Phi Gamma Delta

Violent flashes of color
        greet the visitor as she stands in the staircase of a castle in the midst of the modern world.
The floor is shiny and wet though she knows not why, for it may be water or beer or perspirant, or some ungodly combination of the three.
              Above, the ground shakes as fifty-five pairs of feet (some bare, some shoed) dance in the cult of collegiate drunkeness. Someone offers up a smoke and you deny politely.
    'So where are you from; what's your major, isn't this music the best'
                 ('I know of ten thousand places that I'd rather be than right here; but I'll never let you know that')
'From York, possibly pre-med, or maybe sociology, and yes, it's really the bomb'
              'I'll be here all night. Hit me up. You want a beer? We'll shotgun all night long'
   From Saudi Arabia to Germany and Pennsylvania to California; drinking, sweating, talking, humming, moving, stumbling, falling.
                          'Teach me how to dance Saudi Arabian.'
'They do it like this is Bahrain. No dancing really around my place. No drinking. No girls. No gambling'
                     He moves his hands and feet with the beat of the green laser strobe light. And I may never find my way home in the dark.
                                   But I eventually do, with my shoes in my hand.

             What is this strange ritual thing that we do?