I remember being fourteen, seated in a classroom that smelled faintly of chalk
and humidity, listening to a history lesson about the Renaissance, the
so‑called rebirth of the world. It sounded grand, almost theatrical. Names
like Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael, Sandro Botticelli, the Medici,
and Caravaggio were spoken with a kind of reverence usually reserved for
saints or national heroes. Italy, we were told, had once erupted with art and
intellect, as if the entire peninsula had collectively decided to outdo
itself.
At fourteen, I believed it. At my age now, I wanted to see if it still held
up.
Twenty‑two years later, I got the chance to fly to Italy.
Firenze was next.
