text: We hit the road early in the morning all packed and prepared. Highway was nearly empty at that hour, only a few cars blasted past. Morning sun shone through the windshield and heated the inside of the car, so we opened the windows to let in some of that morning chill. In exchange, we let out the music. Radio roared high and our voices with it even higher. Bottle of vodka was circling among the passengers. I always declined, being the driver. It was fine. They got comfortably drunk, and that only injected more flavour to the atmosphere we were building in that little car. The full-blown drunkenness with screaming and howling and jumping and crying would come, as it always has - but later. We had the destination in mind and the music in the chest and the booze in the stomach and all connected us to the *place*. I love the sunshine on my face. I wore sunglasses with red tint, and they made the world look grand. Massive clouds on the horizon spiralled and danced on the richly coloured background. Everything seemed so out of this world out there and even the road that leads there emits some of that magic. All the roads do - everybody rides their own road and brings their own spirit. I love that - one of the very few times when I do love the humanity and the collective. That’s maybe the reason I love returning there so much. When we saw the big tents for the first time, the car already smelled of spilled vodka so much that if the cops stopped us, I’d probably get busted anyway. It was fine though. I knew that it wouldn’t happen, not today and not for a few days to come. The laugher and the singing that filled the car protected us. By the time we started recognizing the tents the highway was packed with cars. I usually get agitated by such traffic, but these people were the same kind as the bunch of drunks I was driving, same as me. We took the exit towards the field. It was filled with people, barefoot and semi-naked, with painted faces and painted bodies, with high crowns and broad hats and shining eyes. We turned the radio off, but the music remained. Morning chill made way to the summer breeze and we felt great. I parked the car on the field, had a mouthful from the nearly empty bottle and we were good to go. The moment we stepped out of the car we became the crowd, and we were barefoot, and some girl painted on my face. We finished the bottle while erecting our tents. The grass smelled sweet and we ate some oranges and grapes, and somebody gave us a wineskin. To make Bacchus proud, he yelled. We will, we yelled back. The runway that separated the tent city onto two halves was gathering everyone like a great artery, and all were streaming towards the giant stages that towered over the area. They were like temples for us, for those few days. We gathered there and sang and danced. We lost the wineskin very soon - I think it went to spread the word of Bacchus somewhere else. After all, it is very wise. We were still going strong when the first beams of sunrise transformed the milky fog of the dawn into a halo of light. You could hardly see the stage, but the performers where right there, up to the ankles in the mist. All the man needed to make us move was a single trumpet, welcoming the sun.