Greenwood Hotel, Thursday night. The sole clientele are attractive, affluent high school students, none of whom are 18, but all of whom are armed with fake I-D’s. “IT’S LIKE FUCKING GOSSIP GIRL IN HERE,” screams a friend over the thundering dance music as we enter. The air is thick with good-looking flirtation. I mutter something back about how the club is like “walking into a General Pants commercial” and how “everyone looks like Luke and Georgia” (see below). We are stunned tourists, in a deep culture shock, on foreign land. Overwhelmed by the sheer number of raben shoes and trilby hats, and the amount of North Shore muscle, we do one dazed lap through the labyrinth of bustling bars before leaving.