We Went to Look for America, and I Think We Found It. It's Pretty Big.

Because my life has a soundtrack, and that soundtrack is written and performed by two aging men with questionable coifs:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ninu6q5jc4

So yes, jet-lag receding, I'm ready to reflect on my second annual Memorial Day trip back to the Motherland (by which I mean America, since I'm probably a lot closer to the land of my ancestors right now in France.  I don't know exactly which country that is, just that it's wherever pale people are made).  Highlights...

The peeps.  Obviously.  Lots and lots of quality time with friends and family (we were gone for two weeks, thus the exceptionally extended hiatus from the bloggity blog), but still it's somehow never quite enough.  Luckily we have the baby to use as bribery to get some of those friends and family back over to this side of the pond sooner rather than later.  Speaking of which...

The cake the lady at Giant Eagle made says we're having a little She Traveler!  For once AH and I had our timing nearly perfect and did our 2nd trimester ultrasound two days before we were set to return, so we only had to keep the secret for three days before we were able to announce in person to both sets of grandparents-to-be, as well as my sister (the hot one in the yellow apron, obvi, as I am the pregnant one who looks like me).  As it was, we felt that we had to do something kind of snazzy since we had kept people waiting for all of 72 hours to know the gender of the baby, so we decided to do this newfangled reveal cake thing.  For the uninitiated (so probably anyone that's not currently obsessively reading baby blogs), a reveal cake is a cake with either the batter or a center layer of frosting colored either pink or blue so that when you cut into it, everyone learns the gender together.  And then you get cake.  Of course AH and I being us, we decided that we wanted to do this approximately five hours before we were supposed to leave Columbus for Indianapolis for the big family get-together.  But God Bless the USA (and Giant Eagle): we were able to put in an order for a cake before church, and pick it up after service before we hit the road.  The novelty of being able to do so did not escape us: I'm pretty sure making such a last minute request of a bakery on a Sunday morning is prohibited in the Rights of Man.

Food.  Oh mercy, the food.  People have been asking what I have been having cravings for, and the unfortunate truth is that almost all of my cravings have been for American foods.  So in two weeks, we did work.  Many people have commented that they can now really tell that I'm pregnant; my response is that I'm pretty sure it's just chocolate chip cookies.  Pictured above is the first of not one but two Dirty Frank's meals that I was able to consume while home (yes, that is nacho cheese and potato chips on a hot dog.  No, that's not just a weird pregnancy craving- this is almost the exact meal that I ate on AH's and I's second wedding anniversary).  Many thanks to my mother and mother-in-law for feeding me as though I needed to store up enough sustenance in two weeks to feed their grandbaby until she decides to come to greet us in September.

How every cocktail party conversation now begins in my head: "Hello, have you met my husband?  DR. AH?  That's right, he's a doctor now.  A doctor of physics.  That's right, my husband has a PhD in physics.  Yes, something with high harmonics.  I watched his thesis defense, but it was at 8 am, so I will tell you what I remember: Strong Field Regimes.  High Harmonics.  Rabbit.  Wedges.  But yes, he is very smart and important, so give me another one of those mini-quiches.  Yes, the ones with bacon.  And one of those little cupcakes, too."

Trip to the farmer's market with my mom, and there just happen to be llamas and miniature ponies in a pen next to the store.  Like you do.  Oh, Ohio, you would.

This is my sister-in-law's chicken condo.  It is roughly the size of our old apartment, and probably cleaner.  And while we were on that trip (an excursion north so AH could celebrate the new PhD with some college buds and his sister and BIL)...

I think I can speak for AH when I say that this was another highlight for him: doughnuts.  Pastries may be his mistress, but doughnuts are probably his One True Love (sometime I'll have to dig out the picture of his groom's cake from our wedding, which was just an artfully tiered mound of Krispy Kremes with a rubber ducky bride and groom on top).

And one lowlight: Driving.  Maybe it's a year-long absence from automobiles.  Maybe it's knowing that the tiniest little fender bender could seriously endanger little FT.  Maybe it's the fact that I was never exactly the best driver to begin with.  Whatever it was, what was once a mild inconvenience is now seen as OMG THE WORST IDEA EVER BECAUSE CARS ARE SCARY METAL DEATHBOXES.  Seriously, I've seen how inconsiderate, selfish, and careless people can be while walking.  Yes, let's put all of these people in control of several tons of metal and machinery and put them out on narrow stretches of land, all trying to get different places!  WE ARE OVERCOME WITH OUR OWN BRILLIANCE!!!

