Italian
This is the question we instinctively ask someone on the staff when we find ourselves disoriented, a bit lost and confused, inside a large store, a crowded shopping center, or an unfamiliar place with poor signage. The staff member we approach responds, sometimes politely, sometimes less so; in the best case, they accompany us, pointing the way. We trust them, finally spotting that sign that had previously eluded us, and we exit onto the street, safe.
If we were distrustful or simply arrogant, we would do things our own way. Most likely, we would go astray, ending up wandering aimlessly or, worse, heading straight “into the enemy’s mouth.” This is a dynamic that cinema and history have often told us about. In the film Little Big Man, as well as in the historical reality of Little Big Horn (June 25-26, 1876), General Custer turned to his indigenous guide. The scout had pointed out the correct path, but Custer – blinded by prejudice – could not trust a “savage” whom he believed could deceive him. He ended up being massacred along with his men. There is a painting from that era that magnificently reproduces that moment of tragic uncertainty, and it is aptly titled The Query: the question.
Finding a way out, after all, is never easy. In the complexity of life, we are constantly forced to rely on someone who knows more than we do: a doctor, a psychologist, a lawyer, an architect, or simply a sincere friend. Often, we have no choice but to give in to trust.
Yet, here lies a deep dilemma: is it always preferable to continue on a wide, comfortable, and safe road, or is it sometimes necessary to venture into a path whose end is unknown?
When visiting a new place, sometimes the best approach is to deliberately get lost. It’s the experience of someone who enters a bookstore to buy a specific book and ends up leaving with another, discovered by chance, which turns out to be much more interesting. The advice for the “DIY tourist” is just this: let go, abandon the destination, and discover with curiosity what lies outside the standard cultural circuits. If you are lucky, you will hold unique details in your hands, capable of helping you truly understand where you are and what that unknown place has to tell you.
In the end, it worked the same way for Christopher Columbus: he was looking for the Indies and discovered America. It takes courage to do it; you start with a precise plan, but you learn to be satisfied – and to marvel – at what you have discovered along the way.
In the face of the dramas of existence, whether they are the result of fate or our wrong choices, doubt returns. One can’t help but think, with a touch of bitter irony, that perhaps the Eternal Father would have done well to rest one more day before deciding to create Man. From the boundless grandeur of the universe emerges this tiny being: fragile and fearful, or arrogant and enterprising, but nonetheless destined to burn out in a few years and not always gloriously.
Yet, within this contrast lies a profound meaning. The monumental monstrosity of celestial bodies clashes and confronts the intrinsic beauty of this small, intelligent, and curious being. Classical mythology itself shows us this transition: from the era of Saturn, who fathered monstrous and psychopathic children, we move to the reign of Jupiter, who organizes human relationships and projects them into the sky in the form of constellations and fixed stars, born to orient space and time.
In this immense theater, the God made Man remains the great marvel of creation. Lost in our vast earthly warehouse, we need only to rediscover the humility of our gaze: if we turn to Him, He will know how to show us the Way.
