My favorite book in elementary school was The Thief Lord by Cornelia Funke, a chapter book about a ragtag group of orphans merrily pickpocketing their way through Venice á la Oliver Twist. Upon finishing the book, I knew there were two certainties in life: first, that I, too, would one day run away from home to join a scheming, yet kind band of thieves, and that Venice was undoubtedly the most beautiful city in the world. Although I had never so much as seen a picture of it, I became smitten with the city. For class art projects, I would sketch a colorful metropolis completely submerged in water and stick figures rowing their way door-to-door on long gondolas. What is important wasn’t so much that I was showing symptoms of early-onset kleptomania (I also enjoyed Ocean’s Eleven a little too much as a kid), but that I was exhibiting a precursor to the romanticism that came to define my adolescence — where ideas and feelings held more gravitas than reason and rationality.