[Sunday, March 29 2:45 p.m.]

The stairs exiting the Park St. T-Station lead up to a "Fried Dough" stand, where the large-bellied man selling the dough is doing exceptionally good business. The beautiful afternoon has brought dozens of people to Boston Common, but the springtime weather and the typical Sunday crowds aren't enough to account for the long dough lines. Some customers are holding blue and white Greek flags, and one elderly man says it's Greek Independence Day.

"Don't you look at the flags? Nobody looks at the flags. Everybody's wonderin' what's going on and nobody looks at the flags."

Thousands of Bostonians, not all of them Greek, stand on the sidewalks of Tremont St. Elderly people chat in groups of two or three; parents buy balloons for their children and scold them for running into the street. A couple of delis across from the park have signs in the windows declaring that they are closed for the holiday; maybe their Greek owners are in line, waiting for fried dough.

Across Tremont, a man in an old-fashioned driving cap opens the back of his yellow Plymouth Voyager, takes out two large, dusty speakers, and blasts some martial music into a group of innocent bystanders. Once the crowd has time to react, a space clears around his car. Near the minivan, on a lightpost, a flyer says "parade at 2 p.m.," but it's already almost 3 p.m.

Finally, the Police motorcycles turn on their sirens and roll around the corner of Boylston onto Tremont. They are followed by a marching band of 20 bagpipers, a mounted detachment of the Boston Police, and a small contingent of Greek-American veterans. Several floats from Greek Orthodox churches, clubs and schools drift past while their costumed riders wave and smile. A military jet flies low overhead, and a single propeller plane pulls an enormous Greek flag through the air.

At around 4:45 p.m., the last blue and white float drives out of sight, and the loyal crowd disperses. The park remains incredibly busy, though, and a youth attracts a number of parade-goers by drumming on a plastic can. Eventually, he hands the sticks off to a buddy sitting on a bench just behind their makeshift stage. Four young men take turns playing the cans, until a cop on horseback approaches. The policeman makes a signal with his hand that looks like he's cutting his throat. The drummers are suddenly silent, focusing their attention on the cop's approach.

"Hey, fellas, I'm going to have to ask you to keep it down now, because we're getting complaints," the policeman says. "We always get complaints."

The four guys look at each other and grumble. Their audience turns and walks into the park or across the nearby intersection.

"I mean, the music sounds great, but you need to leave," the cop apologizes, adding, "You guys really sound good."

After his horse jumps a low, black chain fence, the policeman joins up with his partner on the grass, and the pair trots into the park. Having hoped to make some money, one drummer throws his empty tip bucket onto the pavement, glaring in the direction of the departing horses.

Shadows are now climbing up the tall buildings facing the Common, and an unusually long white limousine cruises south on Tremont in front of them. A tuxedoed man rolls down the back window, pushes his head and shoulders out, and hollers in a drunken slur, "Arizona number-one, baby!"

A less wealthy drunk sits down on a bench by the fountain. He yells "Hey!" at each female passerby and then looks away quickly, pretending not to have said anything. He and a guy on the bench with him, a sober 30-year-old with a thick cast on his arm, are both getting quite a kick out of this routine.

"Good one," says the man with the cast. "She looked real mixed up."

Without looking back, the woman shakes her head.