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.