So now here was are (semi) settled back in the land of cheese and wine.  Compared to last year when I did this (if you remember the post), the transition back has been a bit less angst-filled.  That's due to several reasons, I think, and most of them are somehow related to the little person/cookie dough tumor in my tummy.  Firstly, I'm pretty sure I'd been using the trip home as some sort of arbitrary marker of, "Oh, I don't have to worry about the fact that I am going to be responsible for a tiny helpless human being soon until after AH has defended his thesis and I have gotten my fill of hot dogs." Well, now that deadline has past, and so most of my angst (it is a limited supply, thank goodness) is being directed towards that quickly dawning realization (seriously, there are different varieties of cloth diapers?  And what the hell is a birthing ball?  They're going to need to give me stitches where?!).  And also, as previously stated, the impending arrival of our Fellow Traveler means that keeping in contact with friends and family back home isn't just a nice thing for AH and I to do: it's a fundamental part of how we want to build our family.  My mom has already expressed a concern that little FT won't know to connect her face with her voice.  I have a feeling that not only will FT know her grandma (and grandpas, and aunts and uncles, and anyone else who wants to spoil her rotten), but her blonde brownies as well.  And I'll be using the "baby wants brownies, mom" excuse for many years to come.

Quackers* and Quickies: Part Deux

So when we last left the scandalous avian inhabitants of Parc Montsouris....

The ducks, our protagonists, were engaged in an endless series of love triangles, with a few quadrilaterals thrown in for good measure.  This season, as we return, we find that Daisy here has added a few hatchlings to her brood.  But where is daddy Donald?

 Sneaking off into the bushes with Chaz, the young intern at his office.  They say that the bushes are where their fantasy football league meets.  But a fantasy football league with only two members?  How long will you turn a blind eye, Daisy?

Goosey, the loyal but dim-witted best friend, has gotten in over her head once again.  She thought that accepting a little "chemical help" from the Ravens would help her job performance, clinching that big promotion she so desperately needs to feed the goslings.   But when that high fades, she crashes hard, and it's only a matter of time before the whole pond knows the dirty, dangerous secret to her new-found success...

Recently, the turtles have been making more and more appearances on the shore.  They claim it's to sun themselves in this still miserably cold Parisian weather, but they're reappearance coincided rather eerily with the disappearance of several ducklings from their nests.  Now rumors are swirling that they've been selling baby ducks to tourists for cold, hard cash.  But what would turtles do with cash?  Seriously, who starts these rumors?  They really need to think them through better.

Ah, the white swans: mysterious, aloof, and dangerously beautiful.  The black swans have been searching for years to find the secret to knocking them off of their pedestal, thus making themselves the undisputed Queen Bees of the pond.  Many attempts have failed, but it looks like this time they've found the white swans' shocking secrets...stay tuned for the big reveal in the epic season finale showdown.

The heron, wise but reclusive, has been venturing closer and closer to the shore.  What are you looking for, heron? And don't say fish.  That would be too mundane.  And if I've learned anything watching these birds, it's that nothing is ever as innocent as it seems...

*I almost published this post as "Quakers and Quickies," which would have been fairly misleading as I know nothing about the sex lives of the members of the Society of Friends.

The Kindness of Strangers (and Friends)

Ah, sweet relief.  Not the Mylanta kind, the "done with finals" kind (SUCK IT, Intro to the Hebrew Bible...except, you know, don't, because I'm actually uncomfortable telling anything with "bible" in the title to suck it.  That seems to be in poor taste for a seminarian).  And so with my final exams all turned in, and a day off of work all to myself, I couldn't wait to get out and about in the city, perhaps to return to the Jardin des Plantes when it wasn't in the middle of a downpour.  But, despite yesterday being achingly lovely and sunny (while I was stuck inside furiously trying to write down every example of God being merciful in the Old Testament that I could of within the span of 90 minutes, of course), today is back to....dreary.  But, dear reader, you've already suffered with me through one extended kvetch about the weather.  Fear not; I won't subject you again.

