I am late getting to breakfast in the hotel dining room. Jet lag kicks in. Luckily, I am not too late to join the group meeting with my husband. As I approach the table, hands push empty cups and dirty plates aside to make room for me. H pauses the conversation, introduces me to the young, spiky haired evangelist in the red sweatshirt seated next to me.
As I pour tea, my new friend shares – in between mouthfuls of croissant and jam – about the flash mobs he organizes. How 1,500 people show up to the last one and tonight people from all over London will meet in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral where the Occupy movement camps out.