I’m no music expert, most of my response to music is visceral and associative, but I do know that if the Beastie Boys had been a fad, they wouldn’t have lasted as long as they have.

As I blasted their latest album with car windows open,  to pay homage to the fallen Beastie (Adam MCA Yauch) who passed away from cancer earlier this month, my kids cringed as Mom reminisced semi-publicly. I tend to hate when I pass another car with thumping music blaring, always muttering, “Yeah, I like that music so much” to myself. OK, so forgive me…

I was thinking about the concert they played at Madison Square Garden with Run DMC, the kids clothing store on 10th street, in my hood, owned by Beastie Boy Adam Horowitz’s mom Doris, cheekily named “Gee The Kids Need Clothes,” and dancing till rivers of sweat poured down my back to Brass Monkey, No Sleep Till Brooklyn and others at loft parties, clubs and friend’s homes.

Greenwich Village (and NYC in general) is no stranger to walking tours. I remember parting the crowds to get a cupcake from Magnolia Bakery, a shop featured on Sex in the City, or even wedging through the clumps of tourists snapping photos of my everyday haunts, places where the famous and infamous had worked, lived, partied or died. Once, while soaking in the Communal Russian Baths, in the East Village, a woman pulled out a camera because John Belushi had come there frequently to cleanse himself after his binges.

There is now a suggested self-guided Beastie Boys walking tour, including many of the places important to their life and career. It includes a loft where much of the magic took place in the early years of Beastie Boys rise from punk kids to Rap icons. The corner of Irvington and Ludlow on the Lower East Side is on the itinerary, where the cover for their second album, Paul’s Boutique, was shot. Today there is a restaurant called Paul’s Boutique in honor of the album.

A memorial is currently drawing mourners at 69 Avenue A where Yauch and the Boys recorded the album Polly Wog Stew.

RIP Adam Yauch 1964-2012

Maybe it was the long bus ride that had warped my ability to make sense of my surroundings, or it could have been my diet of magic realism literature I was on at the time, but the scene I wound through that night presented the kind of phantasmagoria that can induce hallucinations. Was everyone in costume? Was it a warmup for Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead? Colors flashed by, shouts and laughter and the melodious rhythms of Spanish ricocheted off balconied buildings. Smoke from street stalls carried the scent of grilled meat. And I continued to push my way, gently because this was a happy throng, across the plaza to the hotel.

When I squeezed through the doors into a busy lobby I learned I’d arrived in the middle of the Cervantes International Arts Festival. Tired as as I was, I knew I had to get out with the crowd. There was too much energy in the streets to do anything else.

And what a reward I received. I flowed with the masses to an open-air theater to watch a series of skits from Don Quixote under the stars. It didn’t matter that my mediocre Spanish wasn’t up to the task, I got most of the meaning through the actors’ delivery. When the curtain went down the fireworks went off, flames and sparks shooting everywhere, whirligigs spitting fire above the audience, the night erupting in celebration before the lights came up. I really did feel I was in the middle of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel.

This year the festival runs October 14 to November 1 with more than 2300 artists from 25 nations and 5 continents presenting opera, music, dance, theater, visual arts, film and academic activities.

During my few days in the city I went to many of the tourist sites — the catacombs to look at the mummies, Diego Rivera’s house and museum, the tunnels that draw off the traffic to make the center of the city a pedestrian zone, Callejón del Beso (the Alley of the Kiss) on a lane so narrow lovers are said to be able to kiss across it from their balconies, the viewpoint on San Miguel hill commemorating the beginning of the Mexican War of Independence — but what really stayed with me was the  flamboyant energy of the Cervantes Festival, a party I’d known nothing about, but remember every autumn.

Clubbing is never going to be a carbon neutral endeavor, with all the electricity needed for strobes, disco balls and audio equipment, but if you are planning a trip to Holland you might want to check out the latest in “hybrid” hotspots.

OK, so I felt a bit middle aged, but I got into it and certainly loved the energy and hope one feels when able to express one’s political feelings. It got me thinking about demonstrations I’ve been a part of in the past, marches in Washington, London, Paris and in San Francisco. On a recent trip to Paris I happened across two demonstrations. One to Free Tibet, on the eve of the opening of the Beijing Olympics and one in remembrance of a Sri Lankan tragedy. I remember when I studied abroad years ago and we had a big lecture about avoiding demonstrations when traveling. This information is also on the State Deptartment travel destination site noted under the header safety and security. In general this is sage advice, a tourist does not want to get caught up in a violent protest, but I also think peaceful events can be a great opportunity to see and experience some of the more elusive parts of a culture. It was fascinating witnessing the Sri Lankan Parisians peacefully making their voice heard.

As I sat drenched in sweat watching some Go-Go girls and boys gyrate on the Port–o-potties I thought “I wonder what a tourist might think of this scene.”