I fell in love with the cosmopolitan city of San Myshuno at age ten. We were visiting Miranda’s loft in town, and I was swept away.

She lived at the foot of a majestic bridge, where a docking bay used to be. She made it her own fairly fast by tagging a beautiful fresco on the ground. It was the kind of thing the San Myshuno sims do.

In the cozy atmosphere of her little warehouse, she stood at her dj booth and blasted music I had never heard before. She said it was the kind of beats that got you noticed in the Top Of The World Nightclub. Sitting on the highest building of the Fashion district, this two-story nightclub, she assured me, was the place to be.

Then she dragged us outside with her musical gear under her arm. She found the right spot, in a colorful curve of the plaza, and she laid down her violin case, got the instrument out, and she played for us. Mom, Ma and grandma were transported. Grandma, especially, was humming along the melody, perhaps remembering the time she had spent teaching Miranda how to hold her bow correctly.

I looked around. There was a man in a golden attire, a few steps from us. In a swaying running pose, he pretended to be the statue of an astronaut. He, too, was staring at my sister, listening to her talent. He noticed me looking at him, and winked at me, then jumped into another pose.

In the background I could hear the street vendors and their haggling clients. The smell was incredible. They were smells and spices I had never known before. It was different from the fresh fish smell of the Brindleton Bay wharf, that I can tell you. People sat down at the creatively painted tables to eat, and I ogled at the colors in their plates.

When Miranda stopped playing, I told her about the food, and she laughed. “You’re in luck,” she said. “Tonight is the Spice Festival. You’ll be able to eat as much as you want! Try the Curry challenge… if you dare…”

And when the day turned purple, I saw, as she had predicted, that the Spice Market morphed into something taken straight out of a dream. Music started blasting from invisible speakers, and Miranda danced and played along. New stands appeared seemingly out of nowhere; gardeners brought their product to the plaza; food samples were installed on separate tables; and they brought a bubble blower that I was not allowed to try. Mom tried it; she turned blue.

The lights, the colors and the smells won me over.

One day, I would come back. I would try the curry again, and hold the fire in my mouth instead of spitting it out. I would dance with the crowd and blow bubbles with the adults.

That night, the Spice Market became my dream.

A masterfully decorated house. On the coffee table, a bridge to match the one behind the house, and a lighthouse to remember home.

I could have stayed there forever.

We were all slightly afraid that the sound would bother some neighbors; Miranda laughed. Her neighbors often come down and party to the sound of her mixes.

Such an incredible afternoon