Category: Rome

ArrivederLa Roma! Che Grande Piacere It Has Been

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…).

Sperlonga
Matera
Verona
Lake Garda
Milan
Assisi
Ischia
Florence
Orvieto
Taormina
Venice
Cagliari
Polignano a Mare
Positano

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.

A Tale of Two Deliveries

Elia Francis Jakubiak joined our lives in room 209 of the Mater Dei medical clinic, in Rome, at 8:23am, on Wednesday, July 19th, 2023. He was born about one week shy of his due date, at a healthy 3.5kgs and not too imposing 52cms.

In comparison to the birth of our first son Aleksander, we were relatively well prepared, eager even. Aleksander’s arrival three weeks early caught us by surprise. And if you compound that with the typical life-altering level of surprise that first time parents experience, we were downright frantic.

Based partially on that hectic first go-round, we’ve been in preparation mode for an early delivery for months now. So that when 37 weeks of pregnancy passed by, then 38 and finally 39, we mostly sat around googling DIY induction strategies and explaining in toddler terms to Aleksander why baby brother’s any-day arrival was actually taking weeks.

Alas, as Dalia’s body and loins started to show more promising signs, she was instructed by her doctor, at a routine Tuesday morning pre-natal monitoring session, to come back to the hospital the next day at 7:30am with bags packed. We sent excited emoji-laden texts back and forth and I high-fived joyous colleagues before starting a preliminary strip down of my corner office. In the evening, we went over any critical outstanding tasks and tried to preserve some rest before the imminent controlled chaos to come.

We both tossed and turned, into and out of hyper-sensitive faux sleep. Dalia disappeared into the bathroom around 2:30am and confirmed, semi-certainly, at around 4 that it was time to go. For the first time in our Roman lives, we were out in the middle of the night.

Since our second hand Italian Subaru was long gone, we app ordered a taxi for the short drive to the clinic. Apparently, we weren’t quick enough for the first guy as we saw his tail lights disappear into the empty, quite night just as we rolled our carry-on onto the sidewalk.

Therein followed about ten minutes of mild panic as no other cabs were available online and it was still too early to find any at our neighbourhood taxi stand. I imagined walking to the hospital, then giving birth right here right now, as finally someone accepted our pick-up.

We calmly walked into the silent nighttime clinic, sharing little more than a friendly nod with the knowing security guard, and settled into our room, with monitors hooked up and doctor and mid-wife notified – just as the pink palatial Embassy of Monacao began to peak out in the pre-dawn haze on our little Italian medical clinic balcony.

Dalia’s mid-wife Claudia showed up some 45 minutes later, conducted a few exams and called the obstetrician with a friendly urgency in her voice, advising that she should probably not dawdle too much in arriving.

We smiled, danced, floated on our joint exuberance, disbelief, wonder, excitement, joy. Cautiously confident that we were ready, for this, forever.

Dr. Cavalieri strode in at some point after six looking like she was still wearing Cinderella’s glass slippers from the ball, this being Italy. She reassured Dalia with a compassionate authority that the baby was in a perfect position and would be joining this incredible world soon.

Labour began in earnest not too long after that. Dalia hunkered down and helped baby along. I did what I could to not be completely useless and was happy to overhear the anesthesiologist refer to me as ‘molto utitle’ (i.e. not completely useless).

In stark emotional, physical and psychological contrast to the day’s long endeavour for Aleksander to be born, baby Elia seemed content in the express lane – six hours or less. After about 3.5 hours in the hospital, and less than seven from the start of notable contractions, we welcomed our second son, Elia Francis, into our hearts, into our family and into a beautiful sunny Italian morning.

He barely made a sound upon arrival, like he didn’t mind at all. Snuggled up to mommy and got some quiet rest from his own little ordeal. The delivery, like Dalia’s pregnancy from the start, was textbook. Not exactly easy, but entirely honest.

From there, people came and went. Some with Elia and others brining him back. The staff took our orders for three course lunches and dinners, starting with a double serving of amatriciana. We napped, we ate, we splurged on newborn baby head smelling, finger holding and kissing, kissing, kissing.

In the afternoon, I mobilized my bag of bones body to go pick up Aleksander from daycare, with the not so subtle news that our lives were never to be the same again after the Wednesday morning arrival of his little brother. He took the announcement with the same resolved resignation that he would typically show when I bring him fresh strawberries. Cool, but I’m still gonna twirl, spin and ride my scooter home like always, ok dad?! Sure. We stopped for gelato on the way home just to confirm that it was a day of celebration.

We eventually made our way to the hospital, along with Dalia’s mom who had been chipping in on all fronts since her arrival two weeks before.

The first meeting between the two brothers, our pair of beautiful boys, was just as pure, emotional, delicate, deep and momentous as can be expected. Two little lovely beings, having little idea how much and for how long their lives will be intertwined. When we’re gone, they’ll remain for each other. When we can’t be there for either of them, hopefully the other one will. They will travel with us; learn, grow and play together; discover this world and always have one another as an anchor. Of course, none of this was going through the minds of 12 hour old Elia or 33 month old Aleksander. But the adults in the room, despite and enhanced by their own emotional upheavals, bathed deeply in this initial expression of the boys’ brotherly bond.

