ciao david, mi chiamo katlyn

The first time I saw Michelangelo’s statue of David, I thought I was going to cry. Rows of Michelangelo’s Prisoner sculptures line either side of the pathway to the David—incomplete figures not quite freed from their marble prisons framing the way forward to a singular, perfect masterpiece. Once I arrived at the feet of the David, the silence that encapsulated me as my eyes traced along every detail coated my skin with a layer of fresh goosebumps. I was surrounded by classmates who disappeared into the background as I fought to memorize each curl of his hair and vein in his hand. This is the sculpture that stood for a city: David is shown in a moment between thought and action before his battle with Goliath, depicted in the style of ancient Greek heroes as a strong man. His colossal frame was chosen to represent the Florentine Republic, a symbol older than my own country.

Every moment of my six weeks in Florence was one of complete sensory overload; even the sandwiches were somehow infinitely more sensational. My moment with David was a quiet one toward the end of the trip, and begged me to pause and truly reflect upon all I had experienced. How do you sum up a city with so much beauty, so much history… a city which had allowed me to walk along the same streets as Michelangelo and Donatello, Dante and Machiavelli?  In the Accadamia, Michelangelo did this neatly for me in one magnificent sculpture—I guess that’s why they call him a genius. The beauty, solidarity, power, history, and cultural richness of Florence were all things I saw and felt anew as David stood thoughtfully in front of me.

Surrounding the David, Michelangelo’s Prisoners gave me a rare look into the moments leading up to the polish of a finished product; their figures betrayed glimpses into each chisel mark as they struggled out of their marble blocks. It was almost as if I was reading the artist’s diary, allowed to peek into a thought process never quite finished. Setting eyes upon a masterpiece like the David, it seems as if the artist himself is somehow a few steps above human, a few steps below God. The prisoners reminded me that even an artist as great as Michelangelo begins by staring at a block of untouched marble—maybe he, too, experienced moments of “artist’s block,” moments where he questioned himself like I sometimes do when faced with a blank page. The juxtaposition of work-in-progress and finished product humanized Michelangelo for me for the first time, giving me pause to contemplate a creative process I had never fully considered.

Studying great artists of the Renaissance like Michelangelo in the very place where they created their masterpieces opened my eyes to a completely different Italy than the pasta-rich wonderland I had always imagined it to be. I definitely ate a lot of pasta, but Italy is so much more than her food, drink, and incredible shoes. My month and a half abroad brought me into the company of men I had once held at arm’s length, men like Michelangelo who used their gifts to affect change and inspire their communities. As a woman whose gift has always been to write, this inspired me to give as much of myself as possible to everything I do in order to leave my own impact on the world. The world left behind by the artists before me was there waiting for me before I even boarded the plane, and continues to be a place I turn to as I move forward, back on familiar soil.

Going abroad left my comfort zone thousands of miles away, and that was certainly intimidating. I have never been as self-conscious as I was in the moment when I had to hail a taxi from the airport; I could not remember anything more than “Ciao” from the Italian I’d spent the past year studying. Take away your native language, and you take away the fundamental way you communicate. Connecting with the people around you suddenly feels impossible and an infinite number of questions raced through my brain during the long ten minutes from the airport to my host family’s house. “Was this the right decision?” “Am I going to look like a complete idiot?” “What if I fail my classes?” “What if all I can ever say is ‘ciao’??” For the first time, I was the foreign exchange student, dazzled by the Italian skyline and tongue-tied by a language I was still working to master. The second I stepped foot into the apartment of my host family, I was greeted by two adorable dogs and a warm-hearted Italian family. The first words out of my host mom’s mouth were, “Oh, you must be hungry!” A plate of cheese and bread later, I somehow became a little more comfortable as I got to know Olivia and her three children Cosimo, Anastasia, and Brando.

In the days to come, I slowly recalled all the other words that had somehow slipped my mind during that first taxi ride—“Ciao, mi chiamo Katlyn,” “Buongiorno, vorrei un biscotto per favore,” and “Come stai?” came much easier as I fell into my new Italian rhythm. Each night, my roommates and I would wait eagerly for three-year-old Brando to knock on our door and announce “Si mangia!” to let us know it was time for dinner. So many things were different in Florence: cookies for breakfast, later dinners, more Vespas than I could count, and fashion that did not typically include sweatshirts or shorts. When I look back on my time there, however, I see more of what was the same: eagerness for summer vacation, picky eaters, temporary tattoos, and time spent with family and friends… especially on a sunny summer day.

It doesn’t take much to get wrapped up in the newness of a place foreign to you—mastering the nuances of the language, tasting as much food as possible, and trying to see everything possible while you’ve got the chance. So much of my time in Florence felt like it was put on fast-forward to pack in as much experience as possible in the short six weeks I had to experience it. The moments I remember most, though, are the quiet moments like my moment with David. The moments that begged me to slow down and really take the chance to see what was in front of me, to connect with the history left at my fingertips, and to share in all that was left to be shared. Regardless of language, age, gender, or anything else that seems to separate us, those are the moments that remind us that we are human and all that we are able to achieve.