Here to Help, Except When We're Not

With this tale of convoluted bureaucracy and whack-a-mole obstacles, I prove once again that living (legally) in Italy is not for the fainthearted

Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash

Cari amici,

After a glorious day of temps below 30 degrees and cooling cloud cover, the heat is back and, so the forecast goes, here to stay for a couple of weeks. Aria and I are hunkered down with our despised/beloved Pinguino (because no, six months in anticipo won’t suffice to obtain the needed permits for an AC installation), feeling sluggish and about as capable of coherent thought as a pair of sweaty socks. Which is why today’s letter didn’t arrive last week as planned.

Well, that’s one reason. The other was that I couldn’t write it. I couldn’t relive, so soon in the aftermath, the story I’m about to tell. Because, yes, dear readers, today’s tale is a cautionary one, reinforcing what I always say—it’s best not have much in the way of expectations when you’re trying to get something time-sensitive done here in bella Italia. Specifically, I’m talking about two days last week, the culmination (well, sort of) of months of pulling strings, battling doubts, and conquering confusion in obtaining my 15-months-overdue permesso di soggiorno (residency permit) and applying for the long-stay permit I’m now eligible for.

Unfortunately, there is no “long story short” version of this tale. Buckle up.

Having no permesso means waiting around with zero idea of when, or if, the thing will arrive, which creates problems I won’t go into here. As is often the norm lately, the permessi often arrive already expired or with only a brief period of validity. That’s a problem because to renew it or apply for the long-stay permit, you need a valid one. Which is why, when pulling strings to get my permesso-gone-AWOL resulted not only in its arrival in July but also a scadenza (expiration) of September 30 instead of the usual May 2, I decided to apply for the long-stay permit. Obstacles, schmobstacles. Because who knows, if I applied for another “regular” one, there’d be a good chance it would arrive already expired, making the coveted long-stay permit a Quixotic fantasy.

The list of requirements for the long-stay permit, posted on the Polizia di Stato website, isn’t particularly daunting: you need copies of expired permits, identity card, passport, and tax documents; two police reports; a civil status/residency document; proof of the required minimum income; and, supposedly only for families with children, a certificate saying your house is habitable. (Pay attention to this last one; we’ll come back to it.) Oh, and money, in the form of various fees for said certificates and the permit itself.

Another requirement, for those who aren’t exempt for whatever reason (one of which is having a A2 level language certificate), is a language test. Which I have to take, since I have no such certificate (and never thought I’d need one, being on the citizenship track). In the many, many, many hours I spent trying to figure out if I could apply for the long-stay permit with a language test pending; trying to find one relatively close to home in the wasteland of summer; finding out the soonest one (listed on a central language-school website) would be on September 11 in Assisi; wondering if I could get proof of registration, then apply last-minute for the permit; talking to the school in Assisi and finding out, well, no, actually, they’re not offering a test on that date, how’s October?—in the midst of all that I discovered that what I needed to do was apply online to take a test via the Ministero dell’Intero. Which I’d read before, but the provided link didn’t work. Finally I found a functioning link to a new registration portal, where it clearly states that I can apply for the long-stay permit as long as I’ve registered for the test, which must be taken within 60 days of that date. Since I’m supposed to leave for Malta on September 20, I had a narrow window to apply, and I couldn’t apply without the receipt number for my paid permesso application.

Now, the thing about these permit applications is that they all use the same modulo (form), whose instructions, for the most part, say oh-so-helpfully to “mark the appropriate box.” Gee, thanks, I never would have figured that out. The question is, what’s the appropriate box? For example, if you’re a regular permesso holder and you’re applying for a long-stay permit, is it a rilascio (release of a new permit), a rinnovo (renewal), or a conversione (conversion of an existing permit to another type)? I’m an extremely literal person, and this kind of thing can hang me up for days. An immigration website said it was a rilascio, and when I asked two friends who’d applied which box they checked, one said rinnovo and one said conversione. Great.

Because another part of the form gave me pause and I was determined not to get denied because I filled out the form incorrectly, I decided to go to a Patronato for help. There are many Patronato offices, which offer help of various kinds—taxes, immigration issues, etc.—and the one that could, supposedly, assist with the permit packet was, supposedly, at Via Mario Angeloni, 43, which, supposedly, opened at 8am on Monday. This was Sunday.

