To: <eurotrashclub@eumail.paris.fr>

From: Lucy Dixon <lucydixon@umail.ucsb.edu>

Subject: Oh Euro-trash, my Euro-trash

Dearest Euro-trash club, 

I always knew I would miss the inescapable aura of the Euro-trash club scene — the cigarette smoke that lingered in my curly locks for days after, the sweaty clash of body parts in a darkly lit room and the inevitable playing of Italian ‘80s hits. Impeccable “vibage” aside, I would miss my gallivants into the mysterious world of the 21+. I had now seen the “Sex and the City”-esque escapades I could be getting into in my late 20s and survived the ultimate challenge of wearing heels on cobblestones. I had looked into the eyes of God, if God was a bouncer evaluating the length of my skirt. I had seen what was beyond the pearly white gates that my 20-year-old self would be denied from upon my return to the United States. 

Clearly, I was devastated. So when my hometown friend invited me to the One Direction “all ages night” over the holidays, I couldn’t refuse. I hadn’t partied in high school, which was mostly due to the fact that a “party” at my high school was just a group of white kids in folding chairs drinking Coors Light in a barn. So, I was weirdly excited to see what my hometown had to offer in terms of night life. It’s also because of this fact that I felt incredibly safe from any possible high school sightings. 

My friend’s mom and aunt were also joining us on our night out. They had laid out an elaborate spread of vegetables and dip, Christmas cookies and Jell-O shots for the occasion. Our pregame felt like something out of “Big Little Lies,” a display of white woman suburbia that made me believe the patrons of this club would be on the older side.  

When we walked into the club, I was first struck by the rectangular, boxy shape of the room. It was somewhat reminiscent of a middle school cafeteria, with its exposed pipes, linoleum floors, and wooden stage at the back of the room. A DJ — DJ Blade Trip — who looked no older than 22 was on stage, looking intensely at his turntable while playing “Best Song Ever” by One Direction. My friend’s mom beelined for the bar to our right, while we surged forth into the crowd, the demographics of which were slowly coming into focus. 

I find that now would be an opportune time to mention that I have a very neutral stance towards One Direction. I’m not a fanatic; I’m not a hater; they’ve just always been outside of my realm of influence. Growing up, I thought there were only four One Direction members the whole time. Going into this One Direction-themed night, I figured it would be fine. Somehow, I managed to forget the level of fandom that is required to be a super fan of a band that hasn’t made music in 10 years. 

I would guess that the average age in this joint was hovering around 14 — gaggles of girls wearing jeans and a going-out top, clad in low top Converse and attempting to discreetly vape within the confines of their mom’s vintage Guess purse. I watched in horror as the crowd, becoming younger before my very eyes, screamed along to words I didn’t know. It felt like a ritual, and I couldn’t tell if they were praising the Lord on high or welcoming me to the seventh circle of hell. 

DJ Blade Trip eventually started throwing stuffed animals into the screeching audience and later upped the ante with a water gun, spraying into the crowd like a Kidz Bop Steve Aoki. Given how my night had been going, I was obviously drenched. But thankfully, DJ Blade Trip offered a full range of services and later returned with a leaf blower to impart upon the crowd. The night continued, teens moving past in drunk girl chains, and I eventually found myself next to a middle-aged woman holding a baby … an actual baby. 

The baby nearly broke me. I felt like a character in a horror movie, a wide-angle camera trained on my face as I stumbled through the masses, attempting to escape the crowd. When I finally broke through, a shattering realization hit me with a fervor. Despite my friend’s mom downing tequila sodas at the bar, I realized I was the one thing every college student home for the holidays dreads becoming: too old to be here. 

My night ended without any major incidents, and I returned home from my wild evening with a hollow feeling in my heart. An incredible, intense yearning for the Euro-trash club. A longing that can hardly be described in mere words. 

To quote Passenger, “You only know you love her when you let her go.” And I let Euro-trash go. 

Too old to be here, 

Lucy