I arrived in Pittsburgh last Friday night at 11 p.m., or exactly 12 hours later than I had anticipated when I booked the flight a few weeks earlier. (Hey, that a.m./p.m. thing can be tricky!) This meant I couldn't join my friend Jennifer at the G-20 protest downtown, which after much internal debate (but before I realized my mistake), I decided I was looking forward to. After all-questions of political efficacy aside-who but the cold-hearted and dull-minded doesn't love the traveling carnival that is a great protest march? I was also curious to know whether there would be a contingent of non-heterosexuals. As everyone knows, they are essential to the success of such affairs.

Though I regretted my mistake, it was hardly a disaster, given that my primary purpose in going to Pittsburgh was to visit my parents, who still live in the same 'upper-middle-class' suburb (by Midwestern standards, of course) where I grew up. I was also excited to spend time in their garden, which I had not seen this growing season.

Saturday morning was overcast and drizzling, which did not prevent me from admiring a patch of orange gerbera. At first I thought they were zinnia, but my father corrected me after (to my slight horror) he retrieved the plastic identification card from the ground where they were planted. 'I bought them at _____,' he said without a trace of irony, referring to the notorious 'big-box retailer.'

I was amazed at how tall the Dawn Redwood had grown, which made me relieved that Stephen and I had opted for a columnar version of the tree in our own garden. My parents' garden is structurally anchored by a series of birch and pine trees, which is also similar to our New York City garden (if you substitute 'one' for 'a series of' and 'spruce' for 'pine.') I found this comforting, as if it proved that a shared aesthetic could endure across generations, when so much else that I have admired seems headed into the fires of obscurity.

As pleased as I was by this thought, when I strayed from under the dripping boughs of the evergreens, I could not help but contrast the sepulchral silence I encountered on the street to what I imagined downtown a day earlier. It occurred to me that perhaps future G-20 protest marches should be routed through the outlying suburbs, which are so often populated by the worst offenders in terms of egregious consumption and bland uniformity (i.e., the very things I crave on a daily basis in Washington Heights).

That afternoon, Jennifer picked me up and we went out for coffee at a nearby shop (but not at ____, which is not to say I never go there). She heatedly described not only the intensity of the marches in which she had participated (both the sanctioned and unsanctioned events) as well as her frustration with those she had met in the meantime who had asked her: 'Exactly what were you protesting, anyway?'

She described the terror of being corralled into small spaces (although in one case this included a functioning bar, somewhat awesomely) and being subjected to the 'sonic canon' and tear gas, along with having the surreal sense of being in a 'war zone' as a result of the circling helicopters and advancing battalions of robotic militia. This predictably led to a wider discussion of our disillusionment with the Democratic leadership and speculation of a Santorum/Palin candidacy in 2012. Santorum, of course, has roots in Western Pennsylvania. By the time Jennifer dropped me off at my parents' house, I was exhilarated, agitated and despondent all at once.

I returned to the garden and wondered if I could ever be overtly 'political' again, the way I had been years earlier, when I had lived in Washington, D.C. and protested ___ and ____ and ____. (Oh right, and ___.) Had any of it done any good? It's hard to say, at least in practical terms. Having recently watched Easy Rider, I felt as if-more than ever-I could identify with Peter Fonda's concluding sentiment of having 'blown it,' even if I can't specify exactly what 'it' is.

As I listened to the rain and observed the nearby trees and plants, I tried to reconcile my love for the ornate and pervasive pessimism of the likes of Arthur Schopenhauer-AKA, the hater of Hegel and 'the bitchiest queen' of all the great philosophers-with a subsequent admiration I hold for the more expansive and optimistic notions of solidarity expressed in the work of Richard Rorty. I knew it would be impossible, but as I considered a hemlock in the waning light, it didn't seem to matter, either; for a second, the beautiful ambivalence of this tiny piece of nature felt like the best protest of all.

Previously: Grapes

Matthew Gallaway is a writer who lives in Washington Heights. His first novel, 'The Metropolis Case,' will be published in 2010 by Crown. The G-20 photos by Jennifer Baron, who is an artist and writer who lives in Pittsburgh. She is the editor of the Pittsburgh Signs Project.