Bea and I had it when the crowd started shouting about the Palestinian homeland and Israeli imperialism. Bea grew up in Germany, but her father is Jewish and she has cousins in Israel. I've never been to Israel, but I'm both Jewish and know people who have served in the Israeli Defense Forces. The knee-jerk reaction of the crowd, as well as the apparent inability of anyone who fancies themselves a liberal to see more than one side of an issue, really bothered us.

"That does it, dude, we're out of here," Bea said. "Besides, I'm freezing. Come on, I think there was a Body Shop back there."

I couldn't argue: the cold wind whipping between the buildings had dried and chapped our skin, and my knuckles were so swollen I could barely write. I had to warm up, at least for a few minutes.

We retreated back up the block to Lexington and stole away from the crowd agitating for social change by ducking into the warm womb of the Body Shop. It was as though we'd entered some consumer Paradise. The sweet odor of incense swept over me, and the New-Agey music they were playing over the PA lulled away the tension of the mob scene outside. Nor could any of the protestors outside have found any fault with the least thing they sold there; it was a retail establishment conceived in the Garden of Eden. It was everyone's liberal ideas made flesh. On the wall was a plaque with the store's business principles—nothing they sold was tested on animals, there were no polluting byproducts from anything's manufacturing process, and everything was all-natural. Looking around, I saw shelf upon shelf of tubes and jars of environmentally correct beauty products, all made from renewable resources grown by indigenous peoples from third-world countries.

I couldn't afford any of it.

Bea seized a sample jar of moisturizer and began salving her chapped lips. I picked a small jar of green goo that cost roughly the same as my monthly bill from my Web host. "Wow. This is made from hemp?"

"Yeah, it's great shit. Here, try this stuff," she sprayed me with an atomizer.

"Orange," I said, wiping the stuff out of my eyes. "I'm probably the best-smelling person at this protest."

(By the way, I took the picture of Bea on the left. I deserve major props for my mad Photoshop skillz for adjusting it until you can actually see it's her and not, say, Lowtax in a Chewbacca costume.)

On our way back to the subway, we passed some college students handing out socialist newspapers. They looked so earnest, I couldn't resist asking The Question once again:

"So, does left-wing politics get you chicks?"

They looked at each other.

"Not unless you have a tattoo of Marx on your butt," one responded sadly.

Just then, some protestors passed by, carrying signs and chanting, "The People united will never be defeated."

"It's 'never be divided,' you idiots," I muttered under my breath.

I was disappointed. The WTF protests were not what I had expected. I went in expecting clear-cut right and wrong, easily articulated reasons for why globalization is bad and what we have to do to make the world better. I thought I would find the stereotypes I'd read about: brutal police, Gandhi-esque protestors, a battle between the Rebel Alliance and the Evil Empire. Good against Evil. Instead, I found people: stupid and falliable, sometimes heroic, but just people. And, I came to realize, the people inside the Waldorf-Astoria were just that, as well: people. Some want to do right. Some are too stupid or lazy to care. And some just want to think of new ways to make a buck.

I realized something else, as well: If you're going to stand for a cause, you ought to be able to articulate what exactly you stand for. Political decisions should be reasoned, not taken because you're afraid not to accept the empty rhetoric, or, worse, because you're transfering your suburban resentment for Mommy and Daddy onto some shadowy authority figures.

As for me, I know where my politics lie.

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