I turned another corner, onto another cobblestone street with yet another beautiful old bicycle standing next to yet another lovely old door with a flower box full of glorious geraniums in the window and laundry overhead and it was official: I was lost.  It was the first time I cursed a city for having charm—with all the tiny streets that looked oh-so-charmingly identical, I had taken what seemed to be every wrong turn one could possibly take in Rome and, late for a meeting with a woman who had worked on the costumes for a number of Fellini movies, had meandered myself into a dead end and not to the cafe she had appointed for our little chat.  Though she gave her directions in a choppy mix of Italian, English and French, I  was sure, in my infinitely self-confident way, that my sharpened skills as a world traveler and impeccable sense of direction, coupled with my previously-useless years of Latin, would compensate for whatever my lack of Italian missed. Eschewing looking like a tourist at all cost, right down to the impractical heels on cobbled stone streets, I prided myself in being able to negotiate foreign cities just like a local. But from my dead-end surroundings I ascertained that I was wrong on all accounts but one: all those years of high school Latin were, in fact, a waste of time.

Finally admitting defeat, and realizing no one was close enough to see me resort to a tourist move, I extracted my worn, likely outdated map from my bag and consulted it.  I couldn't even figure out where I was, let alone where I needed to be.  Knowing my opportunity to meet a fashion maven of the past was sliding away by the second, and feeling utterly hopeless, I leaned, face first, on the old door trying to retrace my steps back to where I took what seemed to be the first wrong turn.  

"Excuuuusee me," a voice—a thickly accented Southern American voice—came from behind me. I turned.  There in the alleyway stood the paragon of the American tourist I had been trying to avoid: a tall, rotund man with a baby face wearing a software company embroidered Hawaiian shirt tucked into too short khaki shorts, big sunglasses and, yes, a fanny pack. This day just couldn't get any better, could it? "Excuussse me," he repeated, in what I sensed was his South Carolina drawl, "do you know how to get to the ba-sil-i-ca?" he said, slowly and just slightly louder than what I assumed was his normally loud voice with hand gestures to indicate a biiiig building.   What, did he think I lived in this little forsaken alley? That I was Italian?  

I was about to tell him, look, buddy, I'm just as lost as you are, go ask your hotel concierge for help or something, but I stopped myself.  "Basilica?" I said, with my most convincing Italian lilt.  Gesturing wildly I started indicating a complicated street path while reciting the lyrics to the first Giordani aria I ever learned.  "Caro mio ben, credimi almen, senza di te languish il cor!  Cessa crudel tanto rigor…" He nodded, and mimed the hand gestures back to himself.  Out of lyrics, I said in my adopted accent, "Come with me, I show you first turn."  We walked to the end of the alley and I pointed down another side street.   "Graaazi!" he drawled as he lumbered off to get himself lost again.  

I turned the opposite way, off to get myself lost again, when I caught a glimpse of a street sign a few narrow streets away—the street I had been searching for.  Rushing as fast as my heels would let me, I made the corner at a trot, just in time to see a little gray haired Italian woman in a beautiful summer suit set a handful of coins on her outdoor cafe table, pull her gloves back on, and leave….