Get right with the law

MAY 15 CRESPELLANO—Last Wednesday it was time to get right with the law and visit our dear friends at the Servizio Immigrazione at the Questura del Comune di Bologna (Bologna Municipal Police Station.) The day dawned dreary and cool. Not a good omen. Moreover, the felines had gotten up at the crack of dawn, as is their custom, and started tearing apart the house. So much for a good night’s sleep. I had to get up early to take Stef to work so I could keep the car. A quick jaunt over to her firm, Focus, and it was back to hit the shower then the road.

I lucked out on my drive over to Crespellano—the new Coldplay was on the radio in between the morning buzz crap that seems to be on the radio everywhere in the world. Radio, unlike TV, seems to be pretty much like home, just without the right wing nuts and sports radio jockeys on the AM dial. I’m still waiting for the left wing nuts to hit the airwaves in the States; if Al Franken is the best we’ve got, we’re really hurting in terms of balance. He would be pretty centrist in Europe. Anyway, I drove the normal route (it’s becoming more automatic now) to meet Stefania’s dad at their house; he was coming to along in case there were any problems. Stefania had some important meetings that she couldn’t miss.

Franco was waiting and we immediately headed out towards Bologna on the Bazzanese, the county highway that goes into Bologna. We actually jogged over to the Via Emilia before cutting in towards town so we could arrive at an area called Borgo Panigale to leave the car in an Ipercoop parking lot as not residents can’t drive inside the Porte in the center of town. Borgo Panigale is the district where the airport is located and the Ducati factory is headquartered. From there we could take the 13 bus to Via Ugo Bassi and get off near the two towers.

The bus starts off not to crowded but gets all the more so as it continues into town. I’ve learned not to sit down for there are always many older folks who ride the bus and need the seat more than I. A gypsy girl playing an accordion got on at one stop and played all the way down the aisle collecting spare change from passengers. People are surprising patient with all of the immigrants here that are at every major road intersection. The Pakistanis seem to have cornered the market on cleaning windshields while the gypsies work the buses. One never sees people of Arab or North African descent begging; they seem tobe a very proud and hardworking group of people who have gotten a bad rap because of all the bad things going on in the world. The women, often wearing the Tchador, keep a very tight rein on their children who seem very well behaved. There is also a large group of sub-Saharan Africans here, too. Two Senagalese were sitting behind me one day talking Wolof. How do I know this? Because they sprinkle French phrases in their speech. For example, I think that there musn’t be a system of counting in Wolof because you can always here the Senagalese saying all of their numbers in French. Wolof is the major tribal language of Senegal, the former French colony. I also know that there is a lot more Senagalese emigration than from their neighbors on the Ivory Coast. There are also people from Ghana, Nigeria and Kenya here as well. I can tell the difference because they speak a mixture of their tribal languages with English mixed in.

After a stop by Franco’s accountant ( ‘commericalista’), we walked to the Questura which is right off the Piazza Maggiore. We inquired where the immigration office was and were told to go round back and that it was across the street from the back door of the police station. Coming around the corner we had the unpleasant surprise of seeing a large number of people, mostly from the Middle East and Africa in various modes of traditional dress milling in front of a yound dark-complected man in the dark blue uniform of the Polizia Nazionale, white belt and all. He couldn’t have been more than 25 and was a very affable gent. The crowd had him surrounded and were hounding him as to when it was there turn. So we muscled our way in (you’ve got to learn to be more aggressive if you live in Italy, the concept of organized lines seems to be lost on the residents of the boot). We were under the impression that we had an appointment. This was only true in a general sense; we had number 139 and they were on number 75. It was comical to watch the young fellow try to pronounce everyone’s name instead of just calling their number. He did as well as any receptionist in America does with mine. Thus we shrugged our shoulders and decided to grab two cappuccini and two cornetti at a local bar. I stopped and bought a Repubblica for the wait on our return.

The only benefit I could gain from standing in line was our good fortune to be near the door where the cop cars brought the perps. A few car loads came in then the doors opened and this tall African man was let out into the street weaving a tapestry of profanity. He was hollering something about the police having not given him his bags back. He disapeared then came back a few minutes later with a cigarette but no light. So now he goes to one of the other cops milling around smoking out back and had the temerity to ask for a light. One smoke later and he was gone again only to return, this time with a beer. After a while I got tired of keeping my eye on him and went back to my newspaper.

Two hours later my number was called and we were ushered into a small room with five tellers behind bullet-proof glass. Three 30ish looking fellows in blue jeans were working as fast as they could behind the counter. Candidates for the long-stay permits were hurling every excuse imaginable at the employees as to why this or that was not in order. One man was saying in broken Italian that his wife, also a candidate, couldn’t come because she was at home sick. The employedd curtly replied that although this was surely the case, all candiates must be present in person. Basta. Period. Thanks for playing. Next.

I was next. He about fell off his chair when he saw that I was American. He musn’t have been used to seeing candidates from my part of the world. He took my forms and his hands moved in a blur of staples and stamps. He told me to photocopy the form he handed me and come back in 5 minutes. The fellow guarding the door was nice enough to run across the street and do it for me for free. While we were waiting we were talking with one of the employees who was preparing to leave for the day. I asked him about working and he laughed and said not to worry. He said since I was American my papers would be expedited with no problem; it was just a matter of time for the bureaucracy to churn out my permesso di soggiorno which in addition to being my residence permit would basically allow me to work.

Unfortunately for most of the other candidates, who by the looks of them were wearing one of their few outfits, you are judged by where you come from. Same thing at INS in the States. It’s not a question of the color of one’s skin but more a question of motivation. I come from the richest country in the world and am married to an Italian so I have different ‘motivi,’ the word the employee used, than someone who rode across the Mediterranean in a rickety boat. I was told basically the same thing when Stef and I had our final interview with INS in Kansas City. We had a whole bag of items to prove we were really married but the lady waved us off saying that in Stefania’s case there wasn’t anything to worry about. She wanted to look at our wedding photos simply because she was planning a trip to Italy. The desperation in the immigration office in Bologna, however, was palpable.

It’s actually a whole lot easier in Italy to get permanent residency than in the States. Just four forms, an 11 euro stamp, four photos and fingerprints and I should be good to go—but only after the 21st of June. That’s when I have to come back and pick up my permesso. The man recommended that Stefania come too just in case anyone had any questions. All I know is that in the U.S. we filled out a dossier of forms two inches thick, had obligatory doctor’s visits—with their doctors, photos, fingerprints, background checks and $800! And this was is 1998, well before 9/11. I wouldn’t want to try and get even a student visa nowadays wether you’re from Western Europe or on the State Department’s shit list.

I think I can look for work but can’t really be hired until after June 21. They gave me a slip of paper that indicates that my application has been filed and that I am waiting for final proval but that probably wouldn’t cut the mustard with any company trying to stay on the right side of the law. Hiring takes forever here anyway, so it probably doesn’t matter. After I get my permesso I might apply for citizenship just to have it. The U.S. allows dual citizenship with some countries. That way I would have it no matter what happens. We’ll see. I’m just gald I’ve got one more odious duty done.