“It’s beautiful out. Where are all the kids that should be playing outside?”

“This is the problem with America.”

“You know what? Our kids are gonna play outside. They’re not gonna be playing video games all the time. Or watching TV. There are going to be restrictions.”

“Until the kids go to bed.”

“Right. Until the kids go to bed. Then we’ll watch tons of TV.”

I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I think I might have started liking Spencer Pratt. Maybe “like” is a strong word. But it’s not just that I’m tolerating him more, I mean, I’m getting a big kick out of the guy. Did you see that episode of “The Hills” where Heidi’s ex came to visit and Spencer spent basically the whole episode riding the guy for his religious/innocent ways? Did you see that? Was Spencer kind of awesome in that one? I mean, he was, right? A little bit hilarious?

In other reality TV news I shamelessly tuned excitedly in for the “Jon & Kate Plus 8″ season opener the other night only because of all the drama that’s been going on lately with their disintegrating marriage and whatnot. Then yesterday, I bought the “Us Weekly” with the couple on the cover. I felt guilty about my interest in their problems for about five minutes before I realized that they decided to make their lives a reality show so, you know what? They’re going to have to deal with it. So the fact that I groaned every time they decided to show typical footage of the sextuplet’s fifth birthday party, taking precious time away from focusing on the real deal troubles between Jon and Kate, does not mean I’m a bad person. Obsessed with trivial gossip? Maybe. But whatever, I’ve racked up the volunteer hours and we have a Prius so I’m doing just fine as a human.

My father, who used to hold Nora under the arms, a foot out from his body, with a look of terror on his face, shouting, “Do I still need to support her head? Do I still need to support her head?” was, by the end of our trip, picking up the baby at even the hint of a whine, taking her for a walk in her stroller when she was getting tired during our dinners out and happily blowing raspberries on her stomach, eliciting many laughs. Very good, Nonno. You have come a long way.

My mother is always telling us that she heard somewhere that the sign of a good vacation is that you are ready to go home, and I am ready to go home…to see my husband, of course, and my dogs, and sleep in my bed. And this is good because Vinnie, Nora and I fly home tomorrow. So the rest of the stories will have to wait until I am back in Connecticut.

It’s funny, because after running all over Rome with the baby - eating in countless restaurants, visiting historic sites and pushing the stroller through mad, Roman traffic - I am so much less concerned about flying with an infant than I was before the ride over. In fact, I’m looking forward to it! There are changing tables in the bathroom, for one thing. After another improvised changing set up in a restaurant restroom this evening (which involved my sweater as a head prop on the floor), I am very enthusiastically awaiting the luxury of the airplane.

The thing is, of course, that I would have changed the baby on a million more floors in bathrooms the size of a postage stamp in order to go on this trip. What a wonderful trip to Rome. Yes, I am ready to go home, but that doesn’t mean that I am not so sad to leave. I am already anticipating telling Nora, when she’s older, about that time we went to Italy when she was just a baby. The trattoria where the wait staff held her for the entire meal. The church where she spent half an hour babbling happily while looking up at the expansive, ornately decorated ceiling. All the bread she threw on the floor. Perhaps another May, some years from now, we’ll come back to show her exactly where it all happened.

“Ok. Six days out of the week I email you with ideas, questions. Every two weeks we each write an op-ed piece. After two months we start writing a piece every week. At the end of four months, we meet in New Haven to discuss our progress.”

“And a winner? Is there a winner in this ridiculous little program?”

“The winner, Cara, is the American public.”

In an effort to compete with J (who took the above and so many other great pictures) and his various hobbies, I have become completely obsessed with The Pantheon. I went back yesterday for my second visit because I can’t get enough of that place. Somehow I don’t think it’s quite proper, or adequate, to say “I can’t get enough of that place” about the Pantheon, as though I’m talking about the DSW shoe warehouse or something, but I’m serious. I’m completely in awe. It’s worth a trip to Rome just to stand inside and stare up at that inconceivable dome and feel the power so much bigger than yourself - yes, literally and figuratively.

I don’t know why, but Rome has been mobbed with Americans the past few days. More so than usual. Maybe it’s because Memorial Day weekend is coming up or maybe because May is a nice time to visit Rome, but there they are, in bars and in huge walking tours, eating gelato and having a glass of wine in Piazza Navona.

I saw one older gentleman today peering at rows of different types of pizza at a small place near the Campo de Fiori. He ran out to his wife, who asked him what he’d been looking at and he exclaimed, “Oh, we’ll be coming back here. Pizza!” Pizza! Such a simple thing. So excited to be in Italy.

When I was younger, I couldn’t stand the tourists, especially the Americans, despite being one myself. I remember when I was about 14 or 15, on a family trip to Rome, thinking that I could blend in with the Italians much more successfully than the others. That typical teenage arrogance. I did so by prancing about in outfits like flowered denim overall shorts and straw caps. I know because there are pictures of me dressed like this riding in a gondola in Venice. I’m sure I fooled everyone.

Now, I love the American tourists. For one, it’s comforting to see and hear other Americans. I can barely speak any Italian and it’s fun catching a conversation in my native tongue…watching family dramas play out, hearing other English-speakers comment on this great country. Plus, I’m over the youthful delusions. I know I’m not passing for Italian, and am happy to be part of the American tourist club.

Part of the reason I don’t mind being grouped in with them is my second reason for liking the tourists and that is, simply, that they’re here. They’ve come to Rome! I used to imagine tourists weren’t cool enough to understand magnificent works of art and the finer points of European culture. Really. Teenagers! I thought maybe people flocked to St. Peter’s because they didn’t have anything better to do. Now I realize that they’ve taken the time to plan an important trip for themselves and their families, one that will expand their world view, one that they will never forget. One that even the sometimes-sullen teenagers will remember so fondly, although probably with a sense of cocky Romanticism…that time I went to Italy and was more European than the Europeans…when only I understood the talent behind the Sistine Chapel. The trip will make such a mark that someday they will have to return and see it again, with new eyes. When being blase is a waste of time and pizza - pizza! - is totally, totally awesome.

Along the Appian Way.

…a small bakery hidden away, a newborn baby carried proudly by his papa at a local bar, a shopowner hosing down the cobblestone, a puppy with big paws, the smell of espresso, the temptation of gelato, a warm breeze, lost tourists, a near wipeout on a rough patch of road, friends packed tightly on a too-small bench, teenagers starting to gather in the piazza, church bells, rock n’ roll, hastily shouted “ciaos,” warm sunshine on my shoulders, and finally, the bottle of mineral water I’d set out for.