But having time to snuggle up in bed today with Sherlock Holmes and take superfluous naps has given me time to pause and do a bit of reflecting.  As a general rule, I try to avoid this (reflection, not superfluous naps- those I hoard) as it usually leads me to remember all of the things on my to-do list that haven't been done, and many frantic phone-calls to AH at work asking if he's called this person or followed up on that bit of paperwork.  Because I'm not going to lie, friends: the past month has been borderline terrifying.  As Jon is about to change jobs (he begins at a different lab, close to the old one, in June), he is awaiting a new contract.  As we haven't received a contract, we haven't been able to look for an apartment.  Now looking for an apartment in Paris is rather a fraught and complicated exercise at the best of time.  But at the moment, with nothing to show that we have an income or any legal right to be in the country, it's next to impossible.  The wee-sprog-to-be complicates things (as they tend to do) because we can't exactly settle for the first 10 m studio that pops up; realistically, we need two bedrooms.  Oh, and we are out of our current apartment at the end of the month.  So the phrase that could describe my state in the past month has been: Pregnant in a foreign country and imminently homeless.

Now, don't you fret: I wouldn't be posting about this if things were still at Level 5 Crisis Mode; I have more respect for my mother's nerves than that.  There is some light at the end of this tunnel, and it comes, Blanche DuBois style (although infinitely less creepy), from the kindness of strangers.  In a panic a few weeks back, I posted on The Message (the online forum of an organization for English-speaking mothers in Paris) about the situation that AH and I were in.  No, no magical offers for the perfect apartment came up, but something just about as miraculous did:  a woman emailed me to tell me that she, her husband and two children live in a three-story house but, as they don't really use the first floor, have been kicking around the idea of renting it out as a B&B, and would we like to come be their guinea pigs?  Hell. Yes.  We were out the next day to meet with them and see the house.  It's lovely, of course, but what made a bigger impression was just the utter kindness and generosity that these people showed us.  We mentioned that we'd be putting our things into a storage unit, and they told us that wasn't necessary, they have a whole extra room that we could store our things in while we're there (I should probably mention that they live in the suburbs- this magical giant house does not exist in Paris, because we are not staying with descendants of the Vanderbilts).  Did we need to provide any pay stubs or bank statements?  "Of course not!  You're practically family."

And that's it.  After one meeting, we've secured ourselves a home base while we hunt (hopefully not too much longer) for an appropriate place to bring our little Fellow Traveler home to.  While things are still far from settled and hunky dory (see: continued lack of permanent living arrangements, possibility of having to change hospitals 7 months into my pregnancy depending on where said living arrangement ends up being), I can feel the knot starting to unravel.

It makes me feel a bit silly, to be honest.  There were so many times in the past month or so that someone would tell me that it would all turn out all right, and I honestly did not believe them.  For the record, that's pretty unlike me; I'm usually not such a die-hard cynic.  I think it largely has to do with the fact that so far, as a mother, my job is to not eat sushi or get smashed on liquor, go to all my doctor's appointments, and make sure that baby has a safe place and lots of diapers to come home to.  And I've been failing spectacularly on that last bit.  Not good to begin motherhood in the negative column.  But AH, bless him, has kept cool as a cucumber, telling me that things will work themselves out.  Him saying so, admittedly, has not always gone well, and has led to a few late evening shriekings on my end.      But they are going to fine.  Of course they are.

And they will do so because, despite the rudeness and disinterestedness that often color encounters in city life, most people, deep down, are not a-holes.  We will get through this because, somehow, we've gotten through every challenge that's been thrown our way.  And I can tell you, it's rarely been anything that we've done that seals the deal on solving the crisis at hand.  To start at the beginning: it's not exactly like AH filled out dozens of applications, hoping for a position in Paris.  It just sort of...fell into our laps.  And we took it.  We find out we're pregnant (surprise, kind of!), and offers of help pour in from all sides from people we know and strangers that only know that I speak English and managed to get myself knocked up while living abroad.  Completely overwhelmed by the French medical system, my friend Alix offers finds me an OBGYN and gets me registered in a good hospital.  Unsure whether my doctor and nurses will speak English, my friend Erin offers to come with me to my doctors appointment in case I need a translator.  Overwhelmed by all the things we'll need to buy for little FT, our friends Alex and Helen immediately begin listing off the things that their beautiful little toddler no longer uses that we could borrow, and they also tell us all the secret cheap places to buy baby things (hello, Message Bring and Buy and our 100 euro travel system!).  And what's especially amazing is, it's not like we, pathetic wanderers that we are, are necessarily going to be in a position where we can even come close to repaying the kindness that these people have done for us, unless they want to be repaid in baby cuddles (in which case: done, and done).  They've offered their time, wisdom, and bouncy chairs simply out of the goodness of their hearts.

