I woke up the next morning more excited about the Moka pot than is reasonable for an adult. Our first morning in Florence certainly warranted its use. The pot travelled a full 4,927 miles from St. Louis, Mo to Florence, Italy. Such a feat deserved a reward, though the credit goes to Alicia for having managed to pack it in her suitcase as only a seasoned traveler could. We finally had access to a stove which meant the Moka pot could live out its destiny. The little stovetop espresso maker was equal parts kitchen gadget and caffeine vehicle. I was equal parts excited and more excited. 

As we sipped our coffee (Moka pots technically don’t produce enough extraction pressure, 900kPa, to be considered espresso), we plotted out our day. At this point in the trip, day 8, we had a rhythm to this process. Each day usually had one planned activity, complete with tickets purchased and tours booked. Another one of Alicia’s brilliances in planning this trip was that each day was assigned one thing and one thing only. There was no pressure to keep our energy up as we went from site to site to site or tour to tour to tour. One thing per day meant we had a reason to get our butts out of bed but allowed flexibility for naptime and exploration and spontaneity and gelato. This is a practice I’ve since adopted in my own travels, particularly the part about gelato. 

This day was all about museums and art. It’s an indisputable legal requirement that one must visit museums when in Florence. Not looking at art in Florence is like going to Disneyland just to check out the gift shop. Save for the Vatican museum, we hadn’t done too much art on the trip thus far. We’re generally more experiential-cooking-class-snorkeling-hike-a-cool-mountain tourists and less of stand-and-look-at-paintings tourists. But, again, the legal mandate of being in Florence meant we were obligated. 

Do you know the phrase, “when in Rome?” Well there should be a phrase, “When in Florence, get your ass to the Uffizi.” That’s where we were headed. Once we were sufficiently breakfasted and Moka potted, we put on human clothes and got out the door. It was a leisurely walk to the Piazza della Signoria, a large city square that once acted as the epicenter of Florentine life. Alicia scouted for the museum entrance while I soaked up as much architecture and people-watching as I could. Maria got distracted by a street artist making bright Florence skylines with thick acrylic paint on 5×7 pieces of glass, a gift she would later treat herself to. 

We nestled ourselves into the will-call line. Once again, Alicia’s planning brilliance meant we could bypass general admission which can sometimes have wait times of 5+ hours. I flipped through our now well-worn travel guide. The Uffizi, aka Galleria degli Uffizi, is one of the largest museums in the world whose buildings were constructed some 450 years ago. As I looked up at the imposing building in front of us, I marveled. The very building that houses some of the greatest masterpieces in human history is nearly twice as old as the country I’m from. It was big in every sense of the word. 

My heart was a little jittery as we walked through the threshold into the main courtyard. “Is all of this a part of the museum?” I asked with dazed amazement. Everything before me was, in fact, part of the museum. The long courtyard was flanked by two equally long buildings. It was almost too much to take in. Unsure of where exactly to start chewing on this thing, we just picked a wing and headed toward it. 

The sheer volume and enormity of the museum and the works that it houses made me feel like a teeny tiny human thing, in the very best way possible. I was humbled and awe-struck by every painting and tapestry and sculpture that my eyes took in. We wandered through room after room, stopping at things that were inspiring and gliding past those that weren’t. After a while I noticed that I oscillated between feeling deeply connected to the art and completely estranged from it. On one hand, these masterpieces were created by human hands, hands very much like mine. Every artist had a life, struggles and joys, that inspired his work (I have to use “his” here because, you know, patriarchy). Every perfectly placed brushstroke came from the mind of a mere mortal. And, yet, I was strolling past the work of Botticelli, da Vinci, Raphael, Rembrandt, and Michelangelo. On the walls, were names that would live on throughout the rest of human history. Centuries separating me from them. This art was of the world to which I belong and, yet, transcended the world to which I belong. 

There are a literal 100 rooms of artwork spanning across 139,000 square feet. There were the biggies: Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, Raphael’s Madonna of the Goldfinch, Titian’s Venus of Urbino, and The Two Wrestlers. There were tiny sculptures, big sculptures. Ornate paintings, simple paintings. Red fish, blue fish. I knew every time I came across an important work because there would be 50 or so people crowded around 6 square feet of floor space. They would (sometimes) politely try not step on each other. It was The Hunger Games of selfies and iPhone videos.

After a while, let’s be generous and say 3 hours, my brain began to crash. I was nearing max capacity on stimulation. Between the walking, the masterpieces, the people, the iPhones, the red fish, the blue fish, and the beauty, I started to go cross-eyed. My body was headed toward shut-down mode. I looked over at Maria and the light behind her eyes was fading. At that very precise moment, we crossed into the next room only to discover that it was the cafeteria! Coincidence? I think not. 

We got a light snack and recaffeinated ourselves. Even Alicia seemed to need a break from all the high art. With pastries in hand, we meandered out to a little balcony attached to the café. The sky was a silly color of blue without a cloud to be found. Little shrubs dotted the walls, adding to the serenity that washed over me. Maybe it was the cappuccino (which was amazing btw, the Italians even have exquisite museum cafeteria coffee) or the nearly 360-degree view of Florence but I felt delectable tranquility running through me. 

Once satiated on the balcony, the three of us agreed that it was time to casually head toward the exit. If some art grabbed our attention, then we’d gaze. If not, we’d keep it moving. We still had to a whole other museum to get to.