Realizing that the practical reality that our lives, suddenly blessed with a newborn baby life, wouldn’t stop, we headed home with Aleksander to try to preserve his routine evening touchstones of bath, books and bed.

From there, everything proceeded smoothly. Dalia spent two days and nights at the hospital, the first ever period spent separately from her first born. Elia did and passed all his newborn medical tests: eyes, ears, weight, sleeping, eating.

Dalia came home and we gladly welcomed the reunion of our new little quartet in the comfort of our fourth floor Roman flat. We were more prepared for the first few nights, weeks and months as baby boy parents, than the last time. We had the stuff and knew the vibe. We had forgotten how tired tired could be but also how light as a feather a new baby feels. How much they sleep, how shallowly they cry, how entirely dependent they are. How lovely they smell, how peacefully they fill up a room, how almost everything about them is still a mystery.

We committed to our new life flow immediately. Newborn, toddler, Italy, daycare, long nights. Feedings, exhaustion, energy. Dynamism, quiet, new unexplored interactions.

I hit the ground running getting Elia’s Roman birth certificate the following morning. Basking overwhelmedly in the impossible historical coincidence of our decidely non-Italian child being born within walking distance of the Vatican and Collosseum. Of his birth being registered here for the rest of time. His A4 sized statement of birth copied and piled in tomes for the future to discover. Somehow also made Eternal by his brush with this place.

The birth was officially documented on the Feast Day of Sant’Elia, the administrative process was miraculously uncomplicated by Italian standards, and the only other application on the clerk’s desk was for: Aleksander, non-standard spelling and all. This all augurs well. For Elia, for us, for all time

I meandered back home unhurried, knowing through hard-earned experience that family life is not a race or destination, but nothing more or less than the only reality we’ll ever know again. Elia, Aleksander. Dalia and me. Our family and friends. Destined to always do what we can for one another. All our roads leading from Rome.

One Final Italian Beach Season

As the summer rolls in, the reality that our time in Italy is dwindling is really starting to hit. Nostalgia, nerves, excitement, anticipation, overwhelmedness are all mixing constantly in the increasingly hot Roman days.

To help combat this melange, we’ve done our best to do what the Romans do, and forget about all of life’s bumpiness with a spritz and splash at the nearest beach.

After two full summer seasons of exploring, we’ve mostly narrowed down our preferred day trip beach spot to Santa Marinella. Conveniently about 45 minutes by train from Termini, with classic crystalline turquoise water, a relatively shallow coastline and wave breakers to keep the waters calm, we barely see a need to go anywhere else anymore.

With my mom in town for a record fourth visit, we saw no better place to take her than the beach. The fact that these world class beaches are a short ride away is quite mind melting for Canadians who are used to having to fly to at least Miami, if not the Caribbean for similar quality beaches. Grandma and Aleksander took some long walks, kicked the ball and even snoozed on a lovely summer Saturday.

After two visits in a row, we tried to go again with Dalia’s older brother in town (our second most frequent guest) but the summer trains were sold out so we reached a bit further south to Sperlonga. The travel was more complicated but the day no less pleasing. The slightly rougher waters made for more vigorous wave jumping and the scenery was probably even more beautiful than Santa Marinella.

With Dalia’s pregnancy approaching full term and the peak of daily heat approaching the high 30’s, we realize that our summer beach days may be approaching a bit of an early end this season. On our Canada Day holiday, we made one more trip to Santa Marinella and enjoyed far fewer crowds than usual. Trying to get Aleksander to sleep was a real challenge so I took him on a walk around the blooming streets nearby and even peaked into some real estate offices to see what a local pied-a-terre goes for.

The bougainvillea breezes eventually knocked our toddler out cold and I picked up some strawberries and ice cream cones on the way back to Dalia and her nine-month belly. Again, grateful to the core for a life that regularly feels like a movie.

Due anni italiani

I’m writing this reflection on the winding steps of a cozy airbnb apartment on a rainy Spring Saturday morning in Sorrento, the opposite of the weather one imagines for an Easter long weekend in the Amalfi. Aleksander is napping early because he woke up too early. Dalia is taking a moment to breathe, five months along with our next child. And Dalia’s sister, Christina, who joined us yesterday from Barcelona, as the last of our family members to visit Italy, is asleep since Aleksander started yelling about bananas at 6am to plunge her directly into toddler-auntie life.

We arrived on the coast yesterday, Holy Friday, stopping in Naples for a pizza before taking the ferry instead of the train to Sorrento, our first ever visit to this famous seaside city. It was on Holy Friday two years ago that we landed in Rome, moved into our apartment and began this wonderful Italian adventure that we’ve been squeezing into limoncello ever since.

As these things do, that arrival feels both a blink and an eon ago. Moving to Rome with an infant during a once in a century global pandemic has a way of locking itself into your memory banks. I can still feel the isolation and chaos of the flight here and the tint and glow of the morning blooms on and from our balcony once we arrived.

