David

After a week of constant conversation, cordiality, and hand shaking, I decided that the best way to wrap up a week in Italy would be to go to Florence and stare at Michelangelo's Statue of David.  I woke up early, bought a train ticket, and pressed my face against the window at the passing Apennine Mountains wrapped in fog.  The ride only took 58 minutes, and, camera in hand, I was ready to take on a new city.  Following the narrow cobblestone streets, I dodged groups of high-schoolers, dog shit, and Vespas, before coming upon the very average-looking Gallery of the Academy.  Surprised that this ordinary building could hold such an extraordinary naked man, I took my place in the winding line outside.  

"I think mint gelato is my favorite," said a tinny female voice behind me.

"What do you think would happen if you only ate gelato for, like, 2 days straight?" replied her tucked-in polo shirt-wearing companion.  

Though it's been almost four years since I studied abroad myself, I can remember exactly this type of conversation.  It was the kind that you were forced to have whether you liked the person next to you or not, waiting in line for an hour to see a monument that is mandatory on the lists of all Western European travelers.  I tried, to no avail, to tune out the potential lovers and opened my book.  

"Who do you think the most attractive male actor over 50 is?"

"George Clooney by far.  How old do you think he is?"

"Maybe 57."

"That pigeon's going to poop on you."  

"I hate birds."

"I have a bird."

"Oh."

"It got stuck inside my dog's mouth once."

"HAHAHAHA"

"It was really traumatic for her."

-long, awkward pause-

"I think Guinness is my favorite beer."

"I think it tastes like coffee."

"It's crazy to think we only have 40 days left."

"I know, it's gone by really fast."

"Crazy."

"Crazy."

Crazy was where I was well on my way to going as I listened to this endless, awkward conversation.  Finally, the line started to move towards the entrance and I grew excited at the thought that I was finally going to see this statue of so-called perfection.  When I approached the ticket booth, the woman asked for 7 Euro.  I told her I didn't have cash, and she told me to go around the corner to the ATM.  This ATM, and any other cash machine, apparently didn't exist in the Galleria neighborhood.  As I searched, I  wondered why it was so important for me to see this statue, how it would benefit me, and whether it was worth standing in another line with obnoxiously awkward American tourists spitting bits of ice cream at my neck as they exchanged exaggerated stories and cliches.  So I took a picture of the Statue of David postcards at a little stand outside the entrance and felt quite satisfied.

Throughout my wanderings and ramblings the rest of the day, I realized that the streets and piazzas of Florence are replete with outdoor statues of muscular, uncircumcised men with bulging scrotums, so I really felt like I hadn't missed out on anything.