" Baba no, it's Babá " part 1

The title of this series probably seems a little strange right now.

Give me three posts.

I promise it'll make perfect sense.

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My mom has been a teacher for as long as I can remember, and my grandmother was a teacher before she retired. That meant summers weren't just a break from school—they were an opportunity to see another corner of God's beautiful world.

Every year they planned a trip somewhere extraordinary.

Two summers ago was no exception.

The only difference was that, somehow, the stars aligned and I managed to finagle my way onto this adventure. It wasn't easy. Work was especially busy, disposable income was scarce, and I hated the thought of leaving my husband behind knowing how much he would have loved this trip, too.

Eventually, I gave myself the pep talk I needed.

Life is short. You may never have this opportunity again.

Without another thought, I marched into my boss's office and asked for the time off.

Then, as if everything were falling perfectly into place, my mom's uncle—who had recently retired from one of the major airlines—generously gave me a buddy pass. Suddenly, the biggest expense of the trip had disappeared.

For one glorious moment, life was good.

Then I remembered one tiny detail.

The trip was in three days.

And I didn't have a current passport.

Somehow, through a whirlwind of paperwork, luck, and more than a few answered prayers, I found myself buckled into an airplane seat just three days later.

We were headed to Rome.

Rome.

Just saying those words still makes me smile.

From there we'd visit Sorrento and the Amalfi Coast—places I'd admired in magazines and travel books for years. Every few hours I'd catch myself wondering if I was dreaming. Surely people like me didn't just wake up one morning and find themselves wandering through Italy.

After arriving, we grabbed a taxi to our hotel, took a much-needed power nap, showered, changed, and headed toward Piazza Barberini, where our shuttle dropped us off.

The moment I stepped onto the streets of Rome, I was completely enchanted.

Beautifully dressed people hurried past centuries-old buildings. Every corner revealed another breathtaking view. History wasn't tucked away behind museum walls—it surrounded us. There was life in every piazza, beauty in every building, and a feeling that somehow time moved just a little slower there.

That evening we wandered until we found a charming little trattoria overlooking Piazza Navona.

It couldn't have been more perfect.

Our waiter greeted us warmly with fresh bread and sparkling water before disappearing long enough for us to discover that dinner in Italy operates on an entirely different schedule than dinner in America.

No one rushed you.

There was no subtle pressure to finish your meal so another table could be seated.

Dinner wasn't something to cross off your list.

It was something to savor.

I ordered penne with salmon. My mom chose cannelloni, and my grandmother ordered lasagna.

While we waited, the square came alive around us.

Artists displayed their paintings beneath the fading evening light. Vendors sold handmade crafts, wine, and little treasures that begged to be taken home. A group of young musicians sang "Hey Jude," while street performers acted out an animated drama entirely in Italian.

There was so much happening all at once that I hardly knew where to look.

When our meals finally arrived, every minute of waiting was forgotten.

The food was wonderful, but what I remember most is sitting around that table with my mom and grandmother, laughing together as the sun disappeared behind the ancient buildings.

It's one of those evenings I'll remember for the rest of my life.

After dinner, I ordered coffee.

With cream.

Simple enough...or so I thought.

Because we speak Spanish, we were able to understand bits and pieces of Italian throughout the trip. But this was one of those moments when the similarities between the two languages weren't quite enough.

In Spanish, cream is crema.

In Italian, it's panna.

After what can only be described as an enthusiastic combination of charades, hand gestures, and a little impromptu Pictionary, our waiter finally understood what I was trying to say.

A few moments later he returned.

Not with a tiny pitcher of cream.

With an entire bowl of freshly whipped cream.

Now that was panna.

I considered the misunderstanding a complete success.

After dinner we strolled through Piazza Navona, admiring the artists who lined the square.

One painter especially caught our attention. His oil landscapes of the Italian countryside were breathtaking. He may have been missing a few teeth, but what he lacked in dentistry he more than made up for with extraordinary talent.

My mom, who has always loved sunflowers, bought one of his prints.

To this day it still hangs in her home, and every time I see it I'm transported back to that warm Roman evening.

The following day we spent our time exploring Rome before heading out for dinner at a restaurant someone from work had enthusiastically recommended. They warned us it would be difficult to find, tucked away in a narrow alley near the Spanish Steps.

Its name was Nino's.

To our surprise, we found it almost immediately.

Our waiter looked like the Italian version of Robin Williams—animated, funny, and completely determined that we order the evening's appetizer.

Every few minutes he'd reappear beside our table with theatrical enthusiasm.

"Would you like the zoooochini piiiiiiiiiie?"

He stretched every syllable as though he were announcing the evening's greatest masterpiece.

To his obvious disappointment, all three of us politely declined.

Instead, I ordered the mushroom soup while my mom and grandmother each chose the white bean.

I can still taste that soup.

It was incredible.

A few minutes later our waiter returned with a grin and set an appetizer in the middle of the table.

"The zoooochini piiiiiiiiiie!"

Apparently, "no thank you" wasn't an acceptable answer.

Thankfully.

Because it was, without question, the best zucchini pie any of us had ever tasted.

Little did we know, that unforgettable appetizer would become the beginning of a much longer story.

To be continued...