The only uniform thing about the hundreds of partiers who flooded through the doors of August Hall on Friday night was glitter.

Applied to the cheekbones of all genders, sparkles spread to the hair, eyes, chests, and hands by the end of the night. And if somehow you weren’t adorned in enough glitter, there was a booth where the promoter could reapply some to you, right at the front door. 

After a pregame filled with red Solo cups and Spanglish conversations between friends — some Spanish-speaking locals, others visiting from around the globe — I found myself in a line that put Devil’s Teeth on a Sunday morning to shame. Nationalities were swapped more than names, and I answered the question “¿De dónde eres?” more times than I could count. But language barriers couldn’t obscure what everyone had in common: We were part of the crowd who knew that Bresh was in our city. 

What exactly is Bresh? That’s what I’d asked, too, when I was peer-pressured by my friend, a party fiend, to buy my ticket months ago.

Originating in Argentina, Bresh is a party that tours the globe the way a musician would. The music skews toward Latin pop but acknowledges the international language of rhythm, playing dance hits that make crowds go wild at the first notes. The various DJs flirt with nostalgia, remixing deep cuts and classics with the most current choruses. 

Strictly speaking, it’s just a party. But it’s a party that has garnered millions of followers on Instagram and, after this night, made me believe in clubbing again. 

Cut to: Red lips singing along to reggaeton. Layers shed by strobe light. Drinks passed overhead and inevitably spilling to the floor. Tangles of hands and hair and messy makeout sessions. Though we’d arrived as separate groups, mere minutes into the evening, the dance floor moved as one. (In Spanish, one could say it was a perreo intenso, a tangle of bodies getting downnnn.)

Here I’d been thinking Barbie pink was three seasons ago, but the sparkling letters levitating above the three dancers and DJ swept me right back into the craze. Paired with a giant pink teddy bear for selfie-ing upstairs, it was the hype-worthy recipe for a classic-yet-Instagrammable dance party.

We went crazy to club classics (and to club club classics) until the city’s 2 a.m. curfew spilled the crowd into Mason Street, scattering everyone to their respective afters. And, as anyone who doesn’t quit while they’re ahead can guess, this is where my night took a turn for the worse. 

Somewhere on the dance floor of an undisclosed, unsanctioned after-hours club in the Tenderloin, my bag grooved away from my body. The rest of the night was a chaotic blur of tracking stolen items and piecing together a game plan — because apparently, even my belongings can’t resist the pull of the after-after-party.

It was one of those messy nights that felt like it could have happened anywhere. And technically, with Bresh’s global itinerary, it has. But for tonight, it wasn’t just anywhere — it happened in San Francisco, and I, for one, was glad to be a part of it. 

PS: If you see a black patent-leather Givenchy tote being sold on Craigslist, DM me.