There is a definite sense of free-spirit roaming the streets of Downtown at 80-35, and not even the incessant rain has caused any crowd-sized casualties as far as I can tell. My tiny notepad is like a miniature weather radar at this point; you can tell how hard the rain is falling on each page by how blurred out the words are. Before I run back to catch Maps and Atlases, I thought it best to relay a quick story of my rather awkward encounter with that free-spirit I mentioned earlier. It manifested itself right in front of me, in the form of a crowd of shirtless, painted females, bouncing their way in between me and the stage. Now, I’m not one to blanche in the (rather literal) face of boob, but for whatever reason I felt a rather necessary need to move places. Despite the desire, I decided to hold fast to my principals and stay exactly where I had previously planted myself. Within but a handful of awkward seconds, though, I could only feel like the creepiest man in the city, and my resolve weakened. It was somewhat akin, I would assume, to sitting down at a bar, and, with no warning, the walls drop and you are in a strip club. You want the drink you ordered, yet there is an immediate reason not to be caught there, lest someone get the wrong impression about your intentions. Luckily for me, the shirtless-nymph crew moved on, in search of more awkward boys to panic. In case you were also one of those poor souls, let it be known: you are not alone.

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