I have the worst sense of direction. When I’m in my teens and people offer to drop me off at home, little do they know they’re in for a long ride. Literally. We go around in circles trying to figure out where I live because that’s how spatially remedial I am, and I get clowned for it.

This is in sharp contrast to my older sister, who only has to be taken somewhere once to know how to get there.

Now, years later, biking has certainly helped me navigate the city better, but I still rely heavily on my phone’s GPS to get around.

I have a friend who’s confident enough to forego using her phone at all. She looks at landmarks and uses a compass instead. Maybe I’ll take it a step further and buy an actual, gulp, paper map.

It will force me to create a mental picture of an area and make spatial calculations of my surroundings.

I think about those Arctic explorers from the 1800s who practically volunteer (!!??!) to go on expeditions. I recall that one ad searching for men in England reads something like, “pay: very low ; chance of death: very high”.

And the boys are still game.

Maybe the appeal isn’t just the chance to flirt with death but also the chance to venture into the completely unseen and unknown. So unknown that they have to create their own maps while traveling.

Now, of course, we’ve got the world mostly figured out and there are so many technological nets to prevent us from getting lost. Sure, my GPS has led me astray more than once, but at least it usually gets me to where I need to be.

Usually.

One summer, I take myself on a mini bike road trip to a beach in Hull, MA, which is about two and a half hours each way. Armed with my backpack, phone, and a printout of directions in case it dies on the way back, I head out.

It’s the riskiest (stupidest) trip I ever make by bike. Veer onto the highway, Google Maps instructs, and, of course, I do, at least for a short portion of the trip (apparently, I haven’t yet figured out that I can set it to “avoid highways.”) Strange, not a single driver honks at me. Later, a friend of mine says, “They probably just thought you were crazy.”

As I anticipate, my phone dies on the way back, although I’ve already stopped at a coffee shop to recharge it. In hindsight, I’m about ten minutes away from home when it poops out. Then it dawns on me that my printout of directions is useless if I can’t even get my bearings.

My surroundings are familiar, but it’s the spatial equivalent of having a word on the tip of your tongue and struggling to grasp it. I know I’m so close. Yet, so far away. Which way? This way? That way? What if I just…just go for it? And so I do. Little by little, more streets become familiar until I finally make my way home.

My usual goal isn’t to wander about aimlessly, but if I plan on eventually using paper maps, maybe I ought to get very comfortable with the idea of not knowing exactly where I’m going.

Some years after my bike trip to Hull, I learn about flâneurs. Perhaps if I adopt their outlook…, I begin to tell myself.

“Flâneur derives from the Old Norse verb flana, ‘to wander with no purpose.^[2]’” So, the Frenchified verb, flâneuring, implies a leisurely, aimless walk.

Between 1853 and 1870, French official Georges-Eugène Haussmann, under the direction of Emperor Napoleon III, oversees the renovation of Paris. Among other projects, Haussmann manages the development of parks and public works. The practice of flâneuring thus begins in the city in the mid-19th century, amid rapid modernization and industrialization.

Without Haussmann’s infrastructural changes to the city, the flâneur might never come to be.

Broad avenues support new spatial experiences (strolling, commerce, social observation).

Put bluntly, the flâneur is a byproduct of modern urban planning.

And flâneur is a masculine noun for good reason, as it’s a practice that emerges among bourgeois, leisure-class men in Paris.

At the time, a woman wandering alone aimlessly would have been considered lower class and could have easily been mistaken for a prostitute.

The flâneurs who stand out are often dandies…well-groomed, urbane, and meticulously dressed men typically described as effeminate. They have time on their hands to wander, and they are going to look good doing it.

Dandies often wear impeccably tailored suits and don “vivid colors…” They are “brazen and bold” and they seek “difficulties with a determined desire to shock…”

I’ll add that a neat walking stick is probably de rigueur.

Of course, you don’t have to dress to the nines like the dandies of yore to go flâneuring. My advice is to wear comfortable, nondescript clothes, sneakers, or shoes with padding. There’s no point in sticking out if your goal is to explore in peace.

The whole point of flâneuring is to leisurely explore a city without aim. At its core, it’s about surrender. Surrendering control and letting your instincts and fate take you wherever they may. It’s about roaming through unfamiliar mazes of streets, letting all your five senses be engaged, stumbling upon hidden gems, staying open to chance encounters with new people, getting lost on purpose, trusting you’ll eventually make it home again.

In a week, I’m headed to Italy and possibly France. Yes, I'm planning to go flâneuring in one of the new cities I visit. If I feel lost, I’ll stay calm, and try channeling the inner peace of a wandering dandy.

(Or maybe I’ll just whip out my phone and let it lead the way.)