Although the french word ?fl?ner? is usually translated as ?to loiter about?, this description does not catch the full flavor of the activity. I prefer ? to wander aimlessly?. In order to truly fl'n one must be impervious to the points of the compass, one must blithely ignore all landmarks, and of course one must carry no maps. But above all, one must be alone (more about that later).

Select a city or even a neighborhood totally unfamiliar to you and start walking slowly, stopping often to examine meaningless objects such as blank walls, empty benches, cracked sidewalks, gaping warehouse doors as well as fetching but closed boutiques and restaurants (peering is allowed). You may carry an umbrella but never a camera. If you find that you have walked in a circle and that the items described above are suddenly familiar, be pleased that you have reached the first plateau of the professional fl?neur. If, by chance, you suddenly find yourself in area which teems with backpackers, or Nikon-laden bipeds, just gently veer away and seek more isolated paths or at least paths inhabited by indigenous creatures.

It is of course perfectly acceptable to enter a store, coffee shop, or restaurant but you must never carry away anything from these locales except what is contained in your small intestine. A true flaneur never eats in a restaurant during popular hours. The seasoned fl?neur will wander into an eating establishment preferably between shifts at a time when the staff is in repose, the tables are semi strewn with meal remnants and the kitchen is almost closed. Thus seated by the good graces of the reduced work force, the fl?neur will partake of whatever is available thus not disengaging from the spirit of true happenstance.

And now we come to why solitude is de rigeur when it comes to flaning. Imagine a companion, perhaps delightful in every respect, but nevertheless one with a different stomach and more crucially a different agenda, no doubt the creation of past traumas. Further imagine that when you are in full flaning swing after having trekked circuitously for about two hours, your blood sugar delightfully low, your back slightly aching but nevertheless gently egging you on, visions of sky, facades, gaping gutters, and reflecting puddles swimming somewhat feverishly in your consciousness, you suddenly hear: ?I am hungry!? in a voice suggesting a melange of reproof, whine, and virtual foot stamping. Consider the dreadful follow-up ?I haven't eaten since breakfast!? and finally trumped by ?I'm hypoglycemic, you know?. Contemplating a reply breaks the flaneur's rhythm and basically ruins the day. Even assuming that you have carefully chosen your companion for having a yaaklike ability to forego nourishment for days, you may not have considered the catastrophic possibility that instead of the hunger cry, you may be truly shattered by the demand: ?Where are we anyway??

Plainly, flaning is a solitude endeavor. After an afternoon of delightfully uneventful wending aimlessly through unremembered byways, you can zestfully answer the inevitable question: ?Where have you been?? with a satisfied ?Nowhere?.