Imagine walking into a party in a foreign city, and somehow feeling exactly at home. That is what my last night in Pittsburgh was nice. Three of us walked to a house in Shadyside, and nearly everyone we met over the three-week stint was on the lawn, socialising. Unbenknownst to us, many of them knew each other, but, in other cases, we were the connecting links. Inside, and to the left, there were bands playing loud music. The lyrics were uninterpretable, and the melodies cacophonic, but the aesthetic experience was nonetheless perfect. I perfectly remember standing there toward the entrance with my recently acquired red shoes on, listening to the subversive symphony all by myself. Then you showed up, and we nodded our heads to the music for a while. We then toured upstairs, visited the kitchen and were eventually sent West by the Pittsburgh police.

That was our last night. The stories before, immediately before and after are certainly worth telling, but nothing stood out as much as that final, typical event.