Rome

Early June this year we went on a very brief trip to Rome. Boarded a plane via stand-by and devoured the city from Friday to Monday. I was 28 weeks pregnant, (as I write this I have a 7 week old cooing in her bassinet).

Our only plans: walk foreign streets, escape a few chilly Chicago days and enjoy each other before baby. We were advised by all to keep an open itinerary— how we prefer to travel anyway. During our honeymoon I was tasked with booking rooms on my phone from the passenger seat of a BMW while Brian drove us all over Bavaria.

Squashed in the back of the plane on a red-eye flight, instead of sleeping I found myself strung out on excitement, leafing through a travel book and watching movie after movie until the cabin lights flickered back on. Once in town we staggered to the Coliseum, feeling the pressure of our weekend time limit. A tight black dress was probably the wrong choice; the dark fabric amplifying the fierce Roman sun. We went through six bottles of sunscreen in a weekend. Each time I saw one of the public fountains scattered throughout the city I stopped to fill my water bottle and let the cool stream drip down my wrists.

On the other hand, the taut dress accentuated my growing bump and I learned that Italians treat pregnant women very well. While in Chicago I was a burden for asking someone to give up their seat on the bus or train, in Italy I was doted on. One glimpse at me and we were ushered to the front of the ticket line, straight through security.

Inside the Coliseum, both of us slunk in the shade; the stone smelling like a damp cellar. It was an impressive if not eerie experience, imagining hoards of people crammed inside long ago, watching horrible things occur below.

Our liberal itinerary didn’t include restaurant reservations, an apparent no-no in Rome. We chose a place for dinner based on favorable reviews and a good gushy feeling after seeing an interior pictured with graffiti all over the walls. Greeted with a “Buonasera!” the jovial host stifled a frown when we answered “No” we did not have a reservation. I think it must have been my big belly that secured us a quaint table in the back between the kitchen doors and the bathroom. Nearby a woman sat at a desk, sorting through receipts and occasionally sipping red wine from a petite glass tumbler. Perhaps they are accustomed to oblivious tourists, maybe it is considered bad luck to turn away a pregnant woman.

Everything tastes better in Rome. Even the Fanta has a crisper sparkle to it I learned, chugging one down while navigating wobbly cobblestones in sandals. The shades of gelato are more vibrant. The green of churned pistachio at a small shop near the Vatican reminded me of the first time I encountered oranges at an outdoor French market – I didn’t know the true color of orange until then. The pale fruits stacked in the grocery store back home seemed a sad version.

In incredibly poor Italian we ordered our meal and the server who didn’t speak English took it upon himself to provide us a better meal. Soon we were watching him grate and toss cheese into two large bowls of pasta and once he set them down, once our forks were tangled in the strands and once we tasted what he had gifted us – we spoke very little to each other. What can be said when the most beautiful cacio e pepe is less than an arm’s length from your face? Of course Italy is a haven for food enthusiasts, but when we chose Rome over Amsterdam and Brussels the only thing on my mind was escaping a few 40 degree Chicago days and discovering the foundation of Western Civilization. I overlooked all the dishes that my life was missing until we swapped bowls and the bucatini all' amatriciana hit my tongue. Roman pasta is the greatest pasta. Simple components masterfully melded together become otherworldly, earth shatteringly delicious. (Devastatingly so, because once back home it was all we wanted.)

Rome stays alive at night. We took a long walk after dinner, passing people eating outside on small round tables. We threw coins over our shoulders into the Trevi fountain, hoping to secure a future trip. Several times we had to divert our journey towards a bathroom, one of the more annoying parts of pregnancy. Underneath an open window we heard a couple arguing so passionately I expected something glass or a suitcase full of clothes to be chucked out of the window.

At one spot two young priests approached us and pointed to a small church down the road. They told us there was a special annual service being held, that it was open to visitors. Timidly we walked to the church, the doors propped open and through candlelight saw silhouettes of men donning robes, women clutching rosary beads, other tourists like us. The walls of the church seemed a shade of charcoal when viewed from the dark square. Through the huge open doors, studded with iron knobs, rhythmic chanting slipped out, bouncing onto the street and nearby buildings. Hitting the feet of passersby as they speedily licked their melting gelatos, bright greens and orange drops on cheeks and chins, sticky hands clutching cones.

That scene in the church will stay with me forever. I could feel the chorus in my chest, sliding down to my hand that was clutching Brian’s. The hums of the men making our fingertips vibrate into each other’s. My other hand stayed on my belly, the little being inside still new to me. Bouncing in fluid, kicking every now and then to signal “I’m here!” The church was full, and though the young priests insisted I sit down, I was content in that moment to stand in the doorway and let the soft firelight, incense and song weep onto me in gentle waves so that I’d never forget the moment. Soon, I could feel the heat from the church on my face. The 85 degree evening outside coupled with my heavy meal, the small crowd and fire from all the candles, scents of wax and incense all made the inside of the church too snug. I scooted back from the door. We said goodnight to our hosts and continued ambling through the narrow stone streets to the hotel.

I was easily seduced by Rome—didn’t put up a fight or even feign chastity.

Back in Chicago I found a local Italian deli, one of those small shops that punches you in the face with smells of salami, garlic and olive brine and whose shelves are crammed with interesting tins and packages adorned with fancy lettering to slickly divert your attention away from extraordinary price tags. At the deli counter I ogled the fresh ricotta, small pearls of mozzarella in their bath of cloudy liquid, some black olives slick with oil. Leaving, my bag was heavy with chunks of pecorino romano and prosciutto, a giant can of San Marzano tomatoes and imported pasta. I must have read 20 different recipes for amatriciana sauce until I finally settled on one that reminded me of the version we enjoyed our first night at Hosteria Romana.

No, the dish is not as good as the one we had in Rome. Then again, sometimes flavors are muted simply because you’re sitting at your own table without the distraction of vacation. Trips can make even the dullest meal seem noteworthy, the gaudiest restaurant romantic. Although, in this case, I know the food and scenery of Italy was as gorgeous and romantic as I remember.

This version from Bon Appetit is delicious—a salty, slightly sweet and simple bowl of comfort.