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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.