news crews at a remove, while the atmosphere of eerie watchfulness is broken by an occasional accented "Yes We Can!" or "Obama is my homeboy!"
Given the tens of thousands who have poured into the city center from all over Germany and beyond for the Thursday night rally, Berlin is oddly quiet. In the Tiergarten, where the crowds are gathering, I run into Jen Arnold, 25, the only advance person I've met in covering five campaign cycles to sport something approaching sleeve tattoos. At an earlier rally in Portland, Oregon — the biggest one I'd seen on U.S. soil — Jen and I became separated just before she was to take me up in a cherry picker for a God's-eye view of 75,000 supporters. When I motion to the cherry picker in the Tiergarten, Jen shakes her head. As a consolation prize, she offers a spot with her in the black Victory Column directly behind the podium where Obama will soon appear in front of a crowd of 200,000 — until the German security team quite firmly deems our plan verboten. This candidacy is no longer in the hands of upstarts, however clever and cool they may be.
