Tag: baby

Tel Aviv, Tel Avivians and Us – One Month In

We arrived in Tel Aviv from Rome exactly one month ago today, on an all too easy 3.5 hour flight down the Mediterranean. In hindsight, the straightforward nature of the travel logistics did not align in any way with the otherwise almost complete life overhaul between these two relatively close cities and countries (if not necessarily cultures).

All that to say, waking up in our apartment in Rome, with newborn and toddler one day, and falling asleep in a new home in Tel Aviv the same evening made for some serious sensory whiplash.

Alas, all is going well – or somehow better than I had honestly anticipated given those circumstances. Aleksander has started French school and mostly integrated without a hitch (on espère); Elia continues to grow, sleep, nurse, and has even begun to smile and coo; Dalia is making the most of her second go-round of maternity leave, walking the boys on the boulevards with iced coffee in hand and making activity dates with school moms; and I’ve begun my new job (same job, different place) and have found lunch, coffee and grocery spots as needed. The basics seem to be mostly covered.

Tel Aviv is a bit hard to describe. In parts, completely dilapidated, hipsterly-so, and in others, modern skyscrapers and construction cranes, à la Dubai. Kensington Market one moment and Bay Street the next. Plus, add a beach.

I’ve never had the pleasure of living in a proper beach town and I used to joke that I never trusted people who did because ending your day in flip flops and a sandy wavey sunset just doesn’t feel real enough real life.

In any case, the beach is about a 25 min walk from our home and we may have already caught a few sublime sunsets while buskers sing radiohead tunes, people do agressive calisthenics or play beach volleyball (strangely enough, just as often with their feet), and Aleksander climbs world class play structures while getting covered in dust-fine sand. Like I said, not really real life stuff; pretend temporary life indulgences.

Otherwise, the city is not very readily classifiable. Tel Avivians like to compare it to Miami but I’d say they’re overshooting on that one. There’s definitely more American street culture here than any other subset: burgers, beaches, lattes, longboards, athletic wear, etc. But, of course, this is not the U.S. I can’t say that we feel it’s particularly European either, somehow too casual for that, and certainly on an entirely different wavelength than Rome: smaller, younger, beachier. So, Tel Aviv is Tel Aviv, maybe at best it’s the Mediterranean lovechild of Montreal and Barcelona, that was then immediately estranged from its parents.

Tel Avivians appear to be the type of people drawn to such a place: keen to live in a (mostly) Jewish beach paradise.

There are lots of 20 somethings (and older wannabes), patios and tattoo shops. There are also loads of families (or maybe that’s mostly who we notice in the AI inspired playgrounds). And then others: Orthodox Jews zipping by on e-bikes; Russian grocery store clerks; Eritrean line cooks; Filipino nannies; almost middle-aged tech looking bros; aspiring cross-fit champions on every square metre of the kilometres-long beach boardwalk; 19 year old Israelis in their military training camo, at the coffee shop, automatic weapon in one hand, current love interest in the other; grannies on quiet park benches.

Regardless of all that, we’re pretty occupied just doing us, surviving, settling, adapting, starting to look ahead from a novel perspective. Life with two kids under three is full. So far we’re thankfully approaching it with some serenity: soaking in as much of Elia’s newborn vibes as we can, smelling his little baby head and kissing his squishy cheeks a million times a day.

School dropoffs aren’t proving to be as romantic and laid back as in Rome. The price of absolutely everything is so astonishingly high as to almost be physically painful. And, of course, we’ve gone from two plus years of actively integrating into Roman life – the language, gestures, food, rhythms, piazzas, countryside, olive oil and gelato and mozzarella. To doing a full cultural reboot in less time than it takes to watch The Godfather trilogy. Hummus, Hebrew, Rosh Hashanah. And that’s all without effectively leaving this city. The beach bubble of Tel Aviv. The beach bubble within an Iron Dome.

We still don’t entirely know what to expect here over the next three years but so far it’s comfortable living and often feels like a city built primarily with children in mind, so in that sense, we’re off to a positive start. And we look forward to see what this place and its people have in store for us.

– Yom Kippur, 2023

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.

Puglia, Our Last Italian Vacation, to the Country’s Beautiful Heel

After twice postponing a one-week visit to Puglia, all the way down the boot on Italy’s Adriatic coast, we finally managed to get ourselves organized for a visit, as our probable last longer trip within the country and doubling as a baby moon!

Puglia is one of the regions of Italy that we only heard about after arriving. Somehow in the second tier of regions behind Tuscany, Sicily, Sardegna, but as gorgeous and welcoming as any. And maybe slightly more budget friendly.

Since we’ve been sketching out a tentative itinerary for almost two years, we had a pretty good plan of attack to try to maximize our week and get a taste of different parts of the region.

Deciding against the four hour train or five hour drive to Bari, we hopped on a Ryanair flight from Rome and landed on a gloomy Saturday some 45 minutes later.

Rather than staying in Bari or even nearby Monopoli, we decided on an Apulian agriturismo near Ostuni. The countryside location, not far from many of the little towns we hoped to visit, was a perfect launching point for the trip.

