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One of my fondest memories of the 60s was heading to Harvard Square
after school and hanging out at the arcade under the Brattle and then sneaking
into a screening of a movie like "Blow-up" upstairs. The shops down below had a
redolence of incense and weird soaps and other hippie products from bistros like
"Truc," scents that now are Proustian evocations for me, and in watching Antonioni's great film I
snuck into my first X-rated movie and got my first glance of pubic hair on screen, along with most of the rest
of America.
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