It was the night of the burning of the man, a climactic moment near the end of the weeklong festival when almost the entire city of 60,000 gathers in one place to witness the burning of the centerpiece of the city. Amid the sheer chaos I dared to leave my group of friends to say hello to my long-lost friend Dan, whom I had just caught sight of in the crowd. I plunged through the sea of costumes, flashing lights, and wide-eyed dancers and climbed aboard Dan’s art car—a rolling desert island covered in swaying palm trees and bathed in soft mood lighting. I had barely caught my breath when he asked,“Why do you come here?”I had been asking myself that question all week. It started day one, when I was biking through the vast and empty playa at midday, all alone—the majority of the friends I usually attended with now making or tending to babies, traveling the world, and otherwise taking care of the necessities of life. And yet here I was, again, my eyes and nose filled with dust, wondering if it was time for me to grow up or grow out of this experience, when what appeared to be a 90-year-old man rode by on an …