my third week in amsterdam i found my way to a small speakeasy tucked away amongst a labyrinth of cobbled alleyways. a doorman waved me inside, a knowing smile twisted around the half-smoked blunt hanging from his lips. i made my way down crooked, narrow stairs into a dimly lit room full of patrons nodding in the haze, feet tapping in time as they smiled and sipped at green-tinged cocktails. the soft sound of glasses clinking amongst murmured conversation served to accentuate the flaw in the scene before me, there was no music. realising i d paused in the entrance long enough to draw a few amused looks from the tables nearest me, i regained my composure and headed towards the bar, pondering the mystery before me. i reached the counter as the barman was mixing a cocktail and waited, but before i could order the man turned and placed a glass in front of me, the same half smile on his lips the doorman had shown me as he nodded at a specials board listing a pistachio sour. it sounded good so i took it to an empty seat and returned to my examination of the bizarre room. as i sat down a grinning girl next to me offered a toke on her joint, and as the no indoor-smoking law was clearly being ignored here i gratefully took a careless draw. as my coughing subsided i took a deep gulp of my drink, and suddenly music flooded my ears. my jaw dropped as i raised my head to see a guy on stage mesmerising the crowd with chill beats, house music permeating the formerly silent bar. the girl with the joint smiled at my amazement. his name s sune she told me, welcome to 8 till late.