To be clear: it's not like AH and I have been sitting back, wringing our hands over what to do.  There has been much email haranguing of future bosses, trolling of real estate websites, and pouring over official documents.  My mother resolutely reminding me that "God helps those who help themselves" was a fixture of my childhood and adolescence, and I did, eventually, manage to take it to heart.  But help He does.  And in our case, He's managed to find some awesome people to do it through.

Rain, Rain, Seriously, Go the &%$# Away

Ah, Paris in springtime.  Strolls along the Seine, picnics in the park, cherry blossoms blooming, their petals floating on the breeze...

Unless there is rain.  Oh, has there been rain.

And unfortunately, I'm not a crackpot like Woody Allen who is convinced that Paris is more beautiful in the rain.  Every time that got brought up in Midnight in Paris, I threw up a little in my mouth and started sympathizing with Rachel McAdams'  character, who the audience is supposed to thoroughly despise.  The only people who can get away with claiming that "Paris is so lovely in the rain" are those from a desert climate.  Otherwise, they're probably just trying to get into someone's pants (I'm so sensitive! Walk in the rain with me back to my hotel so I can read you some of my poetry!).

I have vague memories of being shown some weird movie in elementary school about a dystopian future in which the human race had fled to a planet where it rained constantly, and the sun only shone for one hour every seven years.  And some poor little girl, who was one of the last refugees to flee from Earth, is ostracized by her jealous classmates because she remembers what it's like to go outside in the sunshine and they don't.  And so, when the one freaking hour of sunshine comes, they lock her in a closet.  But then they feel bad and bring her the flowers that bloomed as a result of the planet's one hour exposure to whatever it is in sunlight that makes plants grow.  My teacher, Mrs. Meyers, tried to convince us that the fact that these kids had brought this girl flowers was somehow a reconciliation.  I seethed (still seeth- I really need to let go of some of my anger issues), thinking no, they shouldn't have LOCKED HER IN THE CLOSET TO BEGIN WITH, AND THEY SHOULD BE PUNISHED.  JERKS.

Anyway, tangent.  But yes, I feel like I have somehow fallen down a wormhole and ended up in an alternate universe that's exactly like Paris except that the sun will not reappear for another seven years.  The weather.com forecast only goes as far as 10 days, and so far, it seems that there's no end in sight, so as far as I'm concerned it's possible.

The real kicker is, of course, that when summer comes and I am roughly the size of Pluto it will be dry as a bone and hot as Hades.  And then I will cry out in anguish, wondering why, why I ever dared to speak against the cool, rainy springtime.  I've already made AH promise not to throw this in my face when that time comes (mostly because I fear that, in my rage, I would simply roll over and squish him in vengeance, and I'd prefer to keep him unsquished).

We did have one brief hour of, well, not sunlight exactly, but not utter downpour last week, and so I hastened over the park for a bit of whatever Vitamin D I could scrounge up.  And what delightful surprise should greet me but these delightful fellows:

See?  Someone's out there enjoying this weather.  Now if it would just clear up long enough for me to venture back over there and resume my baybeh duck stalking, all will be well with the world...

Allison in French Medical System Land

First of all, I apologize for my infrequent posting as of late.  Mostly this has been due to a cluster-f of work and school, but also because much of my non school/work life is taken up with baby stuff.  And, as there is certainly no shortage of mommy and pregnancy blogs (written by women much wittier than I), I am struggling to find suitable Frenchy French adventures to relate to that don't involve le croissant dans le four.  And so while I don't want to begin inundating you with baby-related musings, this whole being knocked-up abroad thing has given me new insights into some particular aspects of life in France that were previously unknown to me.  Chief among these is an up-close view of the mysterious creature that is the French medical system. While there are several episodes to choose from (I may someday have to tell you about my first ultrasound, aka The Time I Encountered the Dildo Camera of Doom), most telling is perhaps the beginning of this whole bebe saga (well, not the actual beginning.  I'm guessing you know how that works.  If not, ask your mother).

