Randa just wanted to lay down and sleep in the fields, Meredith kept consulting the map and Pippa held her cell phone in the air like a flag of surrender as she vainly sought a signal. I, however, simply resolved to never, ever trust those sneaky Italian tourist agents again. Well, that and to never trust my own translating skills. We were woefully, sadly lost, a sweat-stained crew of American girls trying to find our way to a bus stop in some town called Panzoa.

We had planned a leisurely afternoon hike, but a few wrong turns toward the bus stop in the elusive town lengthened the journey to more than 20 miles. By the time evening fell, we didn’t even care that we had no clue where we where going, because the unbelievable scenery and the motivation of each other’s bad jokes still made the whole hike so much fun. We never found Panzoa, but with a little help from two Luna bars and a nice Swiss shoemaker with a beat-up VW, we ended up where we needed to be.

Georgetown’s been like that for me – one long, confused wandering with scrambled directions. I wish I had one seminal story, one moment of clear self-realization to define these four years. But it’s never been that neat for me. Instead, I just sort of stumbled through, forever wondering if I am heading the way I should. But somehow, my college life has always worked out right – even without the help of those loveable Swiss.

For instance, I was lucky to get badly lost looking for a major. A meeting with my freshman year theology professor detoured me from my goal of a business school degree followed by high-powered executive domination. Instead of talking about my paper as planned, we talked about how discontent I was with a life of balance sheets and calculators. By the end of the week, I filled out the inter-school transfer forms and started checking out courses for an English major.

I also got turned around and delayed in the firetrap of Leavey 421, otherwise known as THE HOYA. One compliment from an editor hooked me as a writer, but I vowed never to get sucked in and become one of those dorks that spent all night in the office. A painfully long election night – plus too much hard lemonade – threw me off that course sophomore year, when I became one of those dorks as a Senior GUIDE Editor.

And a misstep on my path quite literally landed me my job, as the Uncommon Grounds application essay I penned about my most brilliant trip yet (down all the Union Station stairs, followed by clapping from a platoon of marines in full dress uniform watching from below) somehow caught the manager’s attention. Soon, I traded my more lucrative work-study job in admissions for a barista gig.

I was working there a few months ago when that same freshman year theology professor came and asked me if I regret it, the change I had made. I’m more used to the simple “whole or skim?” questions, not these intense self-reflection types, so it took some thought.

Well, I guess I could have been a good accountant, but I also would have been an unhappy one. Those HOYA dorks turned out to be a wonderfully talented and dedicated group – and some of my best friends here. Editing THE GUIDE took all my free time and my sleep, but it also brought me the joys of impromptu midnight field trips for “hot” photos, subtly replacing Springsteen with my own more obnoxious picks on the back room stereo and full exposure to the amazing, often-underappreciated arts scene on campus.

And while nearly any other job would have brought more money, my caffeine-happy co-workers at UG offered even more valuable benefits. They became a wonderful (if mildly dysfunctional) family, offering everything from extra espresso during those first long GUIDE nights to joking promises that they would “accidentally” scald Evil Boys with coffee to the three years of vital Monday night spiked-sodas-and-therapy sessions.

So I know by now that getting lost has been the best luck I have had. Even my closest crew, my girls from the Village A years, was a find I made while feeling absolutely, bewilderingly lost freshman year.

You would think this history would leave me more composed about the fact that I still don’t know where I’m going. It doesn’t. I’ve got a journalism job lined up for the next three months, then I’m plan-less yet again, and that’s still scary. No zen-like-calm senior here. I’m shaking. I’m frantic. But regret it? Not a minute. Without all the confusion, the turn-arounds, I would have never had such a beautiful trip.

Robyn Russo is a senior in the college and is a former Senior GUIDE Editor, Associate Editor and member of THE HOYA’s Editorial Board.