One of my very best friends planned a girls’ trip to Italy a year ago. It was a delightful trip and I learned from her the joy of planning well, but also the joy of being lost. She carefully crafted a calendar list of things to do, but every other day she planned nothing. Those days we wandered until we found something interesting. Our first escapade was absolutely by accident though.
We rented a car at the airport in Rome, but our first stop was a stay in a villa in Manciano. The attendant at the car rental place was helping us program the address into the car’s GPS. We felt pretty smart asking for his help doing this – cutting out a small piece of the unknown and whatnot. However, the attendant erroneously put Lanciano in the GPS. Maybe it was an accident. We drove for about three hours on a trip that should have only taken an hour or so and were nowhere near where we should have been. To be fair, we weren’t paying attention to the map at all, much less checking it against the GPS directions. We were busy looking out the windows and enjoying the beautiful sights, the green rolling hills, the small villages with closely packed, red-tiled roofs, the patchwork of vineyards and farms. It was a lovely landscape that we never tired of watching roll languidly past us. Until we realized we were close to the time of arrival, and the GPS still had us traveling to the opposite side of the country. We pulled out the map, trying to orient ourselves – a group effort to be sure. And we were starting to get hungry.
We realized the attendant’s mistake way too late, but no worries; the landscape was beautiful, and we were enjoying each other’s company. We could drive a little farther – all part of the adventure! We decide it’s a good time to stop for supper, so we pull off the highway into a little town that was very much off the beaten path. We find a restaurant and are so excited to eat some authentic Italian food. The real stuff. But in Italy, don’t try to eat anything before 6 or 7 o’clock. Literally everything closes down for riposo, the Italian siesta. Our hunger intensified as we drove from little back road to main highway looking for something to eat. Finally, we found a little coastal town with a very sweet restaurant right on the sea. At sunset, no less.
The view from that little Italian town looking out over the deep azure blue of the Mediterranean into the soft oranges and reds of the setting sun washed away all the cares of being lost in a country where we didn’t know the language nor how long it would take us to get to our villa. We were very obviously some of the very few tourists who ventured to this town – people at the restaurant openly stared at us. Occasionally they would raise their glass to us or smile and nod, but none spoke English. Fortunately, we were assigned a waiter who spoke fairly good English, and we ate a delicious Margerita pizza with wine. We felt so fortunate to have stumbled upon this place at just the spectacularly right time. The restaurant was constructed with large wooden beams that framed an open-air patio with small tables. To enter, you walked through a vine covered archway that made it feel like you were walking into another dimension. It perfectly set off the sunset view and perfectly juxtaposed the hustle of us being lost and hungry. It was a sweet, small, magical meal.
Then, on to our destination, which led to our next adventure. We were the typical Americans driving an SUV in Italy where in some towns the streets are so narrow, many times only one vehicle can fit on the road at once. Locals drive minis of one kind or another, and even then, sometimes have a tenuous time maneuvering the crooked, narrow streets. It turns out our villa is in just such a town. It is a mountainous area that is replete with hairpin turns and drivers jockeying for the best position to get where they’re going. We were by far the tallest, widest and biggest vehicle. Maybe it was too many navigators, maybe it was the lack of language skills, maybe it was too many hours spent in a vehicle together, but whatever the reason, we were lost again despite the GPS’ best efforts. My friend was driving and doing an unbelievably skillful job given the challenges. It was dark and the twisting roads in the tiny neighborhood were tight. She had to perform several 3- and 4-point turns to do 180 switchbacks up a hill, navigating past many smaller cars that treated road signs as suggestions. We stopped at a local inn to ask directions, lucky to find an English speaker.
We make it to our villa but don’t have the benefit of seeing it fully because it was so late and dark. We unload the Suburban and lug all our suitcases up three flights of stairs, stopping at each flight. We made it. We feel like the quintessential Americans in Italy. The next day we see the innkeeper who recognizes us, warmly welcomes us and invites us in for a glass of wine.
