Pride

After 4 days at Palo Alto, I returned this AM to New York. Every return to NY needs a period of acclimatizing, more so after a red-eye flight. I went to work out, wading through a parade crowd that I did not parse in my sleepy state. But when I exited the gym, I was alive and my pores and eyes were open. I realized it was the pride parade. The normally theatrical village had an extra umph and the NY's Finest were there with the NY's Ordinary, watching the thunderous parade. World cup soccer be damned, the west village was loud and rowdy. Everyone (ignore the tourists, include children, bicycles and dogs) had a message---mild or buff, hidden or out in the open---on their belts, buttons, bras or briefs. I wanted to be part of the parade and part of the protest, but was unprepared. Somewhat deflated, I walked along the parade cheering when I could, and a couple of blocks later, I suddenly realized I was wearing a shirt that says "Dagegen!", a birthday gift from 1996, its ten-year old message still potent and simple (translation: Against!). Hurray to fortuitous moments of wearing old shirts.