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Saturday, September 12 was the 11^th annual free Power to the Peaceful festival, in Golden Gate Park, brought to fruition by musician, activist and yogi Michael Franti. (http://powertothepeaceful.org/). This year I was determined to go. I heard Michael Franti and Spearhead earlier this year at the newly opened Fox theatre in downtown Oakland. It was a fun, joyful and rocking show. His energy is infectious, you have to dance.

When Saturday morning was ushered in by thunder, rain and chilly air, I went to Twitter to see what people were going to do and logged onto Wunderground, (http://www.wunderground.com/ ). For the most part, no one was deterred. The 9am yoga may not have been as enjoyable as in the past years, but most posts stated, rain or shine, Power to the Peaceful. Only a few were opting out; one poster was choosing to stay home rather than mingle with the dirty hippies in the rain. Sitting in my sweats drinking coffee, I could see his point. On the fence, in front of my laptop, checking various blogs, posting a few things; I kept one eye on the window and the weather reports. It didn’t look good. I had planned on heading out around 11, but at 10 it was still wet and chilly outside, I didn’t get up. At noon I texted my friend who had planned on going, to see what she was deciding. She wrote back that she was almost there; it was overcast, but not very cold.

That and my mantra that it’s more about the journey than the event itself propelled me into the shower and out the door in about 40 minutes. I had packed my back pack earlier-smallish blanket to sit on, trail mix, camera, San Francisco walking map and a few bucks for BART and Muni. Halfway to the carport, I realized it was colder than I thought and I ran back up to get a big scarf. I was wearing old loose jeans, rolled up once for style and mud, flip flops in honor of barefoot Michael Franti, two tank tops for when the sun came out, and a hoody sweatshirt. And the big scarf for my neck, and if it rained, my head.

On the train I texted my friend that I was on my way. Off BART, the trickiest part for me kicked in, catching the bus. I’m not a bus rider, it seems arduous to me. What if I get on the wrong one? You must have the exact change; mysteriously, you always ask for a transfer, even if you’re not transferring, how long is the pass good for? I said a quick prayer hoping we didn’t crash and I didn’t get stabbed, both of which have happened recently.

The directions instructed me to catch the bus at McAllister and 7^th. I had my map, but wasn’t sure which way was 7^th. I followed a group that had been on BART, saw that we were heading towards 9^th and did a quick 360 and crossed the street and went up a block. I was then on McAllister but there was no 7^th, there was Hyde. I backtracked a bit then asked a woman who directed me back to Hyde and I waited for #5.

There were about 30 people waiting, all going to Golden Gate Park. I sat on the steps of the building behind the bus stop and politely said hi to the guy sitting there. We proceeded to get into a conversation, he kind of latched on to me, which frequently seems to happen no matter how I try and avoid it. No worries, we were all headed to the Peace festival. It’s hard to figure out where people fit into the puzzle sometimes. We look at how they’re dressed, how they speak, hygiene, we get a vibe. He was handsome, about in his 40’s had a smooth tan face, graying hair a little past his ears and combed back. The skin on his face looked stretched too tight. Sitting down, I couldn’t gauge his weight; he had on baggy jeans, layered shirts, typical for going to the concert. He asked me a lot about Oakland. People who live in San Francisco, don’t come to Oakland too often, they just don’t feel the need. I didn’t ask him much because he kept asking me questions. He said that he wished Bart had a pass for Oakland to San Francisco; I said, hmm, I don’t know if they do, and he said emphatically, they don’t. He asked me how much my Bart ticket had cost. He said that the ticket for the night show for Michael Franti was $35 and he thought that was kind of high. He thought it should have been a lower price and that Michael Franti should donate the profits. He felt cheated by this. He held my gaze too long, he had a small dark green plastic bag, like a miniature garbage bag with the shape of what looked like 2 large cans.

I said I thought $35 was pretty low for a ticket and the whole concert today was free and he donated and worked for his causes regularly, he was a known activist, it’s pretty much his thing. He said he knew all this, but he still thought $35 was kind of high.

We had been waiting about 10 minutes, more people had come. I asked him how it worked, did we have to line up; he said we should so I followed him to the front of the bus stop, not the end where there were way more people than were going to fit on the next bus. Walking, I saw that he was really thin; while standing and waiting, I was close enough to smell the alcohol fumes wafting off him. It made me a little sad; he eventually moved on.

When the #5 pulled up I had flashbacks of catching public transportation in Central America where pushing is totally acceptable and there is no line. It’s hard to do and to take when you’re not from there. The bus stopped well ahead of the bus stop so a new line formed quickly and the bus got stuffed with people. I really didn’t want to wait another 20 minutes for the next one. I was the second to the last one on before the driver said enough. It was perfect; I was standing to his right, a little behind him, not crammed in the interior. We chugged along, passed several stops full of people, let a few out along the way, and let a few in.

