I needed this.

We needed this.

The word had gone out.

Rally. Protest. Hands Off!

Scheduled for Saturday, April 5, 2025. All across the country.

We hoped people would show up. We decided to join what we hoped would be a crowd.

“We should probably go to Sacramento, the State Capitol. That rally would have the most impact.”

But it was a little too far, started too early, so we agreed that Berkeley would be a closer adequate.

We drove over toward the BART Station and parked. I looked at the street sign. Sacramento Street.

I joked, “So we did go to Sacramento after all.”

We got my walker from the trunk and joined the stream of people all heading the same way.

Many people were carrying placards and posters. These are people who can read and write and think, and they’re articulately angry.

“Hands Off the things that are too many to list here!”

One sign said, “My Mother always told me that the only good Nazi is…there isn’t one.”

Even the dogs were wearing signs.

“Get your paws off my kibbles!”

We got closer, and heard drumming and chanting.

“Hey Hey, Ho Ho.” The usual.

All the tributary streets were feeding into a crowd that over filled the parking lot into the street. Cars were driving by in the narrow one free lane and honking endlessly.

There were thousands of people.

We worked our way to the front and joined in the chants.

People were shouting in unison.

Everyone was smiling happy to let their voices unite.

We stayed and stayed and swayed and talked and made new friends.

Then, as I had suggested, we went to Saul’s for a late lunch early dinner.

The time before last when I went there with Kristina, we both had Reubens, or maybe I had pastrami, but it was satisfyingly good, memorable, and called us back.

I had asked the waiter if he had seen the movie, Deli Man. He didn’t know about it, and I strongly recommended it.

We talked Deli. Saul’s wasn’t in the movie, but could have been. The one in the movie that I knew was Canter’s in Hollywood. The camera roamed it with the familiarity of comfortable memories. Shirley and I had been going there for years, it’s open twenty- four hours, and deserves its own blog.

The this time waiter appeared and brought menus and water immediately. He was friendly and attentive, answered questions, and was patient with me when I tried to tell yet another bad joke. I hear they’re called old man jokes, or grandfather jokes, or Dad jokes, or some such category I continue to not know what it means.

I said, “I know you’re going to say no, but do you have any more corned beef and cabbage you were advertising just recently? I know I’ve passed the Saint Patrick’s deadline, haven’t I?”

He said, “Yes,” which meant “no” to the earlier part of my question.

Kristina wanted a Reuben, and she ordered it, with coleslaw.

I was thinking maybe pastrami, but I simplified things and ordered a Reuben, with potato salad.

Chaz ordered a chicken sandwich like a schnitzel.

We got spiffy drinks. I was urged to try the sparkling mint, with an actual chewable leaf. It was so good that I wondered why I had never ordered it before.

We ate and ate.

The waiter refilled our water and said, “How was it?”

I did my usual and said, “Don’t you know? You’ve eaten here.”

He laughed.

As I said, he was patient and forgiving.

A couple came to sit at the next table on the right. The mature woman was somewhat younger than I am. Her companion was a tall black man, cheerfully alert.

We got to talking, the way you do with strangers you don’t know, tentative at first, then a little more talk and suddenly you’re no longer strangers, you’re immediate friends and talk up a storm.

I mentioned my years of teaching, and she told me her children are teachers.

Her companion shared his experience in Michigan, Chicago, and ice on the lake. Kristina gave more details about ice fishing, and our lunch became a party.

Chaz talked about his Tiburon origin, and the woman said, “Oh, yes. That’s close to me,” and we all had a geography lesson about the Bay Area. I learned a lot. I always do.

A man, sitting at the table across the aisle stood and tentatively approached and began, “I’m not from this country.”

He waited for a response, so we asked, “What country are you from?”

“Italy.” He was eager to raise an issue, and probed our response to the politics of the moment. He must have heard us talking about the rally.

We said, “Pull up a chair and join us.”

He did, and gave us his take on the world situation, particularly what’s going in our country. Europeans know more than most Americans about the United States. He said, “I reduce it to one word, chaos.”

So we were now a lively discussion group of six.

He went back to his table, we thought about dessert, decided we didn’t need it, but asked for the menu.

We ordered three poppy seed rugelach with three coffees. I love poppy seed strudel with lots of filling, so this was a close approximation.

I joked silently to myself, “If I misunderstood, added an “a”, and ordered arugula, would they bring me a bowl of green leaves they call salad rocket?”

But I didn’t say it out loud, because I do have some restraint.

I asked the woman on my right, “I assume you haven’t been reading my blog?”

She said, “No.”

This was an ambush, shameless exploitation on my part, and I fished out my card.

She said, “Thank you,” and “I will.”

I’m entirely too obvious. When the waiter brought the bill, I said, “I assume you haven’t been reading my blog.”

He said, “No.”

Déjà vu repeats itself.

I gave him my card. He said, “Thank you,” and “I will.”

I overdid it and said, “To whom should I speak to tell them what an exceptional waiter we had?”

He said, “You don’t have to,” but pointed. “That man with the glasses is my Manager.”

The Manager man walked by on the other side of the restaurant, so I missed my chance and thought, “Oh, well.”

But if the waiter, Andrew, actually does read my blog as he tentatively promised, he may read this entry and recognize himself, and he can show it to his Manager in my absence.”

So I paid. “Would you like a receipt?” I had tapped my credit card, held up the initial account, and said, “I already have a souvenir.”

We walked back to the car.

Kristina said, “Would you like me to drive down and get you?”

I said, “It’s only two parking spaces away. I can make it.”

So we drove home and turned on the television and watched our day and the coverage of the rallies across the country in the millions.

There was energy in the air and people were smiling.

I said, “We needed this.”