questura adventura

Adventures in the Questura (police station) in Italy...

To stay in Italy for longer than three months, I need a visa and a permit to stay (called a Permesso di Soggiorno). The visa was issued in Australia, not a problem.

But the PERMESSO! OH!

DAY ONE
On my first day in Italy, I went to the Questura to register. It has to be done within 8 working days so I figure I might as well get it out of the way. At the Questura, I line up behind the machine to get a number, and then I fill in a form that I mostly have to guess at. The form requests two passport photos which I don't have with me, so I leave to find a little photo machine. When I return, the Questura is closed.

DAY TWO
I arrive at the Questura, photos in hand, only to be told that I need to be at the OTHER Questura, which is about a 30 minute walk away, almost off my map. I arrive just in time to see the sign that says 'only open until 1pm' - it's around ten past. Hmmm.

DAY THREE
Primo Maggio, the First of May, national holiday. For my permesso, does this count as a working day I wonder?

DAY FOUR
Again I arrive at the Questura, this time at 7am. I wait an hour and a half with my little number in hand, and then an angry Italian guy comes flying out of the office shouting something about 'il sportello e chiuso, numeri zero alle venti dammi adesso'. This means that the machine that spat out my number is in fact closed, and I need to give him my number. This I do, and he disappears for a while before returning to yell at everyone for a bit. Then suddenly everyone gets in line and waits their turn to be personally yelled at. Eventually it comes to me and I put on my best 'scared little Aussie girl' face and say 'Non parlo Italiano, ma bisogno un Permesso di Soggiorno' - I don't speak Italian, but I need a permit to stay.

Suddenly, the terrifying yelling man becomes quiet, and asks me a few polite questions in English before giving me a new number. Apparently Aussies are special in Italy.

Three hours later, it's my turn to be served. He tells me that I need my passport and I hand it over. I also need 4 ID photos which I give him, as well as a photocopy of my passport and visa. I smugly hand him everything he needs, and when he tells me that I need to pay two taxes, I take the exact change required out of my purse.

"No, you don't pay these here; you must get this one from the tabbaccheria, and this one from the post office." These are, of course, back in town, 30 minutes away, and the place is closing in an hour. I smile, not surprised that there was something I missed, and I return to the city with my documents.

DAY FIVE
I attend the first day of school instead of hanging with the angry yelling man. After school, I line up for 45 minutes to fill in a weird little receipt for my tax payment at the post office. Then I buy the other stamp at a tabbaccheria. Sorted.

DAY SIX
Again, I go to school in the morning, because there is a sign saying that Permessos can be attended to on Thursday afternoons, and today is only Wednesday.

DAY SEVEN
After school, I go to the Questura and again line up behind about 50 people until I finally encounter the scary yelling man. He kindly tells me that the Questura is only open for COLLECTING the permit, not for HANDING IN the documents. I have to go back tomorrow. At this point I almost cry but laugh instead. At least I'm getting a lot of exercise.

DAY EIGHT
My alarm doens't wake me up. I awaken at about ten and freak out, thinking I will never get served today, and it's my 8th working day here! ARGH! So without breakfast I run to the Questura, missing school. Again there are about 50-70 people already waiting when I arrive but there is a new scary yelling man in a funky green t-shirt. I pull the same 'scared little Aussie chick' routine and he says something to me that I think means 'wait and I will get you a number'. So I wait, wait, wait. Finally scary yelling man number one sees me and says "Ahhhh, che!" which means "oh it's you!" He tells me to come inside and wait in line.

The people in front of me yell a lot about something to do with being married to an Italian, it involves old people who are sick, I listen for a while and try not to faint from hunger. Finally they are done and the guy says to me "Arrivo" - I'll be back in a sec.

20 minutes later he returns, and I hand him my hard earned documents. He asks me a few things, and then tells me to line up at the other queue for my fingerprints to be taken.

The other queue is headed up by scary yelling man in cool t-shirt, and about 15 minutes later I get to press my fingers onto the scanner thingy. He gives me a document and tells me that I have to return to Bologna in 3 months to collect my official permite (for now I just have a receipt). I already knew this so I smile, that's fine, yay!

But THEN he tells me that I need to go to the OTHER Questura in the centre, to do something or other with a piece of paper. It has to be a Tuesday or Thursday.

DAY TWELVE
The paper I was given says I can go to the Questura between the hours of 9am and 1pm, so I skip my second class and rock up around 11. The address is wrong, but I stop a sexy Italian cop and he gives me directions. When I arrive, a polite lady says "Dimmi" which basically means "Speak!". I show her my paper and she tells me that I needed to be there at 8am, because by 9am all the numbers are finished. I must now return on Thursday at 8am (again missing school) to collect a number, then hang around until 9 when it opens, then however many more hours until my number comes up.

So the saga continues.

On the bright side, it would have been disappointing if it was too easy. I am, after all, here to experience Italy.

(Let's not forget that this is a country where you do not buy stamps at the post office - instead you buy them at the tabbaccheria. Someone jokingly asked if you buy cigarettes in the post office. Ha, wouldn't surprise me!)