1. The Police Station
In every informational book about Italy I’d read the same thing: foreigners must go to the local “questura” (police station) within 8 days of arriving to apply for a “permesso di soggiorno” (short-term residence permit). The Italian consulate in Toronto confirmed this, especially since I planned to work, legally, with a special visa. Well, I planned to do everything in Italy above board.
Like Jules Verne’s Phileas Fogg planned to sail around the world in 80 days.
Initially it wasn’t bad at all. In fact, it was fun! Even though I started at the wrong place, the young, hot police officer at the front desk was very friendly. He took my map and drew “the most beautiful route” to the questura, pointing out lots of nice places to see along the way. In fact, he spent so much time talking with me that he got a lot of teasing from a group of guys on their way out. Unfortunately their words were lost on me (but not their looks: the Italian police force seems to be comprised of male models moonlighting as law enforcers). Unfortunately he didn’t offer me a police escort...but it was a very pleasant afternoon at the police station.
I may be the only person who has ever said that.
Little did I know this would be the last ray of sunshine before descending to the depths of what I’m sure a modern Dante would have included in the bottom levels of hell...
the metastasizing tumour known as Italian Bureaucracy.
2. The Questura
They were deceptively friendly, those questura people. So much so that I didn’t even mind that the office I needed had closed for the day (at 12:00).
On my second try I discovered their terrible secret: they had no idea what a Working Holiday Visa was. Yes, that thing -- for which I’d photocopied documents, filled out forms, exchanged umpteen emails with the consulate, paid $150, and waited 6 weeks to get – was an indecipherable mystery. They’d never seen it before. They regarded it with heads cocked, curiously, like chimpanzees assessing a Swiss army knife.
“Do you need a permesso?” they finally asked me. Well, they didn’t actually ask that question, as at this government office for supplying foreigners with residence permits no one spoke English. They used Google Translate.
3. The Post Office
It turned out that the questura was once again the wrong place, as the forms that maybe I needed were actually at the post office. (Obviously.)
When I went there and made my request, I received a “kit” of paperwork. Usually when you hear the word “kit” you think of something small and basic. But you wouldn’t think that if you’re in Italy. This envelope contained approximately 50 pages (single-sided) of forms to be completed. Everything, including the instructions, was in Italian. Only. (Guess the Québécois don’t have a corner on measures for enforcing the Mother Tongue.)
4. Italian-speaking friends
Took one look at the mess, recoiled in distaste, and instantly directed me to an office set up, in part, to help people fill out these forms.
5. My Italian teacher
I hope it wasn’t rude, the way my mouth fell open when she said she could help me do it all on a coffee break. Fifteen minutes! Lady, do you realize what this is??, I just managed to refrain from saying.
[Meanwhile, the 8th day had long come and gone...]
6. Post office number two
My teacher made good on her promise, and I returned to the post office triumphant. (You have much to learn, young one.) Like in Groundhog Day, the whole cycle began again. “Are you sure you need this?” Three different women huddled and conferred, like a line of coaches preparing their team to pulverize the enemy.
After some consulting of the playbook (a dusty government manual) and approximately one eternity later, it was decided that yes, I did actually need what the consulate in Toronto had taken some pains to tell me I needed.
However, unfortunately I was missing some paperwork. And I had to buy a special stamp. Which was available at the local tobacco shop, of course.
7. Post office number three
After buying the stamp, making more photocopies, and filling out another form I figured I was ready to finish things off for this permesso, once and for all. (Oh, young one...)
I arrived at the third post office with everything ready to go.
But who knew that I had to make an appointment to drop it off?
And apparently I had to go to the questura again. Nobody knew why, but they were pretty sure, yup, they definitely thought, yeah, that could be a good idea.
8. The immigration office
Remember this, from #4? I decided it was time to pay a visit.
For the third time I was asked, “Are you sure you need one of these permits?”
A smarter person would have recognized this as a sign from the universe. “Uh, no, actually, but thanks anyway.”
But my naïve sense of responsibility, combined with an unfortunate doggedness to finish what I’d started, wouldn’t let me quit.
My new helper took a look at the forms...and freaked out when she saw they had already been completed. “We’re supposed to do this for you!” she cried. Then she saw some mistakes. Deaf to my pleadings to give liquid paper a chance (“No, we can’t use it. It’s the rule.”), she was about to throw out the whole sheaf out and start all over again...
...when my anguished imploring caught the ear of her supervisor, who, with an indifferent glance in our direction, drawled “Liquid paper’s fine.”
The rest of our meeting passed more calmly. Except when I got a little upset because she gave me ANOTHER STACK OF PAPERS TO FILL OUT.
It turned out that these were for my employer. Dodged that bullet, I thought, luckily the school can deal with those.
Once that was done I would return to the immigration office, fill out another form, go to the post office and deliver the kit, wait for it to be received and processed, return to the questura to get fingerprinted, then get my permesso for my six-month stay. Which might be over by that point.
9. The School (my employer)
Here’s where we hit the first snag. Oh, excuse me, the 207th. Apparently I didn’t have the right forms.
At first my boss told me that I should return and get the correct ones.
A few minutes went by.
Then she said, “You know what. I don’t think you really need to do this.”
(OK, universe, I’m beginning to get it.)
“In fact,” she continued, “this paperwork is ridiculous. I’m not going to do it.”
(You can just, like, decide that?)
“Here’s my advice,” she said. “Don’t go back to that immigration office. Or the post office. Just...disappear. And don’t worry about it.”
“But what if I ever get stopped...” I didn’t even get to finish the sentence; she was shaking her head like I’d just asked “But what if I grow a second head?”
Then she proceeded to extol the virtues of a free and open economy like Canada, and told me, in the nicest way possible, to go back there as soon as I could.
10. Hiding from the law
And so: I don’t have a permesso. I do have a working holiday visa, which, for every Italian in officialdom I’ve encountered, is like saying I have some Martian dollars.
Apparently the fact I don’t have this permesso will not be a problem (bluntly: “you’re not black”). So to put it in a nutshell: I’m illegal in Italy!
You know, I’ve never been illegal before. It’s kind of a rush.
(Dear Mom and Dad: Don’t worry, everything’s under control.)
