The Cattle Call

"bureaucracy" from the Greek kratos meaning "power"

Bureaucracy is a part of life everywhere in the world, but in Italy, bureaucracy is an art form.  Not a nice art form, or a convenient art form, but an art form nevertheless.  It is also a giant pain in the ass!  Today we launched ourselves over one of the most important bureaucratic hurdles necessary to live in Italy.  Or rather, should I say, Ollie launched himself with me shoving from behind.  I say that because I am one of those fortunate people who have both US and Italian citizenship, and so, I have a whole different set of hurdles to overcome...but I digress.

Stepping back for a moment to explain where we are today, I must explain that in order for a US citizen to stay in Italy for more than 90 days out of every 180 days, one must have a visa.  Doesn't sound too bad, except for the fact they aren't so easy to come by.  First, one must qualify for one of the types of visas currently available.  You can get a student visa if you want to go to a University, but, of course, you actually have to go to the University for more than a panino and espresso, you must attend classes.  You can get an Extended Residence visa if you have a whole lot of money, possibly as much as a million dollars if you apply at the consulate in New York, and don't want to or need to work.  Or you can get a visa ricongiungimento familiare, otherwise know as a family reunification visa.   Of course there are other types of visas, including the elusive work visa, but they are not important for our purposes and I've never heard of anyone who actually has one.  Ollie, since he is married to Italian citizen, that being me, has a family reunification visa, good for one year.

Having a visa is only the first step, however, in actually getting to stay here.  Once our erstwhile traveler actually arrives in Italy, he must, within 8 days, present himself to the Questura (State Police) and notify them of his presence in the country.  There are exceptions to this rule, namely, our hero flew into Italy directly from the US and had his passport stamped at the airport, or his hotel was kind enough to notify the Questura on his behalf.  But, this is only the first thing he must do during those 8 days.  If he really wants to stay, and lets hope he does, he must also apply for the dreaded permesso di soggiorno or "permission to stay".

In order to apply for a permesso di soggiorno,  which I will refer to as a PdS for simplicity's sake, one must go to the post office,  or Poste Italiane, and request a Modulo, which contains the all the forms our hopeful expat must fill out.  Then, one must return to the Poste Italiane two times more until they actually have one. 

After you have your Modulo package in hand, you return home and try, using a chart, to figure out what the hell kind of information they're asking you for, all the while knowing that any error in the forms will add weeks or even months to the process.  Finally, the forms are completed and you return to the Poste Italiane with your Modulo in hand, and submit it for initial review.  Happily, you walk out with an appointment to return to the Questura in two weeks time to meet the polizia, submit a copy of your passport and 4 photos. 

Our first appointment with the Questura went very smoothly, except that we had to wait for 2 1/2 hours because the first appointment of our officer's day was arrested and he couldn't take anymore appointments until the paperwork was done.  Then, of course, Ollie has managed to wear off his fingerprints so we had to have the CSI's process them on their superduper live scan.  Other than those little bumps, it all went pretty well.

So that brings us to today.  Via the internet, we have learned that Rome has approved the PdS and that it is available for pickup in Genoa, back at the Questura.  We have gone to the Questura and obtained an appointment for 3:00 sharp this afternoon.  Us and 250 other people!

Now I have bragged to other members of the expat community in Italy, how efficient the bureaucracy in Genoa is.  Silly me.  250 people jammed into a small room, with no apparent heating, no bathroom, and nothing to entertain us but a photo booth and trying to figure out what language the guy next to you is speaking.  People speaking South American Spanish, Russian, Arabic and Ghanaese.  (I'm joking about the Ghanaese, I have no idea what language they speak in Ghana, but whatever it is, she was speaking it.)  A fascinating amalgam of cultures and languages all squashed together with one goal in mind.  Getting the damned PdS so we can get outta here. 

At 3:10 exactly, the loudspeaker screeched to life calling sportello numero sette, ottantuno, ottantadue, ottantatre, ottantaquatro, ottantasei.  Whaaaat?  Window number seven is starting out with number 81?  What happened to number 1?  And what about numero ottantacinque?  Did something happen to ottantacinque?  As the each sportello called out it's random sequence of numbers, we waited anxiously, until magic number centoquindice was called.  10 minutes later, we walked out of the now nearly empty room, with Permesso di Soggiorno in hand, good for 4 years.

Now one might be asking, what was Ollie's response to finally being able to stay legally in Italy?  Well, as we walked down Via XX Settembre he said: "Wow, I'm glad that's done.  Now you can't have me deported if I get out of line."