Despite the folds of light golden fabric wrapped around their legs and their strategically almost-shaved heads, they looked like a couple of frat guys on a dare. Drawn by the piercing rhythmic clang of the cymbals, I watched them approach the square. They wore collared button-downs, well-fitting jeans under their robes and wholesome smiles that turned sheepish upon realizing that in order to make the most of their energies, they needed to face each other. They stopped moving and established their territory between the Metro stop and the fountain where they stood banging and chanting to each other. Both shameless and shy, faces turned inward while voices and instruments projected across the square.