Getting Lost in Order to Be Found

Never be scared to be lost in a new city, sometimes you have to be lost to be found.  On the first day in each new place I have visited I have had to get my bearings which usually involves getting lost in order to be found.  This summer proved no different.  In fact, the pressure and responsibility of having more people with me may have even made it occur more often.  Or, at least, I noticed it more. I did let the kids know that it wasn't a big deal to get lost in a new place and that sometimes by getting lost you really were being found.  What follows is a few stories of our lost moments and those moments when we were found.

In Rome on our first day we took a bus into the city from the camp.  The first bus took us to the depot area. We had to get off that bus and embark on another to actually get us where we wanted to go, the Colosseum.  I asked using my Italian which bus we needed.  We received what I thought were great instructions and off we went down the road to catch that bus.  We needed the 46 bus. We did pass by a Metro station but the bus, according to those at the camp, was easier.  We waited for the bus and in no short time along it came.  We climbed aboard and were on our first adventure.  This bus wound through neighborhood after neighborhood, up and down the hills of Rome, letting off and on passengers with their bags from the market, or an occasional businessman heading home for lunch.  Finally we arrived at yet another depot. I was confused as we departed because I didn't recognize the surroundings but I figured the center of Rome could be close by.  We exited and climbed a nearby hill.  I thought if I looked out I could surely figure out how close we were to our destination.  No such luck.  We had been misled.  We were near a hospital but nothing else.  I went to a nearby coffee stand and once again asked for help.  My Italian was not good enough for the woman behind the counter.  She and I could understand a little of each other but not enough.  She enlisted the help of another man.  His English was as good as my Italian and between the three of us and one more bystander we figured out that there were two number 46 buses and we had boarded the wrong one, of course.  We needed to get back on another bus and return to our place of departure.  With many thanks I left and gathered the children and went back to the terminal.  We climbed aboard another bus and sure enough actually made it to the center of Rome. We were found.  Once in the center of Rome I had no problems finding all of the places we wanted to visit and getting home that night was easy because we had been lost to begin with.  We knew all the wrong roads and buses.

And then there was Florence.  When we made it to Florence via train I had directions in my hand, written in English, on how to get to the camp plus I had been to Florence before.  This should have been easy but of course it was not.  We left the station and crossed the street to the bus station that was in front of the McDonald's, just as the directions instructed.  We kept waiting and looking for the right bus number.  This time we needed the number 12.  We waited, and melted in the heat of Florence but no bus 12 came along.  I asked everyone to keep their eyes open at each of the bus stops, the ones across the street and in front of the train station and to be looking for that bus number.  We stood for along time before I was finally able to ask a bus driver who was not immediately departing.  Sure enough we needed to be across the street.  As soon as I got that answer, Max piped up, "I saw that bus on the other side."  Really! We trucked our luggage back across the street and boarded the bus.  This bus ride was an adventure of its own and more like a carnival ride than a city bus ride.  The driver loved weaving through traffic at breakneck speed.  Our balance was challenged with every turn especially considering we each had some rolling luggage that didn't want to stay put.  At the top of the hill we departed looking for the camp which of course had no signs marking it.  When I called the camp to ask for further instructions they asked which way was the bus going when I got off.  Seriously, I had just explained I came up from the train terminal but whatever.  It took a few more minutes to find the unmarked entrance and check in.  We were found. Found by the beautiful olive grove camp that would be our home for four days.

 The only other time in Florence when we needed to be found was when we were looking for the synagogue.  The signs in Italy are sometimes very unhelpful.  They will point in one direction but really they mean a different direction.  We gave up on the synagogue and I had to find it when I returned later in the summer. Before we departed the first time I took a mental picture in my mind from above Florence so that I knew which direction to head it when looking. Found.

And then there was that moment when we were driving out of Florence headed to the north.  It was pouring down rain and I followed the directions I was given exactly, since all the GPS devices were checked out, only to be taken to a parking lot behind the train station, not helpful when you are trying to get out of the city. It was pouring down rain and now I had to turn around.  This should have been easy.  I learned to drive on a manual.  I kept pushing down as hard as I could and back trying to get it to slip into the reverse spot.  It would not go.  How was I going to turn this car?  I did briefly consider getting out and pushing but just then like magic it went in.  Unfortunately, I had no idea until more attempts how it had managed to go in.   I left the parking lot and found my way around the train station eventually and then out of the city with only one red light run and minimal honking from other drivers.

