In Italy, they say that rubbing a pregnant woman’s tummy brings good luck. Just like rubbing St. Peter’s marbled foot at the Vatican or the wild boar’s bronzed snout in Florence. My tummy, whose trespassers have usually just been my husband or my doctor, is now out there for all of Rome to pat. I never imagined the strange sensation of having a body part open for grabs to people whose hands you’ve never even shaken.

My tummy arrives before I do, greeting the faithful as it reaches the crosswalk first, perched sturdily between my hips like a melon. Upon noticing my bump, women smile and men stare a little longer than perhaps they should. It’s as if I’m at a dress rehearsal on the catwalk yet my clothes are two sizes too small, and I sure don’t feel like a supermodel. My jacket won’t zip up to my chin anymore, and my chest pops up beneath zippers like an 18th-century dame in a liaison dangereuse. Until I invested in trousers with an elastic waste band, I walked around with my top button undone. My best friend, who is a foot shorter than I am, loaned me some maternity clothes – most everything fit except her bellbottom pants which, on me, are Capris (and I’m not referring to the island near Naples).

You would think that Italy, the land of alta moda, would have elegant and hip maternity clothes. But the few clothes I have found in Italian boutiques make me already feel as if I’ve skipped a generation and graduated to retirement in a housecoat.

The famous Italian “Pre-Natale” store should actually be called “Apres-Natale” since the majority of its goods are for babies rather than the moms carrying them. Another maternity store in Rome, called “Faire Dodo,” sells pants that end up around my ankles, leading me to conclude that their label actually indicates what the tailors were doing while sewing. Since many of the maternity stores in Italy have French names, I guess I should fly to Paris if I want to dress like a chic pre-maman. Instead, I compromise with surfing online at American stores and receiving SOS pregnancy packages from the States.

Pregnant women I have seen in New York and Paris swing their voluptuous hips sexily as they wobble around in high heels and tight jeans – their bump looks like a chic accessory swiped off the first floor of Bendel’s or Bon Marche’. But in Italy, oversized overalls and wedged sneakers are the trend for pregnant ladies, and I’m not into the farmer look when I already feel like a cow.

Now you’re probably thinking that I’m about the most superficial pregnant woman around, and that all I care about is the clothes. Hardly. I’ve worked hard to get where I am to being five months along the road, and experienced some of the hardships that many women have in trying to get pregnant. And now that I am here, I am reveling in my body changing, and the little kicks my baby sends me to remind me he’s listening.

It’s hard enough being pregnant while living in one culture and trying to block out the countless opinions that surface from your mother to your drycleaner. But it’s twice the challenge hearing opinions from one side of the Atlantic to the other. I’ve had to expand my gynecological vocabulary in Italian and find a doctor who will understand my yelling in English through contractions yet still know how to be authoritative in Italian to nurses.

I’ve had to forget about comparing notes on medication with American friends because, when in Rome do the drugs they do. American friends, for instance, tell me to take pre-natal vitamins; my Italian doctor said they would only make me fat and that I should really take maternal vitamins. (I still haven’t figured out the difference between the two but, as far as I can tell, they both work.)

American friends of mine have graciously offered to throw me a baby shower and some even ask me where I’m registered. I tell them my wedding registry was closed over a year ago. Italians won’t even think of giving baby gifts until the tot has yelped its first cry in the delivery room. (Doing so is the opposite of rubbing pregnant tummies, and makes Neapolitan moms do the sign of the cross instead.)

Italians love commenting on weight gain, too. I should have been prepared for this since I’ve had to defend my one-year-old Labrador from snide comments about her furry figure. “She should run more,” they say. “You feed her TWICE a day?”

An Italian aunt of mine said to me recently, “I’m so pleased to see your butt getting bigger.” Yes, these are the comments I cherish for journalistic purposes that, perhaps, make my chubby cheeks rosier. As a result, my Labrador and I do pre-natal downward dogs in the living room in front of the television set. By the end of the DVD, we salute the sun and are ready to conquer the Opinion Oppressors on our walks around the block.

One friend of mine, upon hearing I was pregnant, gave me some advice: “Kids are never the problem; people are. People who would never advise you on anything will suddenly start telling you what to do. I encourage you to be our own judge and make it clear to people around you that you politely disagree and so do please shut up about it.”

The discussion of names opens the floor like a community board meeting. Everyone puts in their vote, tsk-ing at your favorite choice or making you feel evil for not commemorating that great-great-great uncle everyone so loved. My husband and I are struggling to find an Italian name that will be pronounceable in American circles. To silence the curious, we often tell them we’re thinking of calling him Benito or Adolf.

Although I crave American delicacies like peanut butter, English muffins and Oreo cookies that are hard to find in Rome, being pregnant in Italy is a culinary swoon. Ripe vegetables, fresh fish, homemade pasta, and gourmet gelato make my tummy rounder every day. Sips of Brunello or Chianti are also encouraged by most Italian doctors in a culture where wine is thought to enhance tastes rather than drown them.

After a glass of wine one day, I asked an American friend if she drank in her pregnancy or highlighted her hair. “When I thought about the fact that my mother said she was too hung over to deliver me on my due date, I decided highlights and a little vino wouldn’t hurt a thing,” she said, the mother of two healthy boys.

That was the day I realized that there aren’t that many cultural differences – and that I should start to practice following my maternal instinct. On both sides of the Atlantic, I find a touching enthusiasm for the arrival of a new creature into this world. Men have shown me that chivalry may be dormant but can be resurrected at the sight of an expecting mother as they open doors, carry grocery packages, or offer a seat on public transportation.

I rub my own tummy, hoping it’ll bring me good luck for delivering and raising my son. In doing so, I feel like a genie, and love thinking about the elements of surprise that await me.