Last week, I got a text from Sophia telling me where we’d meet for the protest, but not when. The day of the protest, she texted me a time and a list of things I should leave behind (phone, Apple watches) and bring (sunglasses, mask). I would leave my wallet behind too, taking only my four-hundred-dollar SmartCard and praying to the Almighty Bob that I wouldn’t lose it.

Later that morning, Sophia texted that we were going to a different protest just over the Maryland border, at a different time. I somehow made the twelve-minute walk to the Metro without music and I caught my train pretty quickly. I arrived on time and waited for her to show up.

This took some time. My only means of telling time was the Amtrak departures/arrivals billboard. It occurred to me that she could have been running behind or canceling the trip altogether, and there was no way she could tell me. I watched the board for a while, deciding when I’d give up, then moving the goalposts.

She made it, apologetic, and I didn’t care because she was always late. The train line we took was the one we used to take when we lived closer to each other, so we traded memories. Even without the protest, this was a really good day.

We met up with Chuck at our stop, and he was carrying a standard-sized American flag and collapsible pole. I brought a five-pack of art boards and acrylic pens, so Sophia and I could get our sign on. I’m not satisfied with how mine turned out. You’ll see why that’s so funny in a bit.

Sophia went Minimalist, but profound.

I went with something that needed to be said.

An old man with a walker asked if we’d make him a sign, and I said of course. Sophia wrote a poignant saying, with green paint this time, and this made him really happy. His name was Neil, and we saw him later in the afternoon when he passed us by. He was excited to show us how he’d taped it to his walker.

We masked up and left the station. Sophia and Chuck had some very real concerns about surveillance and the vindictiveness of the Trump administration. Honestly, I went into this expecting to get arrested. I informed my boss I’d be at a weekend protest, just in case. But there were no heavily armored police with batons and shields. There were no police at all. It was five blocks of people standing on each side of the Wisconsin Avenue, waving signs around.

Chuck and Sophia looked like they were going to lob Molotov cocktails at passing cars. I started out masked as well, but between the pleasantly warm humidity and the fact that not a single other person at this entire protest was wearing one, I let my face breathe. They were off in my own little world, and I decided to explore.

Luckily, there were people in orange vests keeping part of the sidewalk open, so I was able to walk the length of it without throwing elbows. The ubiquitous honk took some getting used to, but it was clear that most people in the metro area are on our side.

I realized that, if I got lost in this crowd, there was no way Sophia could find me, so I found my way back, and I couldn’t see them anywhere. I took advantage of the ample seating and attempted to think my way out of this—oh, there they were, exactly where I’d left them. They didn’t even know I was gone.

This was a social event for many of the protestors, who shuffled themselves corner to corner, gossiping like schoolgirls. That meant they passed back and forth between us and the rest of them, giving us a chance to read all the signs.

The most popular message was “No Kings,” and their variations (“No King since 1775”), followed by “fascist,” and “Hitler,” and “TACO,” including “TACO Trump,” which literally means “Trump Always Chickens Out Trump.” I saw some really good ones, but without any means of recording, I’ve forgotten every one of them.

Some people wrote in marker on the back of boxes. Some went after them on poster board. Some pasted art onto their boards. Some professionally printed their signs in foam. One person constructed a sculpture of a taco that he wore as a hat. One person held up their sign with a tennis racket. A lot of the cars had signs of their own.

Later in the afternoon, when we changed location, I noticed a family. Mom held up a sign I couldn’t read. Brother, about thirteen, broadcast his boredom on full volume. Dad was hanging out with Sister.

Sister, about eight or nine years old, and blessed with the most adorable black curls you’ll ever see, was deeply into the protest. She whooped, she yelled, she waved her arms around. She wrote on the back of a plate with a ballpoint pen and made sure everyone driving by saw it.

I had two art boards I couldn’t wait to get rid of and acrylic pens that were going to waste. I offered them up the family, the girl went nuts. I had four colors: black, white, red, and green, and she used them. At the risk of boasting, I think I made that girl’s day, and I feel pretty great about it. They returned my pens, and we found the guy giving away free pizza.

Passing by were hoards of older ladies who would leave the safety of their group to photograph interesting signs. One of them snapped Sophia’s and moved along. I said it was okay because my sign wasn’t very good. Sophia, always the cheerleader, told me it was.

The first one was rushing past, and she did a double-take and backed up. She said, “I really like your sign.” She looked at it again. “I really like your sign.” She walked away and came right back. “Actually, can I take a photograph?” The other three women who took my picture didn’t hesitate. They asked permission and snapped and kept going.

We lasted a little over two hours, and we did not get arrested. Now that we have signs, we might as try a few of these out. Hopefully, they can be the positive experience this one was.