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[Life in Italy]
After a long pause, a faraway voice bade me enter. I did and found a vast room, empty but for a single typewriter perched atop a tiny desk at which sat a single impiegata (employee). She confirmed that the office I wanted had indeed once been there, but it had recently been moved to another building. Suddenly demonstrating newfound energy, she whipped out a slip of paper, shoved it into my left hand and ushered me out. Before I knew what had happened, I found myself in the hall staring at the photocopy I was clutching. As it turned out, the new address was not far away, so I hopped on my motorbike (the only possible way to navigate in traffic-clogged Rome) and sped there at once.
Outside, I could find no sign indicating I had come to the right spot, but I knew that was typical for Rome. Soon enough, the doorman returned from one of his morning coffee breaks and sent me to the second floor. "Don't take the elevator," he added. Climbing the stairs, I cursed him for treating me like a second-class citizen, but when I reached the second floor I realized the lift simply did not stop there.
This time I had found the right office and the right person, but she immediately informed me the office was open to the public only on Tuesdays and Fridays from 9 to 12:30. It was Wednesday, so although I was standing right there, I was most definitely not going to be received. I did return the following Friday, when I finally got the interminable list of required documents, certificates, authorizations, etc.
I realized the gravity of my plight several days later when a Venezuelan friend informed me that his application for citizenship was still on hold after seven years because he couldn't furnish the Venezuelan equivalent of a penal record. I began to mull over the problem, and soon my mother came up with the first plausible solution: after calling the local police precinct, the local bureau of vital statistics, Social Security, etc., where no one had the slightest idea what she was talking about, she had a brainstorm. She placed a call to the California Secretary of State (actually, his assistant) and was told they do issue letters of good conduct. It's not exactly a fedina penale but it's better than nothing.
In the meantime, my co-applicant discovered that the FBI could solve the problem as well. However, to get a record clearance, they needed a set of fingerprints. My friend was leaving for New York several days later, so the FBI advised her to get her prints taken there. After several false starts, including having to track down a place where she could buy the regulation card onto which fingerprints are applied (criminals get one free), she finally did manage to get her fingerprints.
Meanwhile, back in the Eternal City, I had discovered that one could get prints taken at our embassy. I did and, feeling very smug, I mailed them off to the Justice Department. One month later, the first set was returned to me, marked “illegible for FBI standards.” With my extra card in hand, I went back to the embassy for a new set, only to find an irate throng of Americans milling around at the closed embassy gates. I had chosen to go the day the embassy was closed due to the budget battle. Embassies are not considered “essential services,” I deduced.
Eventually I did get the new set of prints and I mailed it off. Yesterday - only 3-1/2 months after the process began - I received my response. Stamped on the back of the card was this three-word message: “No arrest records.” What an anti-climax! Can it possibly suffice for those Italian bureaucrats who crave official letterheads, embossed stationery, illegible signatures and authorized seals? Who knows? In the meantime, wait until you hear my story about birth certificates!
By mid-March, I had finally received the documents (birth certificate and letter of good conduct) from the States that I needed. Not only did they now have to be translated into Italian, but the translator had to swear under oath that each translation was in conformity with what was actually written in the original. I, as the interested party, was not supposed to do it myself. However, after learning the exorbitant sum an agency would charge for the job, I begged a friend to do this enormous favor for me. The translation was not so much the problem, but the oath was. I had done sworn translations in the past and knew the ropes. One merely had to type it on legal paper, stick the required tax stamps (bolli) on and present oneself at the appropriate office that was located in the central court house (which has several locations just to make things complicated) for the oath. Though not difficult, it was an errand that could easily consume an entire morning, I thought. It was a big favor to ask of someone. I decided to do a trial run before sending my friend off with the real thing in hand.
Good thinking! The office had moved since I had last been there. When I finally found the right location, the three people waiting kindly informed me that there were never many people in the translation line. Someone vaguely mentioned that sometimes the line for the authentification of survey reports, which were done in the same office, could get quite long. In any case, I saw that there were two distinct waiting lists posted, one for each service. According to logic, there should be no problem. But I was wrong. On the day my friend went, the two lists had merged into one and the scene was somewhat similar to a crowd scene from Roma Città Aperta. It took her the better part of the entire day.
