Treasure Hunting

Note: This story from my first trip to Florence last spring is an exaggerated version for a creative writing assignment

“We should go there,” she said. My friend pointed to a restaurant on the screen of her computer as I quickly scanned my packing list one more time. Never one to pass up the opportunity for good Italian food, I wrote the name down on my note pad. Number six on my Florence to do list: “Find delicious and authentic Italian food.” The website, some woman’s personal travel log, gave a general sense of where the trattoria could be found, but mostly consisted of a detailed description of the fresh pasta.
Not being aware of Florence’s maze of streets, we ignorantly assumed that the name of our goal would be enough. Two nights after our arrival we followed the “directions” and found ourselves in some unrecognizable part of the city. Once I realized we were truly lost, I struggled to keep a light conversation going. It wasn’t working. Flustered, pulling my too thin, but very fashionable green shawl around my shoulders, and looking anxiously around every corner. My encouraging words of, “I’m sure it’ll just be up here,” fell flat as the twisting allies only led us to more unknown streets and dead ends. The sliver of a moon was hiding behind ominous looking rain clouds and the darkness only made our search more urgent. Maybe the next street, or the next, or the next…
Hungry, chilled by a March breeze, and upset at some nameless person, we were wondering if this place even existed. The map in my hand was useless; we had no idea where we were going. A group of friends who were traveling with us had tagged along because they too wanted this fantastic meal I had promised to find. Discontent joined the icy and unfamiliar darkness as our quest was proving fruitless. And then, of course, it started to rain. One by one, our group was thinning. My composure also was thinning, but no way had I just wandered around for over an hour in Florence, Italy to settle for a slice of old pizza for six euros.
I had come to Italy to find something and was certain this elusive trattoria would be the answer. I would not be defeated by the city and succumb to the English menus and smiling waiters. My success was rooted in something deeper than simply finding a meal. I could do that at any of the many pizzerias we had passed along the way. I needed proof Florence, the one with “real” Italian food and charm, the Florence that existed in my mind was real. It was more than a hunger. I needed to find this place.
My friends had all given up on me and my faith the trattoria would ever be found. I stood alone on the wet cobblestone and watched them crowd into a small sandwich shop. I knew I was being childish and I knew I couldn’t continue my search alone, but I couldn’t make myself go in. I had set out to find my perfect Italian meal and I would not give up. I couldn’t go in. I almost cried, standing there, shivering and only imagining how ridiculous and stubborn I looked. My friend, the one who had originally set out on this quest with me, came out, put her gloved hand in mine and said, “Let’s go.” I promised, 10 more minutes. 10 minutes and then I would give up. In 10 minutes I would happily eat the sandwich and not complain a bit. I promised. Only 10 minutes.
We started walking and less than thirty yards away was an ally and down the ally was the sign we had been looking for all night. Right there, waiting for us. We ran back to tell everyone we had found it. Everyone, those who were left, all agreed that after a night of searching it would be silly not to at least eat something there.
Wind blown, wet, and exhausted; we piled in to find a table set exactly for six, like they knew we were coming all along. We shed our coats and shawls, finally comfortable for the first time since we had set out from the hotel. The tension and chill that had held us finally began to loosen as tantalizing, savory scents confirmed that we had in fact found it. Fat, cream colored candles on the tables cast a warm luminescence and everyone began to soften in the gentle light. Like treasure hunters who had discovered a rumored map, we saw that simple one page menus marked the spot. Soon our precious treasure was laid before us. Our jewels: each bite of bread, thick hot soup, delicately flavored gnocchi and fresh tortellini, every new course that confirmed that yes, we had found “the meal.” Everyone sharing and passing, the “yours and mine” concept left on the cobblestone with the bikes outside. Eventually, three hours later, after plenty of laughing, wine, and everything else that the palate desires when in Italy, we were ready to face the streets of Florence again.
Florence offered me a lesson in patience. Too often my expedient, to go, American brain, wants it now and it wants it as simple as a drive through window or a highway sign saying turn here for the best potpie in Missouri. I have learned that sometimes you must wait and around the last ally, you will see that dimly glowing sign that lets you know that “it”, whatever “it” means to travelers everywhere, still exists. And when you are hungry and tired and ready to go home, what you need most is there.
Sitting around the table, everyone warm, full, happy and forgiving me for dragging them around endlessly on my seemingly futile search agreed that it was well worth it. I hadn’t failed them and the city I would soon return to hadn’t failed me. My faith boiled down to something deeper than just wanting a good meal. My desire to believe that the Florence in my books and that the city I dreamt about was more than merely an illusion or artificial scene constructed for a post card drove me forward. Was Florence what I expected? No. But the trattoria was a simple confirmation that somewhere in the twisting, misunderstood, and confusing city, what I searched for was somewhere. I just had to look.
I’ve come back and still the trattoria eludes me. I remember the general area, but the light of day and masses of tourists disorient me. I have lost it again, but I have hope knowing that it is somewhere. Just when I have given up on Florence, it will remind me why I came back. Why people continue to come back, when there are so many other places in the world. Florence is old; you must be patient and gentle with her and not give up too quickly. She might surprise you.
As travelers, we leave home looking for something we only dream about, whether it be seeking the perfect meal, someone, a dream, a desire, or perhaps ourselves. Travel isn’t always about finding something on a map and following the directions of those who have gone before. The wanderer is privy to many of the world’s secrets that aren’t typed up on a well organized itinerary and if we only slow down, we will remember why as a traveler we have gone so far from home and maybe, just maybe we will find what we were looking for.