Here I am again in Santa Marinella, probably the fifth time this year and tenth time since we arrived in Rome over two years ago. This beach town has pulled ahead of the other beach towns near Rome, accessible by train, as our preferred spot to get out of town and dip our toes in the mesmerizing turquoise blue of the Mediterranean. Aleksander is asleep after a short walk in his stroller, having taken the same boardwalk route I took with him the first time we came here and never since.
Elia is home with mommy because even as a three week old Roman born baby, he’s still not quite ready for the midday August beach heat. I’m snacking on a calamari fry, sipping on an aperol spritz in the fifth row of the beach club, two to the left of the overpriced one I really like, reflecting, about to impossibly write about the impossibly wonderful time we’ve spent in Italy. Since, by all indications, in about two weeks we’ll be heading to our next home, country, posting, in the Middle East.
There are literally a thousand possible different starting points to this essay but maybe I’ll start at the realest recent one. A few days ago, Dalia’s mom stayed home with the kids and sent us on our fourth date in the past three years. Thanks to general newborn parent exhaustion and a few other Roman contributing factors (i.e. it being a Sunday in August), we ended up at a neighbourhood pizzeria that I somewhat adore and Dalia barely cares for. Over a truly weak salami and cheese spread and decent half-litre of the house red, we haphazardly surveyed a handful of big, pressing, sometimes competing feelings.
When I described some of my recent long city walks during Aleksander’s naps, where I’ve uncharacteristically decided against podcasts or music for the benefit of strictly city soundscape listening and maximum Rome vibe absorbing, where we’ve meandered according only to a nostalgic heart’s desire and where I’ve actively leaned into the acknowledgement that Roman life, for us, is but a passing reality, soon to become an epic dream, I teared up.
I am (very, very) tired and entirely emotionally overwhelmed by the beauty, blessing and privilege of taking mundane daily walks on the ancient uncomfortable cobblestones of this epic place. Of looking up at buildings that are intricately beautiful in a way that just may never be in fashion again.
That we have one child forever born in Rome and another who’s Italian (mama mia daddy) makes us feel, well, like children.
That Dalia and I used to walk to the Colosseum so much that we eventually got bored of it.
That Aleksander kicked his soccer balls in St. Peter’s Square like it was the local schoolyard.
That we saw the Trevi fountain with only 15 people there.
That we have at least eight gelato spots citywide when the urge hits.
That our families, from top to bottom, got to visit this incredible place with us, maybe even because of us.
Same goes for some few dozen friends.
That we’ve been able to travel to, eat in, sleep restfully in at least ten of Italy’s finest cities (of a possible approximate 50 – the beauty knows no end in this country…).
That I’ve had enough amatriciana, Dalia enough carbonara and the both of us enough cicoria to last for three future generations.
That I now leave Italy and complain that coffee is far too big and weak and expensive.
That I talk with my hands when my foolish Italian runs out and that’s almost always been enough.
That I arrived with a mostly negative impression of ‘the Italians’ and now I feel almost exactly the opposite.
That my colleagues have been the most caring, balanced and complete people that I’ve ever met. That the Canadian Ambassador to Italy knows my name and occasionally laughs at my jokes.
That our Sri Lankan doorman has seen Aleksander’s growth from infant to toddler more regularly and consistently than anyone but us (and preciously trained him to bellow: ciao bello! whenever they part).
That our neighbour and stand-in nonna, Lola, cries every time she mentions our departure.
That we live across the street from a convent and when I’m catching the morning or evening light from our balcony, I occasionally see nuns ironing their habits or sweeping their rooms.
That this place exists; has for the better part of human civilization, existed; and while this planet is still inhabitable and worth inhabiting, will continue to exist. And then our little family’s story co-existed here from Easter Friday, 2021, until the end of August, 2023. It already doesn’t feel real and I’m still here.
Rome is the best, deepest, oldest, alivest, beautifulest type of place and the fact that Rome has been our normal everyday Home for two plus years will never not astonish, delight and humble me.
Dad In The World 