This morning there was gridlock in the District.

No, not the political wrangling between a Democratic president and a newly Republican Congress.

It was the traffic kind.  The kind that begins with a capital “O.”

I was running out the door a little late (a rare occurrence), and I spotted a bus at the end of my street, turning down Connecticut Ave. This wasn’t just any bus – it was a 43.

For those who don’t live in the District, that’s the express bus that runs under Dupont Circle, and deposits me in front of my office in less than 4 minutes, like some sort of cosmic wormhole.

It appeared to be momentarily stopped at the corner, so I jogged to the end of my street and knocked on the door. The bus driver let me in, but then declared that we wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

I looked through the windshield, and saw a line of cars and buses ahead of us, all frozen in place.

Then I noticed the ubiquitous D.C. police cars blocking traffic, and the motorcycle motorcade parked and at the ready.

“It’s Obama,” she said.

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