We travel way back to the chilly, desolate Parisian days of January 2012 (for a refresher, check out "Pack Up the Wine, Break Out the Vodka."  Really, just looking at the picture will suffice).  Despite three negative home pregnancy tests, my lady-time remained on extended holiday, and thus I found myself making my first doctor's appointment in France with a GP I found through a list recommending English-speaking doctors in my area.  Except that this is France, and so of course I arrive at this woman's office to find that she has gone on vacation and that her substitute speaks nary a word of anglais.  Now, there are plenty of situations that I have become comfortable fumbling my way through with my limited French.  Most of these situations involve food, and the most dire consequence of a misunderstanding is that my steak comes under-cooked.  But figuring out whether or not there is another life form taking up residence in your body is not a situation where you want to be missing out on nuance.  

Somehow, we managed to communicate enough that I found myself up on her table as she poked around on my uterus.  She shrugged, and told me that yes, despite the negative pregnancy tests, I was probably with child.  Before I knew it she was sitting down and writing up prescriptions for me to take to the blood lab.  In addition to testing whether or not there was a friendly parasite in my uterus, I also needed to test whether or not I had toxoplasmos, aka Cat Piss Disease.  Apparently cats here can carry this virus that, while only a minor annoyance to a healthy adult, is quite problematic for in-utero persons.  Thus, not yet even certain I was with child, I found myself with quite the list of what I could and could not be consuming (goodbye, brie!  Goodbye, wine!  Goodbye, raw vegetables, sushi, and steak tartar!), along with directions to the nearest blood lab.

Oh yes, that's right.  Getting medical care in France is never a one-stop shopping experience.  Just as running errand involves trips to several different tiny shops (sometimes involving metro transfers) rather than one quick in-and-out to Target, going to the doctor means that you'll probably be sent to a lab or a specialist somewhere else, too.  And so off to the blood lab I went, managed to communicate what I needed, got stuck with a needle and sent home with instructions to return the next day.  Because, oh yes, that is the other fun thing about French medical care.  Test results are not sent to your doctor, you pick them up directly.

Which leads to the next part of this adventure: me, anxious as all hell, returning at 5:30 on the dot the next day to get my results.  Now, I'm not sure what I was expecting: that "FELICITATIONS!!!!!" would be written in all caps across the top?  That confetti would fall out?  That it would be like one of those expensive singing cards at hallmark?  A laser light show?  Regardless, I was (perhaps foolishly) unprepared to be faced with several pages of medicalese (hormone levels, etc.), all in French, naturally. After several weeks of being on edge, it was the equivalent of getting to the end of a 500 page novel only to find out that "it was all a dream."  I was displeased.

On my way home I sat down in my beautiful Parc Montsouris, pouring over the results, trying to make some sense of it.  Which is, of course, the exact moment that the cranky park police (seriously, French equivalent of mall cops: douchebags with power issues who have been given whistles and a modicum of control over other people) decided to start blowing their whistles to let everyone know that it was time to go home.  One particular douchebag avec whistle decided that I wasn't moving fast enough, and thus decided to walk directly up to me and blow his whistle in my face.

Me: I KNOW, I KNOW.
DBaW: (in snooty French accent, natch) Well, if YOU KNOW, then MOVE.

Curled up in my room, panicking on the phone to AH, I could not see how this would end well.  If I wasn't pregnant, then I had not been visited by Aunt Flo for an awfully long time with no other medical explanation offered.  But if I was...if I was, I did not see how this could possibly be an auspicious beginning.  I've always loved babies and children, and I've been pretty certain that I'd be sort of ok at the whole motherhood thing, but damn, if I was pregnant then this was my first test of motherhood, and I was failing miserably.  If just finding out whether or not I was having a baby was this complicated, and I found myself this unequal to the challenge, how would I possibly cope with the challenges of having a baby that would eventually be more than an apple pip in my stomach- how would I handle a living, breathing human being totally dependent upon me and my competence level at surviving in the world?

And then I noticed three little letters, halfway down the second page: HCG.  I had seen those before; they were printed on the home pregnancy test boxes that were still in my recycling bin.  And there was a number next to them.  A relatively small number, but a number that meant that it was no fluke: I was going to have a baby.  And then everything slowed down just a little bit...

Prego!*

And we return from the Boot, excited to share the happy news that little FT is going to have a twin!  That's right, after a week spent in Rome, I have grown what can only be described as a pasta baby, and it has taken up residence in my gut flab!  We really couldn't be happier.