My favorite story about being lost is visiting the Pantheon in Rome. I was walking the city on my own, taking in all the sights in my own time and in my own way, my favorite way to sightsee. I spent several hours walking through the Roman streets and alleys, enjoying every little shop, every little church, and every little café along the way. There are so many people out walking, visiting, working and sightseeing; the streets are very crowded. The side streets in Rome are narrow and short, intersecting and overlapping other streets, all with similar names. Many times, a street changes names in the middle of a block and they aren’t always clearly marked. Oftentimes, an address is etched into the side of the building, with name and number, but the name of that street has changed over time. So, the maps are not clear. I am laying out my defense here because, even though I was walking with a map in hand, reading it right-side-up and carefully, I was forever and constantly, hopelessly lost. My saving grace was the river. Somehow, no matter where I thought I was going, I always ended up at the river, which snakes to the west of town. I kept trying to go east but somehow ended up back at the Tiber, which was okay because that’s the only way I could orient myself on the map.
I knew I wanted to see the Pantheon, and I had it located on the map; it was pretty much in the center of the city. I was enjoying the city’s architecture, the foliage, the winding alleys and the friendly people all saying, “Ciao Bella!” all along the way, so there wasn’t the typical frustration that accompanies being lost. I did however want to get there while it was still light….
I felt like I was close, but an attraction this big should be marked with street signs pointing the way and cordoned off from the rest of the neighborhood, shouldn’t it? I should surely be seeing something that tells me it’s near. I never did see a sign, and I was amidst apartments that were stacked high with laundry hanging out over the small patio railings. I am in a haven of little Italian shops with cafe tables wedged between the storefronts and the street, with clay shingles, colorful tiles, and flowers in hanging baskets, and of small markets with lively displays of vegetables out front and deliverymen on foot. But as I round a corner, ahead of me is a giant brick wall, out of nowhere it seems, and it looks really out of place, looming large and obstructing my view. This couldn’t be it, could it? It was surrounded by a low wall which people sat on, very casually and unceremoniously eating paninis and talking on their cell phones. If this was it, this scene seemed ignominious almost, like the locals were oblivious to the building’s import. But as I walked around it to the front, it was obvious that through some less trodden, back passageway I had made it to the Pantheon.
In the front of the building, huge columns came into view, as did a large plaza with signs, statues, and all sorts of crowds – hundreds of people standing in clusters. Exactly what you would expect from a historically significant tourist attraction. There were long lines to get inside. It is no longer the temple of the gods erected in 27 BC but had been turned into a cathedral of sorts 600 years later, with crosses and statues of the saints, and now serves as a church. The giant dome with the hole in the center that let in the sunlight, illuminating the frescoes and tile, was a fascinating focal point. I imagined what it was like in a storm with the rain pouring in. It is a fabulously interesting structure with giant pillars outside, and the brick! So thin and stacked so high, created by the world’s foremost architects of the time. Substantial.
I’ll never forget how amazed I was to see it out of nowhere from the rear, large and ominous. Luminous. One of the most magical things about Italy is its blending of ancient history and every day, present living.
Our last experience getting lost was fun. We were all walking together, five women on this girl’s trip, in Sorrento, looking for a particular restaurant that we had been told about. We kept walking and kept walking, realizing we were going in circles and not having much luck with the street signs. Again, hunger dictated that it was time to stop, and fortuitously a gentleman called to us to eat at his ristorante, as they often do. He invited us in and seated us at a table on the stone-paved patio among the baskets of geraniums. We were all feeling light-hearted and ready for a glass of wine. Because we were Americans we attracted a bit of attention. The singer from inside came out to serenade us with the few American songs he knew. He brought tambourines to us and we joined him in singing Bon Jovi and a few other songs in his butchered English. It was great fun. We stayed and sang and drank wine and laughed with all the people around us. We had created a party – and it got better from there.
My friend told the owner it was my birthday and asked if they could do something special for me. They brought us a dessert and the singer sang “Sweet Home Alabama” – which for Alabamians is an anthem and a party song at the same time and calls for immediate dancing with clapping and the loudest of singing. We all jumped up to dance, and so did others at this little restaurant, in this little town. I have no doubt we had more fun at that little restaurant than we would have had at the one we were looking for. That impromptu and spontaneous party was one of my favorite memories of our trip!
Being lost, as my friend often remarks, leaves you open to new possibilities and the unknown. It’s the best place for growth and adventure. It 100% helps that she doesn’t know a stranger. She is friends with everyone she meets and has a way of creating something out of nothing because of her gregarious and friendly demeanor. Being lost, in her eyes, is an opportunity to make new connections and reinforce the notion that we have more in common with each other than we have differences.
She has taught me the profound joy of being lost.