“No it’s not,” Ella is vehement. “It’s a march.”
Whatever it was, we ran into it after the bus that was meant to deliver us to some flower festival by the university came to an abrupt stop behind a line of stalled buses. It was May 1st, a Belgian holiday, and over breakfast coffee we had searched for information about Labor Day parades. We didn’t come up with anything. So it was onto the flower festival…until we were kicked off the bus.
As it turned out, the bus route was closed because at the end of the street what looked to be a parade was marching by.
People of all ages were dressed in red.
Conflicts were protested.
There were banners, signs, music, and dancing.
The main flow, the folks singing The Internationale and sporting the colorful crimson costumes—my brothers and sisters!—were proud to be of the Socialist persuasion.
Ella was right, it was a protest march that was celebrating Labor Day…
Minus some Phantom of the Warfare moments, without the anger and the rage it seemed like a parade.
Catching up with the partying marchers, I joined in on the festive protest. Hey, there were other old guys there, I was pumped!
If only I had been wearing a Lobo jersey I would have fit right in. As it was I raised my fist and sang along with the anti-war chorus.
Ella peeled off to grab some shots of street art and caught up with me at the conclusion of the march where I was milling about the beer tents getting high on the protest energy.
Whew! Labor Day! Right on!