Here we go. It's Monday morning. Since many offices require an appointment, I call them at promptly at 8. The phone rings twice and disconnects. Not good. I try again, and again, and again. Okay, maybe they actually don’t open until 9, I reason, or maybe they don’t accept phone calls. I’ll just go there.

Number 43 is one of those mazelike office complexes, and from the moment I enter I know I’m doomed. Office after office is empty, either under construction or abandoned; still, I hold out hope. Then I see it up ahead, the Patronato ACAI, my destination—dark, empty, desolate. Mannaggia! But wait! A sign in the window states that as of February (which year is anybody’s guess, but from the looks of the place I’d say 1969), they’d moved to number 51. Okay! Off I go, again.

Since the entire building is under construction, it’s hard to know where to go, especially since making the street numbers visible wasn’t a priority for the builders. I wind around the building, failing to find number 51, and go into a nearby office to ask for help. The woman there directs me across the alley, up the stairs to the first floor. Across and up I go, and yes, there it is—also closed and abandoned, and with no hint to where they’d gone. There’s an occupied office next door, so I go in and ask if they know. No clue. But there’s another Patronato down the street, next to the post office; I should try there. Okay!

I know this is the wrong kind of Patronato, but it’s worth a shot, right? After telling me I need an appointment, the woman at the desk grudgingly admits she can answer my questions about the form. (The correct box is rilascio, it turns out.) I ask about the habitability issue (there’s a section for that)—it’s not necessary, right? Because of what the Polizia di Stato site says? No no no no—the woman is practically pounding on the desk—è assolutamente necessario!

But you see, getting the needed document is a process (we’ll get to that later) for which there’s no time, given my window of opportunity. So I fill out the form and go next door to the post office, where I hand in the 50 blank pages of my passport (it’s new, and twice as big as my old one) and my reams of police reports and tax documents and my credit card and escape with the coveted receipt in hand. One hurdle down! Now I can apply to take the test. But I know better than to feel even remotely celebratory.

Once home, I immediately start filling out the application form, a process that comes to a screeching halt at the field for a PEC email address (required), which is used for official-ish correspondence. It’s not that I don’t have one; I do. But my password never works (or I should say passwords, because in some mysterious ways that defy comprehension, the PEC is connected to Aruba, who issued the address, and my Poste ID account). Having been defeated too many times to count, I’ve been ignoring my PEC email. Now that’s not an option.

Two hours later, with new passwords set up for Poste ID, Aruba, and the PEC account, I have a functioning PEC email. Finally, I can register! I’m hoping the process is automated and I’ll receive a test date on the spot, but no. Instead, the page claims, I’ll receive an email within 24 hours with the test information. Cool. I’m within my needed window to safely trot off to Malta with my son in September.

As you might have guessed, 24 hours comes and goes. My PEC inbox remains empty. Worried that something went wrong, I write to the help desk to ask when I might receive the promised email and/or if I’d failed to do something correctly (this despite having received proof of my registration, down to the hour and minute). Miraculously, I hear back from them within hours. Alas, they can’t help me, they say. What I need to do is go to the local Prefettura, who can tell me the date of my test.

There are two Prefettura offices in Perugia, but only one deals with immigration issues. According to the minimal info available online, the office is open only on Monday and Wednesday mornings. This being Tuesday, if I don’t go the next morning I’ll have to wait a week. In my current, ever-increasing state of anxiety, waiting isn’t an option. I cancel the plans I’d just made for Wednesday morning and instead hightail it to the Prefettura, arriving 45 minutes early to join the crowd that’s always waiting outside the door.

The offices open at 9:30, but two friendly, burly, gray-haired volunteers in Carabinieri uniforms let us inside the complex at 9, where I discover that appointments are required. No fucking way. I sidle over to Volunteer no. 1 and explain my situation. Clearly he’s confused by my mention of a language test, which is not a good sign. He consults with Volunteer no. 2, then they tell me to wait. When “he” (whoever he is) arrives, they’ll ask if he can help me. Fine. I wait, pacing. A man offers me his spot on a bench, but I’m too anxious to sit.

