After the day…Standing in a crowd, watching a busker with a full drum kit play along to Smells Like Teen Spirit; up front, a stooped older couple swayed to the beat with linked arms, faint smiles. Admiring them with my boyfriend. Waiting to cross the street behind a young man boldly wearing a band tour t-shirt depicting an anime girl being eviscerated by a huge, disembodied penis; directly bedside me, a little girl holding her mother’s hand. Eating tapas. Eating churros. Stumbling upon the coolest graffiti I’ve ever seen: a dark Alice in Wonderland-type scene painted in bright colors in the dankest reaches of a litter-strewn alley. A shiver ran down my spine, and I liked that. The fight. Losing each other. Finding each other. Being swept up by young locals. And now, dancing, jumping up and down to Neil Young. And screaming at each other: me and these people I’d just met who wanted what I wanted at exactly the same time. Screaming keep on rocking in a free world. And my boyfriend, the film school drop-out, pointing a camcorder at us–my camcorder. We kept asking him in turns to please stop filming. And he didn’t. One by one, they disappeared from the dance floor. Until the last three, a guy and two girls, led us outside and apologized for having to end our night early. It was about 3 a.m.; I noted several simultaneous, endearing cultural differences: this was pretty late, they didn’t know us, but they cared anyway, they were polite anyway. They told us, graciously, they had work in the morning. And then it was just me and him, on the edge of a dark cobblestone square, not-quite-sober, collecting our bearings in the brisk pre-dawn air.