Aleksander has grown up here. Taken his first steps, spoken his first words, kicked his first few hundred soccer balls, casually, in or around Rome. We have grown as parents, as humans, not linearly and not without struggle, but always somehow finding a caffe, gelato or prosecco as needed. We’ve been able to share glimpses to weeks of our lives here with visitors, all inspired in some way by the beauty, history and dynamism of the Eternal City.

Occasionally people ask the most banal and profound question: so how is Rome? How is Italy? As time has gone on, I’ve developed an unusual timidity answering this, mostly because I don’t want to appear as gloating, but I’ve eventually landed on: there’s almost no downside (that’s too troublesome) about living in Rome/Italy. The weather is great, the food quality is divine, the people are incredibly lovely, the neighbourhood architecture has no business being as unnecessarily awe-inspiring as it is. Coffee costs a dollar, people say hi and thank you to eachother, and nonnas fawn openly and sincerely over our biondino. If I really need to reach, living in a beautiful place and paying for life in euros can pinch; 8pm dinner time nationwide is not particularly baby-friendly; and then another back-handed complaint, Italy has too many worthwhile and amazing things to see and do, and the fact is now obvious that we won’t be able to see and do them all before we leave.

The nature of my job and our lifestyle is rotation and change. Last September, we submitted our top five list for our next posting and early this year, were offered the third choice. At the time, we were considering lobbying for an additional year in Italy, but when our next post was floated over a video call, our backs straightened up and we elbowed and kicked eachother under the screen with excitement. Needless to say, leaving here won’t be easy, but we’re not disappointed with where we’ll go next.

There was a point last Fall, where for the first time since maybe my early teen years in Toronto, that I felt like I was in my forever home. The feeling quietly materialized out of nowhere over a series of weeks. After about a year of Italian lessons, I could manage most linguistic scenarios I found myself in, occasionally even with some charm. Aleksander was loving his daycare life, double cheek kissing his teachers, and bouncing home in the evening mumbling about his pals Ricardo, Margherita and Valerio. Dalia was working regular hours at the Embassy, seemingly in the treasured sweet spot of work-life-mom-wife-woman-adult-human balance. We had hosted a steady stream of visitors who left more full than they arrived. The pasticceria staff knew my daily order in the morning. We had the menu hilights memorized for a half-dozen favourite neighbourhood restaurants. And generally, we moved comfortably and unhurriedly through our moments, days and weeks. Aleksander had a birthday party with his friends when he turned two, we spent a magical weekend in Assisi for my birthday a week later, and my mom and brother joined us for their second Christmas in Italy soon after that. I thought, clearly, I could keep doing this, in this place, until the end. A real, honest and unforeseen rarity for me.

Then. In the New Year. For an equally unapparent reason, perhaps weather related, we felt bored. Limited. Serrendipitously underinspired by the those same exact, endlessly satisfying routines of a few months earlier. Maybe it was our subconsciouses preparing us for the inevitable, slowly encroaching reality, that almost all of our probable future roads will lead decidedly away from Rome.

So two years have come and gone, forever ours. And now we’re counting down to our departure in months. Beginning to take on a thousand and one administrative steps as our end date approaches weeks, days and hours, before we wistfully close our Roman time capsule and throw it in with antiquity. With the millions of others, over dozens of centuries, who have passed through the roads and piazzas of this incredible place, some leaving a mark, most others eternally glad to carry a piece of Rome in their souls for the rest of their days.

Humbly, gratefully, like us.

Day Trip to Frascati & the accidental opening of Carnevale!

January somehow flew completely under the radar in our home. A combination of gloomy winter weather, a series of coughs and colds and not having visitors kept us mostly in the neighbourhood during weekends. It was a classic lowkey winter month but our feet were finally getting itchy so we decided on perhaps the easiest day trip out of Rome, to nearby Frascati.

Only a 30 minute train ride from Termini, Frascati ticked all the day trip boxes and also wasn’t Tivoli or Orvieto where we’ve already been a few times. We arrived in the nearby town and realized that it was the kickoff to Carnevale and, of course, we had no idea because we’re the working parents of a toddler!

Aleksander played with the confetti strewn all over the street as we watched children dressed up and loving the grand annual event. We quickly visited the Basilica of San Pietro but Aleksander was keen to get back outside and enjoy the festivities.

We had timed our visit to essentially be a lunch stop but didn’t quite anticipate the difficulty finding a table at any of the cozy restaurants with decent reviews. After trying five different places and being turned away, we were warmly welcomed into an enoteca that served a standard lunch menu of bread, cheese, salami, porchetta, tomatos and beans. It was essentially Italian country heaven!

Stomachs full, we continued strolling through the town, snapping some great pics on the bright winter day.

We got some unnecessary sweets on our way back towards the train station and agreed again on how many great places there are to see and visit in Italy, even if most end up being versions of eachother. Somehow the charm, authenticity and deep cultural traditions of Italy always manage to make for great visits.

It was an easy peasy ride home and reminded us how nice it is to get out of Rome for a breath of fresh air. Alla prossima Frascati!