The Art of Getting Lost

                The scramble of international travel can be pretty distracting – the struggle with baggage weight limits, the maze of airport security and customs, the layovers in foreign airports. It wasn't until my taxi dropped me off in front of my apartment that the reality of studying abroad hit me. I would be spending the next seven weeks in Florence, independent and responsible for myself. I set my suitcase down in the plain whiteness of the apartment.

                What now?

                Initially, I had some trepidation about studying abroad. It would be a completely new experience in a place where I have at best a limited command of the language. But I am making it my goal for the summer to push my limits and immerse myself in the Florentine culture. To risk embarrassment or failure. To seek adventure.

To get lost.

Optimistically speaking, I spent the majority of my first two weeks in Florence hopelessly lost. I would set off firmly in one direction, certain it was East, and end up at the base of the Duomo with the imposing green marble walls soaring over my head. Or I would set off to find the train station and wander off down a cross street that led me in a wide arc out of my way.

But I think so far some of my favorite things have been the ones I never intended to find. One night, in a misdirected attempt to find Gustapizza (so far my favorite pizza in the city), my roommates and I stumbled upon a procession of people dressed in Renaissance era clothes,cheering and waving a copy of the Mona Lisa. After gathering my courage, I asked a student in Italian what the parade was for. It turned out to be part of Mona Lisa Day – the art students claimed that the famous painting was created in Florence. We followed her to a glamorous outdoor party in a narrow piazza. Hip Italians clinked glasses and chatted over apertivo, an early dinner buffet for the cost of one drink, while live music jazzed in the background. A bachelor party stopped to chat for a bit, one of the friends proffering shots while the bachelor himself blushed bashfully.

One day I decided to wander up to the Chiesa di San Miniato to do my travel journal for the day. From up there the view of the city is like a postcard – Firenze, unrolling in all its sparkling glory. While I was sitting there a wedding party entered the church, the stylish Italian ladies effortlessly gliding up the stone steps in their sky high designer heels.

On my way down the street to my apartment was blocked off – after asking one of the other spectators, I found out that the procession of burly men and drummers in Medieval-style tights were heading to the calcio storico, a traditional Florentian game that was a vicious combo of soccer, football, and wrestling.

By now I've started to get my bearings in Florence. I can recognize addresses, find streets without burying my nose in my map. But I haven’t yet lost the thrill of getting lost, of the magic of discovery. And I hope I never do.