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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.