Golden Gate Park. The revolution begins.

As I sat in amongst the young, the old and the neithers at Golden Gate Park - with a $5 punnet of strawberries beside me and my boyfriend in my lap - I felt slightly overwhelmed.
If it weren't for the historic gathering of 1967, this could be any regular, run-of-the-mill land of brown-green grass and dog shit. The grassy knoll of people in black, white, green, red, grey and most definitely brown, many of whom clutched an instrument, say otherwise.
These are the ones who are keeping that summer alive each and every day: with the smell of pot wafting through the air alongside the sweet, soothing sounds of bongo drums and percussion. Although I wasn't there at the time of the Summer of Love (nor was my mother, actually), I still found myself sitting on my little patch of grass in the middle of born-again hippies doing their thing, satisfied with my little piece of 1967 - however insignificant it may be!