Walking up the hill from Beşiktaş toward Taksim Square yesterday afternoon, perhaps I should have paid closer attention to the weather.

It had rained in recent days, and now a heavy humidity hung in the air, and the skies were overcast. A summer storm was on the way.

But at that moment there were rays of sunshine coming through, and people were out walking and enjoying the day.

It was the 18th day since protesters had descended on Gezi Park in Taksim Square, the heart of the city, in a show of defiance against Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s controversial plans to build a shopping center in the park. However, in the past week there seemed to be some positive developments. The prime minister had met with protesters, and agreed to halt construction plans pending the outcome of a court ruling. He had even reportedly agreed to consider a citywide referendum on the park.

With these sunny developments in mind, I entered Taksim Square.

The first thing that stood out was the police presence. Last week, when I visited the park, there were no police in Taksim Square (by government order) and a festival-like atmosphere prevailed. It was almost like being at Woodstock.

Of course, I’d seen the news the following Monday, when police returned to the square with a vengeance, firing tear gas and water cannons at the protesters, and even the Revolution Market, which had been giving out free food, was set ablaze. But then there was the meeting between the prime minister and the demonstrators, the police appeared to back off, and the celebrations had continued. For example, on Thursday night a German pianist had performed a composition, “Light Soldiers,” dedicated to the protesters live on Taksim Square.

Now it was Saturday, just after noon, and with a humid, overcast sky I entered Gezi Park. The protesters had erected barricades at the entrance, including an overturned car, and tourists were taking photos on their phones.

I passed the charred remains of the Revolution Market, which as I said before I’d seen burn live on TV earlier in the week. It was sad passing the market because I remembered the previous week watching as the people working at the market passed out cheese, fruit and bread to anyone who wanted it.

Inside the park, not much appeared to have changed. There was still the same neo-hippy global village look and feel, with hordes of tents laid out under the trees, and haggard, beat-looking protesters spread out on the grass, some of them having breakfast, most of them resting up for the evening to come. If anything, the park was a bit dirtier (though you could see people made efforts to keep the areas around their tents in some kind of order).

Streams of curious passersby regarded the protesters, took photos, read the signs hanging from trees and the brochures passed out at the stalls by young radicals and could-be revolutionaries. At one stall, an old man and woman sang traditional songs, and the free book shop was still open. A young woman sat on the ground making a pen sketch of a toy penguin dressed in a t-shirt with “Boyun Eğme,” or “Submission” ironically emblazoned on the chest.

In the center of the park, a woman was giving a speech, rousing the sleepy protesters, some of whom began to clap encouragingly. Later I found out that Saturday marked the anniversary of a famous 1981 workers’ protest, and the woman was making references to it.

“She is also pointing out that students at universities in America have given demonstrations to support us,” said Baris, a university student who sat listening to the speech with his female companion, whose name was Gizem. I’d asked them to translate.

Bariş and Gizem had been at Gezi Park for eighteen days, the very beginning of the protests.

“How do you feel? I mean, don’t you miss your home at all?” I asked.

Gizem smiled, weary but proud.

“This is my home,” she said, gesturing toward the park.

Bariş produced a copy of a local newspaper. On the front page there was a story about the demonstrations in Brazil over transport issues. The demonstrators in Brazil had claimed solidarity with the Taksim Park protesters, he said.

“It certainly does seem to be a summer of protest,” I remarked.

“Yes.”

I thanked them for talking and wished them well. After they left, I thought about what we had talked about. It was true. From the ongoing civil war in Syria, to the Arab Spring, to the austerity protests all across Europe, to the Occupy Wall Street movement, to the unrest in Brazil, to here in Taksim Square. We seem to be living in an age of dissent, an age of defiance. It’s like the tectonic plates of society are clashing, shifting, causing earthquakes on a global scale.

Later, over a beer at Nevizade Pasaj, I teased myelf for such hysteria, melodrama. Great James, I thought, next thing you’ll be saying we all need to purchase pup tents, ammunition and head for the hills. Don’t forget the bug spray and camouflage.

I left Taksim and headed back over to Kadıköy, my home on the Asian side. I went to a local outdoor cafe, re-read Kundera’s “Unbearable Lightness of Being” and caught a movie. By then it was nearly midnight. Back in my neighborhood the protesters were out in force. They had been quiet the past few nights so I was surprised. They marched through the streets, banging pots and pans, shouting for the prime minister to resign.

At a local market, I went in to get a pack of cigarettes. The cashier was watching a live news report from Taksim Square on the TV. There were fresh images of what we have seen far too often: police firing tear gas and water cannons on the protesters. This time the police were actually going into the park itself, and were driving the protesters out. We watched as police destroyed the tents, and drove the protesters out of the park, scattering them into the night.

Outside you could still see and hear the streams of people passing in the street, their voices echoing, supported here and there by the horns of passing cars. I remembered how quiet and nice it had been earlier that day, talking with Barış and Gizem, and how now it everything was changed again.

James Tressler was a Times-Standard reporter. His boks, including “Conversations in Prague” and “The Trumpet Fisherman and Other İstanbul Sketches,” are available at Amazon.com. He lives in Istanbul