In Rome, in February 1997, the Teatro show ends and the lights come up and the band hops off stage to mill about with fans who linger expectedly. In the glow of post-show electricity, the small roving circus crawls toward the exits, and with only a handful of people remaining, girlfriend Beth suggests to Fishman that he provide us passes to go backstage.

He seems unimpressed, guffawing and galloping past. But Gordo kicks into motion - like an animatronic Zoltar machine that's been fed quarters - pulling two crumpled passes from the pockets of his small bomber jacket; he hands them over with zero pretense, as if to say, all you had to do was ask.

I love Tour. And Tour is hard.

But mostly Tour is full of adventures - the kind you fashion all your own.

Backstage consists mainly of dirty whites and dulled greys, in an over-lit stairwell that stands at the convergence of three hallways. We collect in a small tight circle: Trey, Page, Beth, me - plus two other Americans who had equally conspired to a band hang. A bottle of tequila arrives along with a misfit of glasses, and we round-robin shots, celebrating the moment.

The conversation meanders to the frequency of new rocker Character Zero. Trey bursts with energy, "It's not perfect yet. We'll play it every night until we get it right." 

Shouts for another bottle of tequila arise, as if we're matadors provoking a bull.

Speaking of fashion, this tour seems speckled by it. First, there's Fishman who has been strangely playing attired in all-black, waiter-crisp buttondown dress shirts, a rather conservative replacement for the decade-long habit of donning a dress as Henrietta.

No one is willing to explain why, which serves to remind you that Tour is about reinvention, which requires little explanation. One can wake up in any City and try on a different self.

Fashion being the topic at hand, the discussion turns to Trey, who seems to have picked up a new obsession: high-end clothing. This from a guy who typically sports jamband-style parachute pants and a roving cast of mismatched, well-worn t-shirts (I see you Marvin the Martian) while on stage.

Trey asks Beth if she wants to see his brand new Versace pants. They're in his dressing room. They sprint up a set of stairs; he's leading, and she's bounding behind him two steps at a time. She calls out in singsong, "I wish I had a cam-er-a," and — as they disappear behind the click of a closing door — Trey sings back, "I don't have a cam-er-a."

"You have to come to Cortemaggiore," interrupts Page, referring to the show the next night in a town of just a few thousand residents, at a venue that holds less than 750. I beg off, noting that we'd gone to Florence the night before and had plans the next day to act lamely as tourists. Plus, there was the problem of tickets, and the challenge of navigating 300 miles away in the Italian countryside.

"No problem," Page offers plainly. "You can just grab a ride on our bus."

On Tour, impossibility is just another outfit you can discard.

Beth returns, clearly impressed by Trey's new Versace duds. A short discussion of logistics, and we’re in. Our suitcases can stay behind in Rome, and we'll figure out clothes because, well, because adventure rarely packs appropriately.

We can barely contain our excitement as we head toward the bus an hour later - and in comes Brad Sands: "No one else on the bus, no one else on the bus," blocking us, as if a catcher protecting home plate. 

Page shrugs, "You should still come," he says. "And if you make it, I'll leave you tickets and passes at will call."

Outside, there’s a group of Americans organizing to head to Roma Termini to catch the overnight train to the closest town to Cortemaggiore. Eventually, six of us cram like sardines into a train compartment designed for seating for two, partially dozing but mostly talking for the seven hour journey to the nearest station, Piacenza. By mid-day we’d made it to the tiny fountain in the center of Cortamagiorre, where a dozen or thirty tour rats crowded, killing time and curiously interacting with the locals.

As the show opens, over the PA, comes the crunchy sound of Carini, another new song with a chromatic evil refrain and typically-absurd Phish lyrics (many years later we'd find out the song was mostly about a guy who shot his dying dog). The band plays alongside their own soundcheck for a minute - and then takes over for the full ride. And there’s Fishman, dressed like he was going to sell us a car.

But then there’s second set: lo and behold, Fishman returns - dress and all. It would be the only set all tour the dress made an appearance. Was this some sort of statement?

After the show, everyone else is kicked out, but Page, Beth and I cram into a small backroom with a wooden upright practice piano. We stand, awkwardly sharing a jar of olives we brought as a gift. After each one, Page meticulously wipes his fingertips clean, then inspects them as if a doctor preparing for surgery - or a tailor inspecting sewing needles.

Years later, once social media caught up, I sent Page a DM recounting the olives. No reply. Which sometimes makes me wonder if it really happened at all.

Over the years the freedom of this particular Tour adventure feels more and more distant, like the decaying film of an old movie reel.

But it did happen. Of that I'm sure.

And if you need proof, track down the audience tape of 2-23-97. Listen closely and you’ll hear Beth shout “Versace!” just as the band drops into Zeppelin’s Good Times, Bad Times.

And somewhere offstage, a pair of pants waited like a promise.