I was sitting down at Caffè del Doge the next day, sipping an excellent cappuccino—the barista had pulled Doge Nero Arabica beans from the Alta Mogiana region in Brazil, their dark chocolaty notes cutting a rich sweetness through the earthy base.
It was heaven for my splitting headache from last night's reckless behavior: half a dozen shots of Sierra Tequila shoved down my throat, a line of coke shared with a pudgy water taxi driver who was aggressively trying to sleep with me, and God knows how many Red Bulls. Zach, sitting across from me in a narrow alley adjacent to the Rialto, seemed completely fine.
"How many shots did you even have?" I asked, squinting against the morning glare.
"You're a lightweight. As soon as the curtains closed for Angels in America, Christian Borle and I would take shots of Patrón Silver backstage like fucking high schoolers. Sometimes before, you know, to loosen the nerves. After we got caught, the director said we should rename the play Devils in America."
"I would have bought a ticket to that," I muttered.
"Christian told me stories that were even worse. He was doing Thoroughly Modern Millie when he heard from friends that Kieran Culkin swapped out a prop joint with a real one."
"No way. What happened?"
"Nothing. He was seventeen and an idiot. You should have seen what I was doing at that age. My parents forced me into a Catholic high school—true, cold Pittsburghers who worked at Jones & Laughlin Steel and loved rye whiskey more than their own kids. You can guess how thrilled they were about my sexual orientation. So, I'd redline it down Route 28 and sneak into clubs on the South Side."
I thought about my own high school days, already hazy, now rendered nearly opaque by the hangover. Solitary afternoons in a strange environment—I didn't even know what a toaster was when I first arrived at Malcolm's house—that I eventually came to love after years of numbness in that tiny, grim shack.
Childhood, looking back, possessed an almost airless, claustrophobic weight that made it impossible to explain to anyone who hadn't lived it. It felt like drowning in an overcrowded pool, arms flailing frantically while frozen statues stared down from the deck, their features blurred as though viewed through a rain-slicked window. The hand of the world pulling slowly down, gravity wrapping around my chest and whispering, It's okay. Why fight?—soft, like a lover massaging a partner's shoulders after a brutal shift.
And then Tess pulled me out onto a different planet. Louder, more vibrant, alive. I spent those subsequent days devouring The Great Gatsby, screaming at the television for Manchester United during matches like the 2004 FA Cup Final (I had knocked over an entire glass when Ronaldo headed one in), tasting unfamiliar foods, and, late at night, flipping the remote to Cinemax to watch scenes from Eyes Wide Shut.
A child's piercing tantrum nearby dragged me back to Venice.
Zach turned to me, glancing over at the Rialto Bridge: a single-span stone arch with balustrades carved in simple patterns, carrying that weight of timelessness that modern architecture could never replicate. He coughed over his espresso, his voice raspy. "What are you doing with the month before the movie officially drops?"
"Traveling. Seeing Europe. I've always wanted to do it."
"Sounds like heaven. I'd come along, but I'm tied up with American Horror Story."
"Good for you. Tell me what it's like working with Ryan Murphy when you wrap."
"Hopefully he doesn't waddle like J.C. Chandor! Man, I was taking a shit right across from the rehearsal room, and I could hear J.C. stroll by and say, 'Perfect. We've got our James Dean.' You were acting your heart out, and I was in the stall fighting for my life!"
I burst out laughing, coffee sloshing over the rim of my cup onto my shirt. "No wonder. Your close-up looked like you were holding it in."
"Eat shit," Zach yelled, drawing a sharp glare from the mother of the crying child.
"Ready to head back?"
"Yeah. Let's move."
The next month unfolded like a vivid fever dream, stretching from the cobbled squares of Munich to the winding steps below Sacré-Cœur in Paris. I loitered around corner bistros that smelled of damp autumn leaves and roasted espresso beans ground into stone. The wide boulevards and dedicated bike lanes felt civilized; the Munich U-Bahn was whisper-quiet and spotless compared to the rattling grisliness of London and New York.
Between train rides, Europe felt like an open vein of old ghosts and fresh bread. In Vienna, I stood outside the Secession building for an hour, watching golden leaves drift across the pavement while street buskers pulled melancholy chords from a cello that echoed against the masonry. In Prague, the fog hung so low over the Charles Bridge that the blackened Gothic statues appeared to float in midair, watching drunks and wanderers stumble past into the lantern-lit alleys. I bought roasted chestnuts wrapped in yesterday's newsprint, letting the scorching paper cone warm my raw fingertips against the Central European chill. Border crossings were seamless—just a flicker of green countryside through scuffed glass, the changing clatter of railroad ties underneath, and the quiet murmurs of passengers sharing thermoses of lukewarm tea.
Late one evening in a creaky overnight train out of Budapest, staring at my reflection in the dark window pane, I jotted down a passage in my notebook:
The borders drop behind you like old coats.
Every town you enter doesn't care who you were yesterday;
the cobblestones don't ask for a resume.
You walk into foreign air and realize the stranger you've been dragging along
is the only person you actually have to live with.
At home, you keep your eyes half-shut to survive the routine.
Out here, the cold forces you wide awake.
I slept in six-bed hostel dorms even though my bank account could easily have covered luxury suites. I wanted the noise, the accents, the late-night arguments about politics and art over cheap local beer.
And then, before I could fully absorb the quiet, the calendar flipped to October 21: the American theatrical release of Margin Call.