A Morning at the Questura (Police Station)

We have four more days in Citta della Pieve before boarding our train for Napoli and beginning our volunteer stint. Jet lag is dogging us, but we persevere. Humbly, I have to say, we have been kicking domestic butt. Toby rented a car in Chiusi, and we set off for the questura (police station) in Perugia to renew our permesso di soggiorno which allows us to stay longer than three months at a time and return to Italy, having been away less than three months. This endeavor began two years ago with a trip to the consulate in San Francisco, a surrendering of passports, a remittance of $$, and for a moment a big helping of worry, as at one point it appeared it might all be for naught. But a lovely Italian woman took pity and issued a visa to be used later at the questura along with a thousand documents that testified to the fact that we wouldn’t be an economic drag on the state of Italy.

We made our first visit to the questura in Perugia last year to obtain our first permesso di soggiorno. It was predictably onerous. We immigrants were shuttled into an airless, dirty, depressing-as-hell little room with five “sportelli” (windows) occupied by anywhere from zero to three officials who seemed to come and go at will for no obvious reason. We had an appointment that time so it went smoothly enough and only took four hours. Not one of the workers behind the windows spoke English. In fact the only English to be found was on a poster on the wall asking, “Would you like to go home?” in five languages, English included. You got the feeling they really would like to you to go home. Besides the two of us there were a score of Africans and a couple of Albanians.

Fast forward to yesterday…the same airless room, but a little less crowded and hot due to the time of year. This time, though, having missed the December appointment they had arranged for us when we applied last September, we followed the protocol for losers who miss appointments. That is, to let the date of the appointment pass (“Don’t bother calling. They’ll just tell you to let the appointment pass, and then show up”). So we did. We showed up. But there didn’t seem to be any process for people like us who show up. In fact when we worked our way to one of the windows, the signora seemed to be taken aback by our situation. Head shaking ensued. Italians do a lot of head shaking and tongue clicking in such circumstances. She looked at our passports, took our names, and messed around with the computer a bit and said, “Aspettate” (Wait!) and gestured dismissively in the direction of the wooden chairs lining the back of the airless room.

So we waited. After more than an hour, I worked my way up to a different window where I had noticed the guy in charge had been smiling a little. I took this to be a sign. At first he seemed rather encouraging, but then our first point of contact, the signora, intervened and shooed us back to the wooden seats. “Aspettate!” Yes, we’ve got that waiting part down. A little crumb of info as to what might happen next would have been helpful. It was clear at this point that the signora was our only chance for some kind of resolution. And about this time, she took out her purse, applied some lipstick, took in hand what looked like a lunch or snack or something and then promptly disappeared. Oh god, she disappeared. The older I get the less patience I have, and honestly I was born without any patience at all. We were well into hour two.

I was desperately bored, so I struck up a conversation with a lovely gentleman from Libya whom I noticed speaking English with a another couple from Libya. He told me he had lived for several years in the United States- Philadelphia, Detroit, Miami, and had been living in Italy for some years where he got his PhD. He said he couldn’t go home. “War,” he said. Things had been so much better under Gaddafi. And now, he claimed, things were so much worse here in Italy. “We used to have a great life, an international life. My friends were from everywhere. But now they’ve made it so hard.” The light dawned. This is why the permesso di soggiorno’s which used to be good for several years were no more. We now must show up annually, pay the fees annually, stand in line interminably, annually because as the Libyan gentleman put it, “There are too many black people”.

The signora returned, processed a few groups and finally called our names. She was surprisingly chipper as she asked for various documents-passports, bollos (expensive, fancy-ass, official-looking, shiny gold stamps), receipts etc. and took our fingerprints. And then, where are your photos. Photos? We need photos? Oh no but you have photos from last year’s PDS. “Non abbiamo cambiato molto!” I said in my best Italian. “We haven’t changed that much!” Some people in the room laughed, but she was unmoved. Could we go into town to get them and bring them back? Yes! “Go to the COOP, and behind the something, there something, something, something pharmacy something.” In times of stress my already limited receptive ability deserts me entirely. Fortunately, my Libyan friend who was simultaneously interpreting at the next window for the couple heard the exchange and told us what to do and where to go. “On foot,” he said. The signora with stern face adds that we must be quick because they will be closing soon. What? Another lunch? “Go! Hurry!”

OK, we’re off. We’re running in the general direction that everyone was pointing to, dodging traffic and periodically asking directions. Hot, sweaty, out of breath, but we arrive at a little photo booth beside the COOP. I’m first. All directions are in spoken Italian, and by now I’m getting nada. I just keep pushing the green button until I hear a click. The machine wants to know if I’m satisfied with my picture. Well, considering it looks like it belongs on the wall of the police station, yeah, I’m thrilled with it. Toby is next. I am outside the booth, hearing directions in English. Damn! Why is it speaking English to him and Italian to me? That is so wrong. His has the expression of a person the moment he discovers his first gray hair- sort of disturbed surprise. We race back down the hill- 15 minutes. We arrive in time. It’s all good. We hand over our criminal/shocked photos. The signora is pleased. “Tutto Ok!” We’re done.

We’re so done. Lunch by the lake on our way home is our reward. The process begins again in September when we make our application, gather the documents, fork over the $ and wait to be given an appointment that we will no doubt not be here to attend.

Why are we doing this? We don’t even stay longer than 3 months at a time. Well, because if 2020 goes the way of 2016 , we will have a plan B.