I listened to the two girls next to me discussing how they couldn’t enter clubs at the same time since they both had the same ID, which clubs actually carded and how they’d have to work it out that night. Since we were all so cozy, I asked if they were sisters, because a million years ago, I could remember giving my younger sister one of my old ID’s and having the same issues to work out. They laughed and said, no we’re roommates, do we look alike and I said, yeah, you could be sisters.

A couple people exited, a few more got on, so I had new mates. Friendly loud, nice high school kids. They got separated from their group when the 4 on the bus with me stopped to smoke weed, the others walked ahead to the next bus stop. When we passed the others at the next bus stop the girl with us begged the driver to pick them up, it was her twin sister and other friends. We had the nicest mellowest driver in the world. He said he couldn’t. The 3 boys were polite and consistently stood up for the driver, he can’t exceed capacity. She was quite chatty and he loved it.

Do you raise this up if you get scared? (the plastic partition)

Has anyone ever tried to assault you? (posted sign says mandatory 5 years jail for assaulting a Muni driver)

Is the night crowd hella worse than the day?

How often do you clean this bus? (Her friends said, he doesn’t clean it, the bus driver said, its cleaned everyday)

Do you have a radio in here? (not allowed)

You should hella get your own speakers.

Ooh, let’s pick them up, we can fit them.

I’m just waving to let them know that we’re full.

Do you like it better when it’s empty or full? (empty)

Friend to friend-do you have the weed? Give it to me. Are you sure? You’ll lose it. No I won’t. Exchange is made.

The driver was so nice to the kids. He was refreshing; he really seemed to like what he did. Asked where we had come from, they came from-the 605. Which train, what time, why didn’t you catch this one, what sports do you play.

When we finally approached our stop, I made sure we knew where to get the bus back and he showed us and said to be prepared to wait for buses out. He said for everyone to have fun and be careful, it was important for the young people to be careful and I laughed and said, it’s important for the old people too and the kids said –who’s old? And the driver said, I said for you young people to take care, you calling me old? And everyone laughed and he thanked the kids for talking to him the whole time and said we’d all have fun.

The weather reporting had been optimistic. There was no sun, it was misting, there was a cool steady breeze, it didn’t feel like 60 degrees. I walked over, following people along the path and openings through the woods and into our clearing, a long rectangular field. The stage was far off at one end, the center of the meadow was filled with people, on either side were the booths for various causes and then way back were the food booths. I wanted to walk around, check out each booth and cause, get some paperwork, sign up for emails, see everything and people watch. Eventually I’d put my blanket down and enjoy.

I visited about 4 booths and then the crush of people was just too dense. In the middle, those who arrived earlier were settled in. The walkways on either side were packed. I abandoned the idea of visiting each booth, stepped into the middle and made my way back absorbing the sights along the way.

The skunky sweet pungent smoke wafted and wound its way around everyone competing with the flurries of soap bubbles. A good looking white guy with full dreadlocks, called out to me from his blanket on the grass, holding out his hand. I looked around because I didn’t think he was seeking me out, but he was; he said, yes you, I like the way you look, I want to touch your hand. I smiled and we touched hands.

I found an open spot and put down my blanket, pulled out the trail mix, inhaled and took it all in. Peaceful energy was in abundance. Alanis Morissette came on for an acoustic set. Her voice filled the space, it was good.

I realized my camera batteries were dead when I tried to take a picture of two little boys in their super hero pajamas. I watched a woman, standing on her blanket with her group, knitting Rasta hats. A group of college age girls seemed to be there for Alanis Morissette. They were with a larger group, boyfriends and friends and they were all in unique costume. One was in a thrift store, long flowered summer dress from the ‘70’s, joined by her friend in a red patterned kimono with colored fur boots, with another in scarlet tights and a blue short sleeved leotard and another girl wrapped in several scarves with bells and tassels. They danced and sang and laughed, and I couldn’t help but see them 20 and 30 years later, still friends, remembering this day and what they believed their lives would be. The guy half of a couple sitting in front and to the right of me, repeatedly turned around and smiled at me. I smiled back once, not really condoning the game, but flattered none the less as his girl friend was pretty. Maybe it was his sister. The air smelled good, festival food, incense and weed.

Today I read there were 50,000 people there. I wondered how long it would take to catch a bus out. I was cold and stiff and just about blissed out. I listened to a few speakers and then Michael Franti burst on stage. I couldn’t leave without hearing him. I was so far back, the sound was very distorted. It was awesome to look down the field and see the mass of people jumping with their arms in the air. I did that at his last show. I decided to head out. I passed a man who must have been at least 70, arms in the air, swaying his hips and flat old man butt, just like anyone’s father or grand pop, out for the day.

As if it was mine, the #5 was there when I emerged from the park, from one world to another, a good day’s journey.