At 9:30 “he” arrives and the Volunteers have a word. I am to continue to wait. After a while “he” pops out of the office to personally tell me to wait. I don’t know, is that encouraging?

I chat with Volunteer no. 1, saying his job must be interesting, to which he replies piuttosto, which means “rather” or “quite,” adding that it’s sometimes difficult. I get it; immigration is a thorny issue with high stakes. After another while, Volunteer no. 2 tells me I can go in when the people “he” is helping are finished.

I go in. I present my time-stamped document and explain the test is for a permesso di soggiorno UE per soggiornanti di lungo periodo. I explain that I have no idea how the test works, that I’ve been worried because I didn’t get the prompt email the registration site promised, and I’m not sure if I need to schedule the test myself at the University for Foreigners or whatever, or if I need to stay in Perugia because an email might arrive at any moment telling me hey, the test is, like, tomorrow! Like the Volunteers, “he” is frowning as if he’s never heard of a language test. But he seems eager to help, especially when he spots my surname on the document. “You’re Italian!” he exclaims, and asks where my family is from. Then he takes his cellphone over to a window, probably to get a shred of a signal, and makes a call.

Alas, he says when he returns, the test dates for July and August, and into September as well, are fully booked (so much for that required 60-day window) and that my test will probably be no sooner than October. I tell him I have a trip planned, leaving September 20 for a week or more, and he waves a hand, saying, “Go, go!”

So now I wait. Because nothing ever goes as expected, I check my PEC email daily. So far, niente.

End of story, almost. Because there’s that housing certificate I should probably get, just to be on the safe side. More time, more money, because it’s not something I can just ask for. As a homeowner, I have to fill out a document stating that my house was built prior to 1967 and specify the year (dude, are you joking? sometime in the 1400s, sue me), provide the Atto di Acquisto (purchase contract) and a floor plan to a specified scale (either 1:100 or 1:200; fortunately, I have one that complies), and have a tecnico fill out a form testifying that my house is habitable. Since they don’t specify what kind of tecnico (though they probably mean a geometra), I’m going to ask my architect friend if he can fill it out. If not, I’ll have to hire a geometra and tack that cost onto the €34 fee for the certificate. Hey, what’s more money?

Hopefully I’ll have the certificate in time to bring it with me to my convocazione (for ID/fingerprinting) at the Questura (scheduled for January, “only” three and a half months after my permesso expires), because there’s no way to reach anyone otherwise. But aside from being disgruntled that I’m likely to be asked to provide a document the Polizia di Stato clearly states I don’t need, and one that requires jumping through several hoops, I’m disgruntled on principle. I could get this certificate one day and go live in a barn the next. This is a permanent permesso, so what’s the point of proving I live in a habitable home today? Tomorrow I could become a bag lady, living on the streets, impoverished by the never-ending administrative fees I’ve forked over in this damn process. What use would that housing certificate be then, hmmm? HMMMMM?

End of story, really. Please tell me you laughed, because otherwise we must all give in to despair.

Will I be sipping spritzes in Malta with my son in September? Chissà. Do I believe I’ll have a week’s notice before the test? Absolutely not. Will everything work out or am I waiting for dopodomai (an invented word that means “the day after never”), as my friend Giorgia’s late uncle Tonino used to say?

Comunque, it’s out of my hands. And it’s almost August, the month of summer ferie and beach-bound Italians, closed offices and stagnant city life. Maybe you’ll hear from me in the coming weeks or maybe I’ll give “Italicus” a little pausa. Either way, I wish you relaxing summer days, many chilled drinks, and zero bureaucratic nightmares.

Tante belle cose, alla prossima—

Cheryl

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Poem of the week:

• “Invictus” by William Ernest Henley (okay, so I’m being overly dramatic)

P.S. My book! Which you can buy here or on the usual sites, or, better yet, order it from your local bookstore. Another fab option is to ask your library to stock it. If you read it and like it, please tell your friends and/or leave a few lines of praise on any bookish site. You’d be surprised how much a rating or review helps authors. Baci!