MÁLAGA, Spain — I learned the uncomfortable joy of nonviolent chaos along with tens of thousands of my closest midnight friends on Sunday evening. Fortune placed me in Spain and Spain in the World Cup finals. Several of the bar patrons more quietly then inquired about Trump to the lone American in sight. These people worked the next day and Spain, just 16 years removed from winning the World Cup, had been here before. On Sunday night in Málaga, the cops rather smartly ignored the bedlam — uncontrollable and cathartic — rather than sought to quell it.