Members of the European Union can travel freely within the
participating countries. They can work,
set up businesses, buy homes, live in them.
Americans have other hoops to jump through.
Within eight business days of arrival, one must file the
application for the “Permesso di Soggiorno”…permit to stay. That we did, in the Postale.
The Italian post office is more than just a place to send
mail and packages, they are an arm of the interior ministry and you can pay
utility bills and taxes via the post office. They are very modern and set up much like the
Social Security offices in the U.S. When
you enter, you go up to a computer and select the button that describes why you
are there. The computer then issues you
a number and you then wait to see it displayed on the LED screen. For us, it seems, there have never been big
crowds and they have an adequate number of people working, so our waits have
been very short.
When we filed for the Permesso, the postal clerk gave us an
appointment at the Questura (Police Department) in the county seat of
Pescara.
That day, November 19th, we took the hour long
bus ride down to Pescara and had already arranged to have our realtor show up
to help us translate.
The Office of Immigration was easy to find and the door
opened to the street. The scene inside
was less than pleasant.
It is a small room with a dull, grayish (possibly dirty)
ceramic floor in a herringbone pattern.
The walls are a sickly white.
There are, on either side, metal benches in black with only enough room
to seat 6 people. The far end of the
room, like a bank tellers’ counter, is glassed in with a mere two desks and
clerks. There were at least thirty
people crowded inside, milling about and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason
to what anyone was doing. Although there
was an old fashioned dispenser for paper numbers (such as at a deli stand in a
supermarket) it was empty and there was also an LED display high up on one
wall, but it was not changing.
Trying not to panic, we were greatly relieved when our
realtor arrived. She managed to wiggle
her way closer to one of the clerks and she figured out that they were calling
people up to the windows based on the times of their appointments and they were
not up to ours as yet. Phew!!
In another stroke of luck, when one of the clerks got to us,
she called out our name rather than the time and I heard her loud and
clear. Yay!
The clerk had our files, verified everything and handed us a
piece of paper to take elsewhere. Again,
without Daniela there, we would have been lost.
At that point we had to go to the actual police station, which is behind
a solid locked steel gate manned by an officer in a fortified cubicle.
Inside the gate was actually quite nice, with a small garden
area, a soda machine and an office building to the left. We could not find the room we had to report to,
so Daniela asked an officer who happened to wander by.
Once where we were supposed to be, two officers then checked
our photos, fingerprints, verified our height and that was that.
We were told to expect an email communication in
approximately six weeks, to let us know that our applications were being
processed.
So, imagine my surprise when, just three weeks later, I got
a text message (not an email) that the permits were ready. I was pretty sure I understood what the
message said, but I checked the translation anyway, just so there would be no
misunderstanding, especially with my anxiety ridden husband. The message said to show up on December 21st
at precisely 9:04 am. I was thrilled,
since they open the doors at 9, so we would most likely be the first people
called.
Not so thrilling was the fact that my greatest fear happened –
my knees gave out. I had done too much,
too soon and for too long, like someone starting a new exercise routine and
overdoing it and then having to be bedridden for a few days.
I did my best to rest and I applied ice and elevated the
left leg. I could walk around just fine
inside and I could even go uphill, but going down an incline caused
excruciating pain. So, with lots of
worry and trepidation, I awoke on the 21st at 5:30 am, in order to
allow lots of time to make the mostly downhill stroll to the bus station.
I put a soft knee brace on my good knee to give it extra
support. We took it slowly. When we came to the first incline, I went
sideways (as suggested in an article I read on the internet). Luckily, that early in the morning, no one
was around and lo and behold, going sideways worked. Lastly, there are a series of gradual stairs
to the station. Taking them one at a
time, like a baby, got me to the station without triggering the pain.
We discovered that there was a non-stop bus to Pescara, so
we hopped (hahaha…I struggled to pull myself up the bus steps) on that.
Feeling a bit groggy, it was hard to stay awake, but once we
got to Pescara I roused myself and my husband, since I could see the
station. Good thing, too, because this
non-stop did NOT stop in the bus station, but just outside and we nearly missed
our chance to disembark!
It was chilly but nice, perhaps in the low 40s and the sun
was just coming up. On our slow trek to
the Questura we stopped in a café for cappuccino. So far, so good.
We continued on our way and made it to the Questura with 10
or more minutes to spare. Another big
crowd was waiting outside the door to the immigration office. My first thought
was, “I’m so glad we have an early appointment.”
Then someone came outside and said something I couldn’t hear
and the next thing we knew was some young woman was handing out numbers…paper
numbers! What! I grabbed one when I could because, why
not? But I finally got her attention and
told her I had an appointment. Her response?
“There are no appointments today, take a number.” I thought she worked for the Questura, but
she was just another person waiting. I
think she was Russian. She saw my look
of horror and told me to follow her, she would help me inside. Already, this was chaos and I could see my
husband having a meltdown.
The door opened and the throng piled in. Two muslim women with two small children, one
with a bad cough. Some Asian men and
women, a lot of Africans, and those of us who are nondescript. One big,
disorganized crowd moving almost as a single organism up to two little
windows.
The Russian gal did manage to make her way through the all
the people and asked the man behind the glass about my predicament. He said the permits were ready (as I thought,
but what about the appointment?) but take a number and wait. Well, I already had my now wrinkled and
slightly sweaty little number and it was 19.
How the hell long is THAT going to take?
The seats were all taken, we were crammed into this room like
a NY City subway during rush hour, and the LED was displaying the number 93. 93? (Turns out they go up to 100 and back to
1)
For the sake of my knee, I did my best to evenly distribute
the burden on each leg. But sometimes it
became too much, so I had to balance on the just the good leg.
Someone stinks.
Really, really badly. There is a
very strong filthy body odor with an extra added layer or alcohol wafting over
to me. It may be emanating from someone’s clothes. Not wanting to start retching in the middle
of a crowded room, I tell my husband I have to get outside. “You can’t go outside, you will never get
back in!” He may be right.
With difficulty, I managed to wiggle over to a corner by the
wall where I was not exposed to whoever stinks.
Still standing. Number 99.
The Questura computers keep going down. They are on the second reboot. Number 2.
Now I have to move again, because I really can’t stand up on my own
anymore. So my husband props me up for a
while so I can relieve this weak knee.
While there are all sorts of much younger and seemingly able
bodied men sitting on the benches, another older lady behind me is saying
“Signora! Signora!” and she is offering
me her seat. “Grazie mille!” Even here, the same old, same old.
Numbers 4, 5, 6, 7 moved along pretty well until they got to
10 and had to do another reboot.
Waiting…..waiting……and I am wondering why on earth this
Questura is so primitive? One day they
have a system – call people by appointment.
Another day they are handing out paper numbers. The post office is ultra modern. The banks are ultra modern. The office where you get a tax id is ultra
modern. What is the deal with the Office
of Immigration? Why even send me an
“appointment” if the appointment is meaningless?
Number 17. At that
point I stood up again. Hurray, Number
19! At long last! It was the same man from earlier and he
remembered me. It took, literally, about
three minutes for him to find the permits, verify our fingerprints (THAT they
have, an electronic fingerprint machine) and we were OUT of there. So the 9:04 “appointment” became 10:15. And although that doesn’t sound like such a
long time it did seem, as it unfolded, like a never ending, uncomfortable,
interminable eternity.
We slowly made our way back to the station and were able to
catch an 11 o’clock bus back, bringing us home by 12:30 pm. By that time, the weak knee had begun to
throb and was more than ready for rest and ice.
But we made it. We did it. We are legal residents.
