Friday night strikes the clock, and the smell of candy and crepes fill the exit of the usual metro stop. When it fades to cigarettes across the street I know I’m not far. The lights stay off up the stairs because I know them by heart, I know this whole city by heart. I’m forty minutes late as usual, so the good news is two flights up they’re already waiting. It hardly seems natural to ring the door bell here, in a way this place belongs to all of us, as far as memories go at least. But alas someone’s silly face opens up and in you go. There are few rules here; don’t stop the music, don’t fall out the window, and when the neighbors come to the door to complain deny everything and say it’s your birthday. British, French, American, Australian, Columbian, doesn’t matter where you’re from or what you are as long as you don’t take yourself too seriously and can learn the lyrics to Call Me Maybe, you’re welcome here. Come as you are and stay as long as you like…we’ll be here till the sun comes up.