And now, onto sharing some highlights and lowlights, via a few of the approximately 8 million pictures I took:

First Evening

We arrive to find that our hotel room has a bidet.  Wikipedia tells us that this is like a sink/toilet that you can use to wash your naughty bits.  We stick to using it to wash our feet, and it actually ends up proving quite useful in this regard.  Also, we discover that the view from our hotel room is this:

Broken stationery bike equipment.  Would not have guessed that one in a million years; it's a good thing we didn't have a bet going.  Luckily, we don't spend much time in the hotel room (other than to sleep, which we do a lot of).

Day 1: The Trevi Fountain

If this fountain looks familiar, it might be because you've seen the famous clip of Anita Ekberg frolicking seductively about in it from La Dolce Vita.  Alas, we had no buxom blonde actresses (that I saw), but what we lacked in iconic beauties we made up for in rabid hordes of tourists in visors and fanny packs, as well as men selling bubble guns that emitted a high-pitched frequency.  Still, it was more than worth it to patiently stake out a spot to sit and enjoy the view for a while.

Also awesome: the fact that we came across this on one of the free walking tours that we downloaded.  We did several of those, and it was a great way to get an idea of what you were looking at (beyond, "Marble! Water! Naked guys!") without having to shell out for a tour guide that may or may not suck.  Plus it allowed us to go at preggo-pace (aka slowly and allowing for lots of toilet and gelato breaks).  I highly recommend this for anyone planning on travelling soon; Rick Steves has some great (free!) ones available.

Day 2: Santa Maria di Trastavere

After hearing from friends that Trastavere was a great place to wander around for an afternoon, AH and I decided to meander over to Piazza di Trastavere to check out the sights.  Gelato was consumed (albeit with several location changes to avoid the human ash-trays around me; seriously, trying to avoid second-hand smoke while pregnant in Europe is like trying to avoid sand at the beach), and we began to plot our next move.  Would it be worth it to check out that little church on the square, we wondered?

Why, yes.  Yes it would.

However, the evening ends on a sad note:

I get a splinter in my foot, and poor AH has to spend an hour with a needle, tweezers, and some rubbing alcohol trying to get it out.  Hey, we keep the party KRAZEE!!!!

Day 3: Saint Peter's

We spent most of the day at the Vatican museum (which I think might constitute a whole post of its own), and then high-tailed it over to Saint Peter's to gawk and gaze for the last 30 minutes of its open hours.  One revelation that I had while in Rome was that living in Paris has made it much harder for me to be overwhelmed by my surroundings ("Oh, that statue was built when?  The 19th century? YAWN," compared to my former existence of "These columns date all the way back to the 1970's").  But Saint Peter's certainly did the trick: floor to ceiling opulence in every possible direction.

And yes, AH and I attempted a few FT pictures.  For those of you who have been requesting a "bump" shot, this is about as close as we can get right now, and I'm ashamed to admit that I'm actually sticking my gut out in that picture.  I never thought I'd see the day when I stick my gut out (which I usually try to minimize as much as possible) the way that 12-year-old girls push their arms together in a sad attempt at giving themselves cleavage.

I would be remiss if I did not mention the awesome dinner we had that night at a place called Porte Castello, a little family-run place just a few minutes from Castel Sant Angelo.  It was unbelievably cheap, the service was friendly and prompt (when AH's grilled bass was brought out with scales, gills, and eyes that looked like they had seen too much, the waiter offered to de-bone it for him), and, most importantly, the food was ah-mazing.  The spaghetti with (cooked) mussels will quite possibly go down in my personal history as the best pasta I have ever tasted- perfectly cooked, rich but not too oily, and garlicky and spicy without being overwhelming.  Perfection.

Day 4: The Colosseum and the Forum

While we had a minor snafu getting our tickets (after waiting in line for 25 minutes, we get to the front of the line to discover a tiny, inconspicuous sign telling us that no credit cards were accepted.  We were 1 euro short in cash.  Thus a trek around to the other side of the Palantine ensued, where we waited for another 30 minutes behind the 10th tour group of French teenagers we'd encountered that week), the Colosseum and Forum were definitely worth the frustration.  Thanks to Rick Steves, we learned all about what an actual day at the Colosseum would have been like back in Rome's heyday (hint: they had to perfume the stands to drown out the stench of carnage), and we learned that the scattered rocks and columns of the Forum used to make up the temples and buildings that were the heart of ancient Rome.  Note: if you ever fall down a wormhole and end up in ancient Rome, do NOT attempt to pass yourself off as a vestal virgin, no matter how swanky their digs are.  They got dragged through town naked and buried alive if people found out they were less than virginal. 