Still, I now had my translations. The moment when I could present my application was drawing closer and closer. All I still needed was the certified copy of my passport, easily obtainable at the embassy. Or so I thought. More about that in the next episode.
Several days later (the citizenship office is only open to the public on Tuesdays and Fridays as you will recall from Episode 1), armed with all my original copies and four photocopies of each one neatly divided into 5 separate groups, I presented my application to the bureaucrat behind the desk. In the last 6 months, she and I had become friends. She had shared my trials and tribulations with me and I, in turn, gave her tips to pass on to other Americans (poor souls) who were just starting the quest. She took my documents in hand and began to scrutinize. Everything was in order...except for the certified copy of the passport. After the consul has signed the copy, she informed me, one must take it to the regional government headquarters, where they check the signature to make sure it is authentic. The office in question was not far away. She suggested I run over immediately and then bring it right back. Obviously, I did. Just as obviously they blithely told me that I could pick it up on the following Monday. It was absolutely impossible to verify the consular signature that day because the office closed in 45 minutes. I wondered how long it usually took to verify a signature, but wise from experience, or simply resigned, I left the office empty-handed. The following Monday I collected it and consigned it to my friend in the citizenship office.
They now have everything, except for my W2 form (the Italian equivalent is a modello 101) for 1995. When my employer gives it to me, my friendly bureaucrat happily informed me, I'll have to make a notarized statement attesting to its veracity, and buy more stamps but make only one (not four) photocopies.
In the meantime, my application is being processed. I asked how long it would take. She acquired a very serious expression and said, almost under her breath, "Soltanto 3 anni" (only 3 years). I am still trying to decide if she whispered the answer because she did not want the others to know that I was receiving such rapid processing OR if she was embarrassed at the length of time it would take. I fully expect new developments to arise during my waiting period and if they do, you'll be the first to know. Otherwise, you're all invited to the party...in 1999!
Wrong I was. In the middle of August (actually the day before August 15, Ferragosto), I found a very official letter in my mail box from the Ministry. In trepidation, I anxiously tore open the envelope and read that a presidential decree dated July 1 had granted me citizenship. With a great sigh of relief and an enormous sense of satisfaction (if I were a sportier type I would have thrown my clenched fist into the air and shouted a vehement "yes!"), I began to realize that I had attained my quest ("goal" does not indicate the same emotional connotation). The note stated that I simply had to return to the office where I had originally handed in my application for further instructions.
I happily went down to visit my "old friends" at the citizenship office several days later, after having first made sure the office still received the public on Tuesdays and Fridays (forewarned is forearmed). They gave me back the heaps of documents (the originals) that I had handed in a year before and informed me that the only thing I still needed to do was make an appointment to be sworn in (at another office of course). I rushed over and was given the choice of day and date. It seemed like a dream come true. I merely had to present myself on the appointed day at the time agreed to with proper identification and two witnesses (I assume to testify that I was actually the person who had presented the application).
All five of us (several well-wishers had joined the fold by now) were there on time for my big day. I must admit the ceremony was short but sweet. After checking our identification, we were ushered into a small but intimate ceremonial room with flags and a very large desk. I had half expected piped-in music with the Italian national anthem (an entire band for me alone would have obviously been a bit too much and the room was already overcrowded with just us in it), but that was my only disappointment of the day. The official ceremoniously came in, put on his white, red and green sash, adjusted his hair (actually adjusted his hair, then put on the sash and then readjusted his hair) and swore me in. I was a citizen.
After a few complimentary phrases, I asked when I could apply for a passport. The next day, I was told. Wonderful, I thought. With my hand on the door knob about to leave, I suddenly remembered to ask about getting a new carta d'identità (the identification document which is required whereas a passport is not). My old one indicated that I was an alien resident. I was informed that a carta d'identità requires a birth certificate and since Italian offices do not have one on record because I was born in another country, I would have to go down the hall to the office which dealt with the transcription of foreign birth certificates. They were very kind there and informed me that I only had to acquire the documents from my home state, have them translated, take them to the consulate in my home town, have them authenticated and then....
Back to square one (but as a citizen this time). After all, if I had persevered and gotten the mass of other documents, what could possibly complicate one, little insignificant birth certificate! How many times had Dr. Richard Kimball thought he was about to catch up with the one-armed man in his never ending crusade?