By: Lauren Foster
A gulp of scorching hot coffee slides down my throat as I wander down the street, glancing behind me for the third time. I’m lost, again. Somewhere north of The Kremlin, I haven’t recognized a street name in about twenty minutes, and the shop down the road looks like the one I passed a few minutes ago.
I am completely lost.
An old man looking no less than 80 years old briskly overtakes me, his cane tapping quicker than my feet have in hours, and I can hear the distant chime of an old clocktower somewhere behind me. I resist the urge to pull out the map from my pocket, confirming my status as helpless tourist and exposing my vulnerability in this city that is not my own.
The street in front of me is bustling with people walking confidently this way and that, with places to be and people to speak to. A mother pulls her jacket-swathed son towards the market, a couple holding hands and speaking in hushed tones, their breath creating wisps of white in the brisk air.
I turn left into a road just as busy as the last, with twinkling lights criss-crossing the sky. I don’t recognize anything here, either.
The snow falls a bit harder. I smile. I am utterly, absolutely lost, and I couldn’t be happier.