In the meantime, a more pressing issue than global capitalism had reared its head: I had to go to the bathroom. Badly. Standing in the gusts of freezing wind, the situation was growing desperate. Did I go against my principles by venturing into a nearby Starbuck's? Would that not brand me a traitor to the very people we had come to observe? Was my bladder not about to explode?

Cautiously, we ventured into the belly of the beast itself. The coffee shop was deserted, save for some police protecting the place from any anarchists who might have wanted to start their morning by smashing a cappuccino machine. The cops gave us a curious once-over as Bea documented my radical act of unlocking the bathroom door, and then went back to drinking their lattes. Alas, I didn't perform a single act of resistance; I even flushed and washed my hands. However, I did discover that big, soulless businesses are good for one thing: relieving oneself in the middle of Manhattan. You can't beat them for convenience.

Some police helpfully told us that the demonstrators were supposed to march from Columbus Circle to the Waldorf, so we started walking north and west in hopes of finding some more profitable way of amusing ourselves than pissing on corporate property. We hadn't gone two blocks when we ran into three young men sporting the Guatemalan parkas, unshaven growths of beards, and matted dreadlocks that identify dedicated counterculturalists. One carried a sticker-festooned empty Poland Spring water jug. We introduced ourselves and asked them who they were and what they were doing here. The three gentlemen were hesitant to answer at first, but the one with the jug, who asked to be identified only as Grinning White Bozo, was eventually coaxed into responding.

"I was hoping to have a little fun, get people dancing in the streets," he said. "I'm a pacifist, so I try to go with the vibes."

I pointed to the water jug.

"Are you soliciting donations?" I asked.

"No, it's a drum," G.W.B. said.

"Oh," I replied.

Upon further questioning, it turned out that G.W.B. and his friends had caught a ride in from Boston with Food Not Bombs. Being from out of town, they were rather confused as to which direction the protests were. We told them that we were headed to Columbus Circle, and, like the helpful New Yorkers we are, offered to show them the way.

"Don't jaywalk!" G.W.B. cried out as we were about to cross 51st street.

I looked at him strangely. Don't jaywalk? In New York?

"They stopped us for jaywalking," he said. "Like, twice."

It turned out that the police had searched the three and their bags, and confiscated G.W.B.'s drumsticks, using jaywalking as their probable cause. No doubt, the NYPD was searching for marijuana, and were probably disappointed to come up empty-handed. Even without weed, though, the three were still somewhat paranoid. They eyeballed some nearby cops somewhat nervously while Bea photographed them standing outside a Gap.

"So, all this activism and stuff—does it impress the chicks?" I asked.

"I don't know, does it?" G.W.B. turned to Bea.

"I'm not so comfortable with these guys," Bea said to me sotto voce.

"We should ditch them," I agreed. To them, I said, "Listen, we shouldn't travel in a large group. You guys take that side of the street, we'll take this side."

"Good idea," he agreed.

Walking down Lexington, Bea and I heard an amplified voice echoing off the skyscrapers. We were heading towards the noise when a voice came out of a group of cops huddled away from the wind in the arcade of an office building.

"Where is your jacket, young protestor?" called out a petite policewoman, who asked us to refer to her as "Officer Smith."

"I'm not cold," I said through chattering teeth. "And I'm not a protestor, either. I do a Web site, and I'm writing about the demonstration. Have any thoughts?"

"Yeah, let them move to Afghanistan and see how they like it there," Officer Smith said.

I had to admit she had a point.

Talking to the police around the demonstration, in fact, was an interesting experience. Once they realized I wasn't out to slander them, they were quick to open up. And, by listening, I think I gained a better understanding of the dynamics of what was going on.

The NYPD, in many ways, are more legitimate working class heroes than the college kids who had come from out of town to yell their heads off about globalization. They were blue-collar men and women, just trying to do their jobs and stay warm. They didn't want to hurt anyone, and for the most part they supported the right to protest, and thought freedom of speech was a worthwhile thing to protect. After all, the police strongly believe in the right to unionize. On the other hand, they didn't want anyone to hurt the city, either. Enough had happened on September 11.

We thanked "Officer Smith" and her colleagues and moved on. Around the corner, we found more of what we had been looking for: sign-carrying protestors straggling in from the west side, being directed by the police into areas clearly marked off with steel barriers. We took the opportunity to stop a group of three colorfully dressed, college-age women carrying "Money for Schools, Not War" signs. Again, they were not local, but had come down from Boston expressly for the demonstration.

"I think it's a bunch of bullshit that rich people are trying to make money off the backs of poor people," said one. "The real suffering takes place in other countries. My solution would be a more equitable economic system. If everyone got paid the same for the same time working, you wouldn't have such an accumulation of wealth in the hands of the elites. But of course, the money goes into the hands of the investors."

Next: The Rainbow Coalition Strikes