This is what Helsinki’s dance floors look like at 4am. People get hammered. Glasses drop. No one cleans. More glasses drop. The floors get crunchier by the hour. Pieces get stuck to your soles. One friend had to get three stitches after a shard speared his toe. Even in well-lit sit-down bars glasses crash to the floor, people turn their heads, people turn back, and life continues with new terrain. Why? Is it because people don’t sue here? Or is it an extension of Finnish minimal service? This is not a sloppy country. Bartenders pour your wine into measuring cups and trams arrive at the exact minute on the timetable. But the floors look like anarchy at night. We still dance hard, brushing shards away with our shoes, feeling more concerned about feeling the music, stomping away on party jewels and leaving an apocalyptic scene behind.