Not only did I brave Newark at midnight two weeks before Christmas, with its clusters of crowds making the entire journey to and from the ladies’ room not unlike crossing the Rubicon at high tide with a carry on and a large mid-western woman who insists that — no, actually you’re in her way — but I also ran through the Porto airport to make a connection in a manner that did not improve the reputation of Americans, AND I didn’t slap the cranky woman in the middle seat who for some reason thought I was the next Lee Harvey Oswald. All for one purpose: to get to Paris on time to commune with God.

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.