Day 5: Good Coffee and the Catacombs of St. Priscilla

Finally, on our last day in Rome, we were able to track down Sant Eustachio, the espresso bar that came highly recommended to us by friends.  Surprisingly cheap for how completely excellent it was, I think AH's only regret there is that we didn't discover it sooner so that he could have had it every day.  They even served decaf cappucinos so that pregos like me could have our fix, too.

Perhaps our biggest coup of the week was getting outside the city to see the amazing (well, if you're a seminary student, or at all interested in early Christianity) catacombs of St. Priscilla, a burial complex for the early Roman Christian community.  AH and I were looking forward to booking a guided tour, but balked when we found out that it would cost 100 E for the two of us, and stumbled across some fairly negative reviews of the tour company.  Luckily a little extra research paid off, and we were able to figure out a good route out of town via public transport.  Our efforts definitely paid off: we were rewarded with an English guided tour of the catacombs and its stunning frescoes; my favorite was one of the Last Supper that depicted women around the table communing with the men (this was the 2nd century CE, and women's roles in the church are really still A Thing?).  Alas, no pictures allowed, so you'll just have to take my word that it was awesome, and definitely worth checking out if you're ever in the area.

While we had an unquestionably amazing time in Rome, as AH has said, some parts of our experience began to clue us in as to why Italy is having such horrid economic problems (glass houses, yes I am aware).  In addition to our little snafu getting tickets for the Colosseum (would it have been so terribly difficult to put that notice at, say, the front of the line?), the public transport left something to be desired.  To be fair the metro system is limited (only two lines) because there is an extremely limited area where they can build massive underground structures without disturbing important archaeological sites.  However, getting around the endless, depressing maze of the Termini station (the only station where the two lines intersect), you would think that you were at Chatelet les Halles, not a station at which there were only two metro lines, leaving four possible trains that one could take. TERMINI, WHY YOU SO BIG AND CONFUSING?

So while I think that taking up permanent residence in Rome would lead only to bald spots (from pulling my hair out), it definitely made for an excellent babymoon, a quite possibly-last hurrah of AH and I as a duo before we become a trio.  And if that last paragraph has left you in doubt as to my lingering feelings about the eternal city, let me remind you that I am well aware that I have gone from this:

And this:

And this:

Oh, and this, too:

Back to this:

*The irony was not lost on AH and I that for our babymoon we chose to venture to a land where the most common phrase that we heard from the locals that we interacted with was "prego."

A Letter to My Fellow Traveler

To My Dear, Dear Fellow Traveler,

It was nearly two years ago that your father sent me the now-legendary text message: "Hey, want to move to Paris?", kicking off a short, frenzied series of discussions about whether or not we could possibly envision ourselves in a foreign country, learning a new language, untangling ourselves from nearly everything familiar and comfortable.  But we knew then, and that knowledge has since been solidified into a certain fact of existence, that we would always have a safe harbor in one another.  So why not take that harbor to somewhere with better bread and more vacation time?

Back then it seemed that life could offer no greater adventure than life and romance in another country.  But, dear one, as we looked at our first pictures of you (well, the first pictures where you had a face and no tail), punching your tiny fists at the ultrasound technician who was treating my uterus like bread dough in need of kneading, we knew that, once again, our lives were about to completely unmake and then remake themselves again.  Only this time, we will be the harbor, and you will be our little ship.

You, darling, our now our Fellow Traveler.  You have already expressed a preference for Alsacien cooking, but a distaste for fresh green things.  I'm hoping that next week in Rome that you find that you enjoy pizza and gelato.  And when we travel to Germany (by which time, hopefully, you will have made the tiny studio apartment of my uterus into something more condo-like), I hope that you discover a love of sausage and non-alcoholic beer.

But, my love, even if despite the best of efforts you come to demand chicken nuggets over poulet roti, powdered orange cheese over brie, Dora the Explorer over children's museums, you will still be the greatest adventure of our lives.  And we cannot wait to meet you.

Love,
Your Mother