The highway would be the next questionable moment. We drove north to Ravenna following the signs until suddenly there were signs to the right on the other road.  The highway had divided some miles back.  There were four lanes, a barrier and two more lanes.  We were in the four in the middle. I spotted the signs in the two lane area and panicked. Again we were without a GPS so as soon as I saw those signs I figured we had made a wrong lane choice.  We exited the freeway and turned around.  When I got to the poll booth I asked about going to Ravenna.  He said to turn around again, of course.  There were two ways and the way I had originally chosen would be the quickest.  We turned back around and made it to Ravenna but the journey was not over.  We had to get to our hotel which was on the beach.  We drove around and around, surprising, and couldn't find it, one roundabout after another, my head circling.  This was a little beach town how hard could it be?  Again, the rain dumped in buckets perhaps obscuring our sight.   I had to call the booking company for the hotel and ask for directions.  He used google maps to get me to the right place. Found again and now we knew the route to the beach and the market.

As I was driving again to Venice or really a town outside of Venice, I kept receiving text messages from the landlord we would be renting an apartment from.  We are driving this beautiful two lane road along the coast, past large, deep rivers, enormous farms and little villages.  I am loving every minute but his texts are telling me I should have taken the freeway.  This road would take too long, in his words.  But I contentedly stopped at a roadside farm and picked up fruit.  The old lady at the stand was helpful and sweet and had obviously lovingly grown the produce right behind the stand on her farm.  Our journey was taking  longer than I expected but that is what makes it a journey and not a trip.  When we began to close in on our destination I tried to contact the owner for more clear directions to get right to the apartment.  He does not respond.  I do my best, again, with the written directions.  This town is plagued by both canals, complete with one way streets on each side and roundabouts.  I found a pizzeria that was open and asked again for help.  They were able to give us great directions and we made it in no time.  The apartment was spacious for a one-bedroom and perfectly suited to our needs.  We unloaded and headed to the Venice airport to take the car back.  We would be visiting Venice for the first time this afternoon.

In Venice we didn't get lost but maybe that was because after one time through we were strategizing ways to avoid it altogether. More on that in another blog.

Berlin was next and there was no way in a city of 3.5 million and 7 Holiday Inns there could be any hope that we would arrive at the correct one the first time but we sure tried.  The problem with Berlin was that by this time we had lost, even though Greta and I both had copies, our documents with confirmations and reservation information. In Venice we had no internet access or phone service so we couldn't retrieve the stuff before we left.  I was using my memory, you know the one that had made reservations in 7 towns over the course of 7 months, to navigate us to the correct Holiday Inn.  Berlin Mitte sounded really familiar and so that is where we headed.  As the rain trickled down on the dark streets of Berlin we drug our suitcases past a bar showing the Germany World Cup game, which we would see later, and into the lobby of said Holiday Inn.  Unfortunately, it was the wrong one.  As Greta texted Danielle and Paul, the other two people who had copies of everything, I used my German that I learned when I was between the ages of 16-19 to ask the front desk if they could possibly call the other Holiday Inns and find our reservation.  Graciously they did and put us back on the right train headed in the right direction.  Now we had walked the streets of Berlin at night, used the train and the subway and were ready for anything that came our way.  Lost and then found again.

Hamburg may be my favorite lost story.  It may take me until eternity to find out if it was an angel or the devil that led us to our hotel but we did arrive safely so I am leaning towards angel.  We had walked off the bus and this time again had directions in hand.  At the hotel in Berlin I had reliable internet and could retrieve our needed itinerary. We followed the directions looking for a particular street.  I was not finding it so I asked a German couple with a map.  The street we were looking for was not on their map and so they left and we continued walking. I saw a gigantic lit up city map across the street and it was as Max and I were deeply examining and had just found our location that a man swooped in behind us and asked if we needed help.  I explained we thought we had it but he insisted on helping and so I showed him our hotel address.  He looked at me and said it was a long ways away, a mile and a half.  He obviously didn't know who he was addressing and so I explained we were not afraid of walking.  He told us he would take us part of the way until he was sure we would be on the right track since it was in the same direction he was heading.  As we walked he told me his life story which I am saving for another blog.  At the crucial junction he left us and we were reading the numbers of the addresses and knew we were close when he suddenly appeared again.  This time I emphatically said we were fine and not lost and told the kids to walk as quickly as possible for the next block and a half until we went through the doors of the hotel. Good Samaritan? I am still not sure. When I write my blog about him you can decide.  Hamburg the next day was a breeze because we had walked, observed and taken in what we needed to in order to be found again.

Getting lost is not so scary if you have the right perspective. The key to being lost is in the observation.  What did you learn, what did you see and where did you go?  This makes getting lost really just you finding your way and therefore being found.

The lost Synagogue 

Hamburg

The olive grove camp and view

Mira and one of it's many canals

Berlin from above