It was an absolutely beautiful, clear day, and I was looking forward to getting the laundry done early. There was a problem with funds – I could only dig up $5, and I needed some detergent, so I walked down to Market Street to visit the bank machine.

The first thing I noticed, as I approached Market, was a man pushing a trolly loaded with balloons. I thought a store must be throwing a party of some kind. When I saw everyone gathered up and down the street, though, I realized I was seeing the beginning of the St. Patrick’s Day parade. Reasoning that traffic would be impossible anyway with Market closed, I settled down on the curb to watch.

It was one of the longest parades I ever saw. I enjoyed it. I usually enjoy parades. But I noticed that I seemed to be one of the few people who stuck around for the whole thing. I sat between a young punk with black hair and a Vietnamese mother and her little boy. These gave way to a Hispanic man with his children, a man with a happy little boy and a plump, crying little girl, and a shy Asian tourist. The only other constants were a couple of exasperated traffic cops, a man with his pet Llasso Apsos (who yapped furiously every time other dogs or horses alked past), and a tough old codger with a camera who I think was a reporter. He kept dodging in and out in between floats and processions, sometimes planting himself in the street and snapping pictures as marching bands eddied past him. He did this even with a sort of Spanish Saber Women’s Association, plunging into the ranks of sword twirling ladies with a courage that impressed me.

There were a lot of marching bands, some good, some bad. All of the high school kids looked hot under that sun. In one band, which was wearing dark green jackets and tall busbies, a girl had to go sit on the curb with her head between her knees, and another looked so red-faced and shaky I was afraid she was about to fall over.

My favorite part was the horsemanship club. The first rider was a real desperado, a tough looking black man in fancy silver cowboy get up with fine silver appurtenances on his stirrups, saddle and bridle. Another rider’s horse was almost out of control. He was walking alongside it, struggling to hold its bridle as it skipped and tossed its head, its eyes rolling. The representatives of the horsemanship club riding in the truck behind him looked quite disapprovingt.

The IRA had some representatives there, including a float that showed Ireland as a beautiful girl wearing a shawl, in a cage guarded by vicious, mocking British soldiers and taunted by a caricature of Margaret Thatcher. This drew some cheers. The whole thing lasted three hours. After it was over, I went to the bank and attempted unsuccessfully to draw $20. When that didn’t work, I went home, borrowed $20 from Tim, and set out to do the laundry, forgetting to take anything to read.

Ah, youth and insolvency.