Another hour later and we found ourselves back in the Piazza della Signoria. Alicia was getting progressively more excited about our next stop. This was the only day that we had two things planned which she assured us was absolutely critical. I looked at Maria and she resembled a wilted hothouse orchid. I, too, was less excited about another museum but tried to remain positive. Of all the things we’d done in the last 8 days, Alicia talked most about going to the Accademia. Perhaps they’d have another amazing cafeteria. 

As we trekked toward the Galleria dell’Accademia, I flipped through our guide book. “Oh,” I said, “this thing has The David!” A smirk spread across Alicia’s face. My interest piqued a little more as I passed the book over to Maria. It started to make sense why there were Davids everywhere in Florence. It seemed every store, regardless of what they actually sold, had mini-David statues, David t-shirts, David magnets, David coffee mugs, David stationary, David calendars, David fountain pens, David mixing bowls, and David chocolates displayed proudly in their windows. Even the Piazza della Signoria has a replica of The David at the entrance of the Palazzo Vecchio. Dave, it seemed, was a hometown hero. 

And we were about to see him, the real him. 

The Accademia is far more manageable than the Uffizi as far as scope is concerned. They’re known mostly for sculptures, including more pieces by Michelangelo such as his four unfinished Prisoners. We saw his Pietà (different than the one in St. Peter’s Basilica, duh). There is debate whether Michelangelo is the real sculptor, though he gets the credit. The Accademia also has a collection of musical instruments by Stradivarius and Bartolomeo Cristofori, who invented the piano. Those were fun. Whereas the Uffizi feels dark, musty, and historic, the Accademia feels bright, clean, and crisp. White walls and natural light direct your eyes with specificity and intention. We made our way down one last long hallway and turned a corner. I stopped short. A little jolt of lightning went through my system. There he was at the end of the hall. 

I like art. I have an appreciation for it. I can admire the amount of labor, skill, dedication, and craftsmanship necessary to make a thing with your hands. I’d fall into the category of supporter, not lover. Visual art makes me think and has the power to do a light stirring within me. Again, I like it. Theater, film, and music, on the other hand, have been known to grab a hold of my throat, punch me in the gut, make me orgasm, devastate me, make me laugh, and bring me to my knees. I connect to those things in a far more visceral way. That was until I saw David. 

Nothing could have truly prepared me for it. Of course, I knew what he looked like because I’d seen the magnets and mixing bowls my whole lifetime without realizing. Drinking him in with my own eyes, however, was an experience unlike anything I’d known before. It’s a no-brainer why makers of key chains use him as inspiration.

First of all, he’s tall. At 17 feet high, he’s 3x the height of an average American tourist. He stands on an 8ft plinth (podium) making him even taller. He’s naked, a fact I knew cognitively but still seemed to catch me by surprise. Between the Uffizi and the Accademia statues, I’d probably seen 100’s of images of naked people that morning. However, the perfect details, the light pouring in from overhead, and the plinth made his nudity far more graphic, more displayed. My American-bred instincts were to go grab him a robe. 

He was magic. Every single curve, rib, outline, bone, expression, detail, muscle, tendril, and surface was perfect. Not only was he anatomical perfection, as though Michelangelo had enlarged a real human model using 21^st century 3D scanning technology, but it was artistic perfection. Every angle offered a different work of art. Unconsciously I began walking around him. I needed to breathe him in, in every way possible, while still keeping my feet on the ground.

With every different view, I discovered something brand new. It was as though Michelangelo had tucked away little secrets, discoverable only by moving a quarter of an inch in this direction or that. I think I walked around that statue a dozen times and experienced dozens of different statues therein, each one offering up something slightly different than the one before it. His very expression seemed to change, at one moment coy, another suspicious, then cautious. Walking around David, I felt like I was having a conversation with Michelangelo himself, separated only by time and nothing else. It was transcendent. It was profound. At one point I just giggled.  

I couldn’t tell you how long we were there, maybe 20 minutes, maybe 2 hours. Time melted away as we reveled in the glory of this piece of marble. As though by magic, Maria, Alicia, and I all met in the middle of the room. We couldn’t stop saying “wow” to each other but there were no other words or sounds that felt sufficient enough to fill that space. On our way out of the hall, I turned back to give David one more glance, checking to see if there were any last secret whispers he wanted to pass along. 

The rest of the day floated dreamily by. We stopped for a panini and some gelato (obviously) as we strolled back to the apartment for afternoon naps. It was the most blissful kind of tired. The Uffizi and The David forced expansion within me, shifted my bones. My feet ached and my brain felt like jelly, but I was happy all over. Walking along the Arno river while finishing my last bites of pistachio gelato, Alicia and Maria expressed that they were feeling the same. 

Later that night, while getting pizza in the square right outside our apartment, I felt nothing but deep contentment. My soul had never been more at ease than sitting in that Florentine square some 6,187 miles from the place I called home, listening to sounds of babies laughing and a band playing peppy danceable music. People walked by with dogs as a nearby table of teenagers spoke rapid, bubbly, teenager-y Italian. I told Maria and Alicia that I would save our table as they headed to a restaurant window to order our pizza. In that brief moment of aloneness, surrounded by the most familiar of foreign sounds, underneath a starry Italian sky, I’ve never felt closer to god. Maybe it was god. Maybe it was some perfect chemical balance. Maybe it was just the end to a really good day. 

Check out this week’s photo contributors:

David Disponett

Oleg Magni 

Anna Shvets