Unfortunately the rainy weather continued pretty much throughout our full two day stay. Although this dampened Dalia’s and my mood somewhat, Aleksander was completely undeterred. He played in the wet playground, chased cats and sang with the chickens every moment he could!

Otherwise, since our days couldn’t be spent sunning by the pool, we visited the nearby towns, starting with Ostuni.

As ever, even in the rain, maybe even moreso in the rain, historic Italian towns always shine, inspire and enchant. Ostuni was no different. The slick hilly cobblestones kept things interesting both in the stroller and out and we were immediately satisfied with our decision to stay nearby.

The following day was gloomy but slightly less rainy and so we decided to head to the coast and visit Monopoli, one of the bigger cities in Puglia. It happened to be Mother’s Day and we reflected on the fact that our next similar trip would probably be as a quartet. A lot to consider, take in and reflect on as the afternoon Sunday sun peaked out in the historic harbour.

Being unable to find an available lunch spot in Monopoli, (Italians love to reserve – especially on holidays), we decided to take our chances with a late lunch visit to Martina Franka, on the way back to our agriturismo. We scarfed down not the best lunch in Italy, followed by not the worst gelato and headed for the gates as the heavy clouds loomed once again.

We spent a quiet evening before braving the morning showers for our next stop near Nardo. We arrived at our next agriturismo in the rain and were immediately charmed by the outdoor furniture of Casina Solatia and Aleksander was thrilled to find new cats to chase around.

Our stay at Casina Solatia not only prompted one of my first poems in a while but really provided almost a cinematic backdrop for an intimate few family days. It was more than once, watching Aleksander play piano or run through tall grass in dimming sunlight, that I felt like we were in a Terrence Malick movie. And Simona the host, a costume designer and fairly recent transplant from Milan, really made the place feel like one big open home. Maybe another couple overcast days weren’t the worst turn of events.

Our first free evening, we decided to visit nearby Gallipoli for a windy evening by the sea, visiting the old town castle and having dinner overlooking the water.

Our second day staying near Nardo finally brought some hopeful weather. It wasn’t quite yet beach friendly but with a partially sunny forecast, we made our way to Lecce, the biggest city in the southern part of Puglia.

Lecce was quite bustling and busy with European tourists. We kicked balls through the alleyways and Aleksander made some Canadian friends over lunch and we started to look forward to what the rest of the week might bring.

On our way down the coast the following morning, we passed by a stretch of beach known as the Maldives of Salento. And even though the beaches weren’t quite prepared for summer crowds, we were thrilled to have some sunny clear skies and Aleksander finally got to dig into the coastal sands.

Heading to the southwestern-most point of Italy’s heel, we lunched and lounged a bit more in the small charming town of Santa Maria de Leuca. The seafood fry, white wine and gelato all passed the test in this scenic stop. Also home to maybe the world’s most picturesque natural seaside pool.

As we turned up the coast for a few days near Otranto, our trip finally started to look like what we had hoped it would. The late May weather started to look characteristically as it should in Italy at this time of year. We gratefully pulled into our final stop at the Cuti Mari guesthouse and were not disappointed.

We drove to Otranto about fifteen minutes away to pick up an evening pizza and walk around the boardwalk.

We took our chances the next day and found the nearest (open) stabilimento and even though less than ten of the hundreds of sun loungers were occupied, we were happy to spend a relaxing day by the sea.

Finally energized by the summertime vibes, we even braved the unheated pool at the hotel and had some family laughs and good times.

Being so pleased with the grounds, facilities and staff at Cuti Mari, we extended our stay by one night, opening up an extra day in the area. So we headed up the coast a bit and spent a proper early season beach day in an early season beach town – Torre del Orso.

Even though the restaurants, bars and hotels were still dusting the cobwebs off before the summer hordes arrive, we found the town a perfect little size and pace for our flow. And to boot, the street art had no business being so interesting in such a random and faraway place.

We longingly said goodbye to Cuti Mari, petted all the cats one last time and Aleksander even got a hat and t-shirt from the owner. We hope to return as soon and often as possible.

Our circuit of Puglia was almost at an end. We returned back up the coast towards Bari and stayed in a non-descript highway hotel on our last night to make sure we could easily make our morning flight.

Never ones to let an opportunity pass, we squeezed in a short afternoon visit to postcard perfect Polignano a Mare. Dalia absolutely fell in love with this place while I found the instagram friendly crowds somewhat overwhelming.

The hilight again was Aleksander making a local friend and kicking a ball for close to an hour. Our child is definitely in the right country for a soccer obsession.

Before leaving Puglia, I really wanted to take Dalia to the Basilica of St. Nicholas in Bari. Partially because it made such an impression on me during my last visit, partially because it’s become a global pilgrimage site for Ukrainians since the invasion of their country and partially because I’m fond of the name Nicholas for our next child.

It was a great place to leave our prayers of thanks for yet another incredible trip within Italy; for our growing family; and for two wonderful years living in Rome.

Puglia can finally and joyfully be crossed off the Italian bucket list!