I got a tattoo today..

“Bon journo” 

“Posso avere un mazzo di fiori por favore” as my translate app tells me to say.

A woman with grey hair peeks over the palm leaves and replies “may I help you?”-- classic. 

I replied to the woman with kind eyes that I need a bouquet of flowers for a gentleman. She giggles and points to a few flowers. I shrug and encourage her to choose what she thinks is best. She wraps the large lilies and blue flowers in a thick brown wrapping and ties it with a thin piece of rope. 

“Ciao! Grazie Mille” 

I'm greeted by the Tuscan sun and cobblestone streets as I begin navigating my way to Pachamama tattoo.  Everyday here feels like the opening scene from Beauty and the Beast…  you know, where Belle steps out of her home and birds chirp around her as she breaks out into song while on her way to complete her errands. Except here it's scorching hot and there's always the possibility of being hit by a vespa.

I’ve grown accustomed to the heat for the most part in the past month. It’s a taxing reminder of my humanity in this fairytale.

The air conditioning soaks me in a bath of relief as I step into the tattoo parlor.

“Ciao, I am here for my tattoo” 

“Un momento, por favore” 

God-- was it a mistake to bring these flowers? Tattoo artists are badasses and I am bringing the owner of this shop an insanely large bouquet of pretty foofy flowers. Ahhh, fuck it. Beauty like this will not go unappreciated. 

And neither will the Caravaggio wallpaper across from me. 

It's grotesque as most of his work is. I pull out my phone and do a quick google search. It’s The Incredulity of St. Thomas. The story goes that Thomas missed one of Jesus’ appearances after his resurrection and said “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe it." And so the painting depicts Thomas sticking his finger into an open wound on Jesus, right into his ribs. The moral of the story is that while Thomas was able to see Jesus to believe, Jesus blesses those who have not had the experience and still believe. 

It’s this idea to trust that something is real because a sufficient amount of people have validated its truth. But similarly to Thomas, I have been unable to stop the desire to feel that reality. 

It’s the whole reason why I’m here. To swim in the mediterranean and actually taste the salty seawater instead of looking at another brochure. And stand in front of the six foot Venus by Botticelli and not from a projector screen in another dusty classroom. 

I mean, I get it. Jesus was preaching the intangible powers of God. But to me, I am closest to God by doing, seeing, experiencing the otherworldly tangible creations of genius. 

But it's just a wallpaper right? 

“Ciao Olivia, como estai?” 

“Bene grazi! I brought you a gift for the shop” 

I handed the bouquet to my tattoo artist Alex. He doesn't speak a lick of English, an irregularity in Italy so far. But he clutches his chest and nods his head in thanks. He speaks Italian to the shop manager. 

“Thank you. We will put them in a vase of water for the shop. We haven't had flowers like this in the shop for a while.” 

The petite woman in front of me is beautiful. Her brown hair falls just below her shoulders. She has a softness in her eyes that contrasts the sharper angular features in her face. While in the shop last week, we discussed how excited she was for her upcoming trip to New York. 

I will always remember her curiosity for the subway system and the shrimp roll which she was convinced she had to try. 

She pulls out an IPad and places it on the counter in front of us. 

“This is the design that we agreed upon, is that correct?”

“Si, its beautiful” 

“Good, Alex will take you back and try a few sizes for you. You will choose which you like best” 

“Grazi. Thank you, that is great.” 

Alex and I greet each other with a hand shake. He offers me espresso to which I decline, my nerves are bad enough as it is. 

The tattoo shop is quaint. It has a lounge room up front, and a long narrow hallway that leads to the back room with tattoo beds and Alex’s station. The room is small but comfortable. There is a tiny window in the upper right corner, the only reminder that there’s a burning hot Florence around me.

With the help of the translating app, we get the stencil situated on my right tricep. He motions for me to lay face down onto the bed. There's a small pillow that’s rough to the touch but I appreciate the neck support. I have no clue how long I’m going to be on this table. 

The feel of the needle is foreign to me. It stings, but isn’t unbearable. I’m more interested in Alex’s facial expressions as he falls into his creative flow. He is hauntingly beautiful. I could feel an energy so pure radiating off of him. It’s powerful but calming. 

Suddenly I begin to smell the wet metallic scent of my college art studio. I wonder if his eyes have adjusted the way mine used to while in flow. Like the canvas is under a magnifying glass and the surroundings blurred away. I miss those days. Sore knees, racing heart, eardrums throbbing from music… as close to a rush as any. 

The shop’s staff crowd the space around Alex and I. It can be lonely sometimes to be filled with kind faces and want to connect but have the barrier of language. In this instance though, I feel a melody in their conversations and all I want to do is dance. 

I sit under the needle for about four hours all the while breathing in the memory that’s forming around me. The rhythm of the Italian language fills the space. The hum and buzz of the needle, the stinging of my skin and the rawness of the wound as he wipes it with the soapy paper towel.

The last hour brings the most extreme pain. Even then, I savor the discomfort because I know how precious this moment is. 

The human experience is wild. You could live a hundred lives and always end up living a lonely one. But if you open yourself to the possibility of difference and discomfort, you may just connect and feel the energy that we all share as humans. 

And it's a beautiful one.