Am I fearless? No, I’m stupid, but still, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve genuinely felt unsafe. There’s a difference between brave and reckless, and baby, the sweet spot lives somewhere between doing Molly you bought from a cab driver in Ibiza with a group from the hostel (brave) and crossing against the light in Rome without checking for Gay tourists on Vespas (reckless).

Ciao, bella— straight to il hospital.

At three o’clock in the morning, the Athens airport looks about the same as any given Athens street: littered with strays. Everyone is folded up on a bench or sprawled on the floor. People-puppy-piles rest on backpacks, friend curled into friend. This is the best time to travel—before the rush, before the slog, before the delays. This is when the mighty [read: foolish, cheap, or unable to read with confidence] — yes, those who power through the night and fly into the morning—stake their claim to destiny and a window seat.

I planned the fantasy before I booked the flight. And before I planned the fantasy, I built the outfit. That’s always the order. Dream, then dress, then go.

The simple act of jumping the Atlantic was enough to drain my coffers and the blood from my young, rosy cheeks. But I had a comfort that stood above all my worries and what-if’s.

I was going to win in Monte Carlo.