It’s the morning after. I’m leaning against the antique pastry showcase in Pasticceria Caffè Pirona. I’m still a little shaky from last night’s drinking. There’s a framed picture of James Joyce on the wall, hung proudly. He was a regular here. In the mornings, on his way to work, he would stop in for a couple glasses of red wine and some presnitz, an eye-wateringly sweet Triestine pastry. Rumor has it Joyce even wrote some of, or conceived the idea for, or sketched out parts of his masterpiece, Ulysses, in this very cafe. Of course, no one really knows. But like Joyce and many a literary-tourist before me, I am here, eating presnitz and drinking red wine for breakfast.