Documenti

“The length of this document defends it well against the risk of its being read”
-Winston Churchill

Being in Italy is not all fun and games. Some days, we get down to business.
In Italy, obtaining the proper documents is a lesson in patience and persistence. Italians love their documenti.
The Italian Consulate in Portland, as well as guidebooks and websites said we must obtain a “Permesso di Soggiorno” (permit to stay) from the “Questura” (local police) within 8 days of entering Italy. The Permesso is also necessary to buy a car (which we desperately need) but, alas, can take up to 3 months to process. On Saturday, we got the 10-page Permesso document (from the Post office, not the Questura), only to find out we need a telephone number, permanent address and Codice Fiscale (tax code) to complete it (none of which we have). We also got the 4-page form for a P.O. Box.
Monday’s goal: get telephones, Codice Fiscale, P.O. Box and Permesso di Soggiorno. It was a lofty goal but we were determined.
We took the local bus from our village to Imperia, skimming the tiny narrow streets with inches to spare on either side. The bus horn honks around every turn like a clown horn—high-low, high-low.
Getting the phones was relatively simple, as so much depends on how patient Italians are with my halting, limited language skills. I think I said, “We would like to buy 2 phone. Much, much, cheap.. To talk he and me for 3 months or 1 year. Do you understand please?” The Vodophone employee was sweet and friendly, and we were out on the street with our telephoni in less than 20 minuti.
We then asked at the Imperia information office where we could get the Codice Fiscale and followed the streets to the “x” she’d marked on our city map. No matter how simple the directions, we always seem to get lost. As we were all mildly bickering about whether we’d gone too far or not far enough, a man with long curly hair, smoking a cigarette, asked in English, “Can I help you find something?” We told him we were looking for the place to get our Codice Fiscale. After much discussion with the people inside the building, we learned it USED to be this building, but had moved. He gave us another set of simple directions, but again we get lost. Here’s Jeff: “No I think it’s this way” (points). Here’s me: “No, I think it’s this way” (points). The inevitable frazzled nerves of travelling and getting lost. Tired, frustrated and thirsty we finally found an official building “L’ufficio Imperia somethin-somethin”.
We walked inside the stuffy, airless building and Jeff immediately turned around to wait outside. We got him back in. After thoughtful determination as to which button to push on the ticket machine (to get a number) I then saw people filling out documenti. I asked at Informationi “I would like Codice Fiscale, please?” and am handed (you guessed it) more documenti. We hadn’t finished the documenti when our number appeared on the board, then it disappeared. We were finally directed to the stern looking woman at the #10 desk, next to Informationi. I handed her the number, and she fired off about 6 sentences in rapid Italian, ending with a question? I say, “Please, please speak more slow. I’m American. I’m sorry. I speak only a little Italian. I would like a Codice Fiscale please”. And I show her the unfinished paperwork. She asks something else (still fast) and I shrug my shoulders and try to look contrite. She rolls her eyes, taps her pen and looks around for someone else to deal with us. “Per che un Codice Fiscale!” she asks us, (why do we want a Codice Fiscale!) and I fumble through my bag and show her the application for the P.O. Box. She mutters “No, No, No!”, and storms off disgustedly with our application. Jeff and I look at each other, and frown. Jenna looks away. She comes back and says something else we don’t understand. Then says “Passoporto!” and Jeff hands it to her. Then blah blah blah “Shenghen VISA!” and we say “no Visa”. She rolls her eyes again, lets out a puff of angry breath and storms off. She comes back, shaking her head. We hear the words “No, blah blah, STAMP, blah blah, Italia, blah blah, visa” and I think she needs to see the stamp we got upon entry to Italy. I show her my passport and she seems a little more satisfied (later we saw that Jeff’s passport “stamp” was a faint illegible marking). She leaves again with both our passports and the documenti. It’s tense (but we need this document!) and at the same time it’s also absurdly funny, in a really tense way—so of course I crack up at the completely wrong time. I can’t help it. I stifle a hysterical laugh, which causes Jeff and Jenna to giggle as well. She’s so stressed, so disapproving, as if to say, “Why are you wasting my time with this petty request? It’s ridiculous. Why do YOU need a tax code? Why are you Americans even in Liguria? Go to Tuscany with all the other Americans. Learn better Italian!”
Now a man comes back to the desk with her, and he talks on her phone to someone else. We hear “Si, si…no, no…Americano, casella postale”. He gets off the phone and calmly says something to the woman. She fires something back, turns to her computer and mutters “emmay, eee, tay…” and we realize THAT’S MIT…she’s spelling our name! After she finishes Jeff’s name, she forcefully stamps the documenti several times and finally hands us our official CODICE FISCALE. Oh Joy! We come out of the building, and I am practically shaking.
On a roll now, we headed quickly for the post office to get our box.
We painstakingly filled out the 4-page document necessary for a “casella postale” (P.O. Box) with our new telephone and Codice Fiscale numbers. A helpful woman shows us how to open box, etc. I ask whether the Questura is open, she said no, domani (tomorrow) but then sees our Permesso docs and says, “No, no you must go to the CGIL (immigration) office first, then back to post office THEN to Questura”. Of course, that makes sense.
At the CGIL office (which turns out to be an immigration office) we hand over our Permesso documents. “Per che Permesso di Soggiorno?” (why do want the Permesso?) “Well, we stammer, we’d like to buy a car”. “No, no, no Permesso” without visa impossible, etc. And we’re back to where we started. We frown. Finally, a kind, helpful employee who spoke a little English comes over and sorts it all out. He says WE DON’T NEED a Permesso di Soggiorno to buy a car—all we need is a Codice Fiscale!
“Va Bene” (it’s good!). We leave, satisfied we have all the documenti necessario to buy a car, and we spend the rest of the day at the beach.

NEXT UP: la spiaggia (the beach)