enlarge Gregory Rec/Staff Photographer

Baltimore residents Vanya Jones and Patrick Sears listen from the National Mall to President Obama’s speech Tuesday.

WASHINGTON — Long before they wept, they walked.

They walked from tour buses, from subway and train stations, from hotels, from homes and apartments filled to capacity with out-of-town relatives and friends.

They walked across bridges, down four-lane avenues and through tunnels, a river of humanity flowing inexorably through the early morning darkness toward the National Mall, toward history in the making.

Their mittened hands held small American flags, cell phones, digital cameras. Their booted feet thumped against the cold pavement, a steady drumbeat to the laughter and song ("Oh when the saints, go marchin' in ") that filled the frigid air.

"Good morning!" shouted two women, both in red volunteer vests, as a joyous throng rounded the corner of D Street and 12th Street and funneled toward the mall. "Welcome to the inauguration!"

"Thank you so, so much!" replied a middle-aged, African-American woman through her fur collar and wool muffler. "I'm so happy to be here!"

The experts will long debate just how many people stood witness – 1 million? 2 million? somewhere in between? – to Tuesday's inauguration of President Barack Obama.

But regardless of the actual number, something profound overtook Washington, D.C., last week.

Strangers became instant friends. Smiles replaced blank, pedestrian stares. Hotel elevators, those cubicles of awkward silence, echoed with friendly chitchat about hometowns ("Portland, Maine? You got snow up there?"), modes of travel ("You drove all the way from Chicago? How long that take you?") and ever-changing logistics ("No cabs? Then how do we get to the Metro?")

The inauguration of the nation's first African-American president drew as many black people, maybe more, as whites. But as they spilled out onto the Mall and gathered in ever-expanding clusters beneath the 21 Jumbotrons planted from the U.S. Capitol all the way to the Lincoln Memorial, the crowds on this day were color blind.

Outside the Museum of American History, a young Asian-looking man walked by sporting a black top hat. Glued to the front was a sheet of white paper with the words, "We the people form a more perfect union."

A short distance away, a black woman looked around at no one in particular and bellowed, "Let freedom ring, brothers and sisters! Let freedom ring!"

School groups meandered in packs among the museums and memorials, their frantic chaperones holding brightly colored umbrellas to keep everyone oriented.

National Guard troops fanned out among the barricades along Constitution Avenue. Noticeably, none carried a weapon.

Then there was the young black man with the video camera who, upon spotting a journalist scribbling in a notebook, came closer and asked, "Can words really describe this?"

I smiled and went on writing. He smiled back and went on taping.

"Can I help you with anything? Do you need directions?" asked a red-cheeked Girl Scout at a volunteer station.

"No thanks," I replied, smiling at her eagerness.

"Please?" persisted one of her troop-mates. "We're supposed to be helping people!"

Indeed we are. Indeed, at long last, we just might.

The higher the sun rose over the National Air and Space Museum, the larger and more boisterous the crowds grew. You could actually see the heat rising from the humanity as the big screens switched from a replay of Sunday's "We Are One" concert to the real-time arrival of dignitaries on the steps of the Capitol.

Some – Colin Powell, Bill and Hillary Clinton, those darling little Obama girls, Malia and Sasha – drew cheers. Others – George W. Bush and Dick Cheney (what's he doing in a wheelchair?) – drew sneers.

"It's almost over! Our long national nightmare is almost over!" hollered one man as the soon-to-be-former president took his seat.

"Amen to that, brother!" responded...