Trick or Treat

so there was this blinking message on my home answering machine. something i usually avoid answering because A – it usually isn't for me; or B – it involves someone speaking in rapid-fire italian trying to sell me a new phone service or ADSL package.

but there it sat...blink, blink, blinking and strangely enough this time i sensed it might be for me.

pushing the button, this is what mysteriously burbles out. (excuse the bad translation)

"Buongiorno, come questa" -something unintelligible- "questura"
-something unintelligible-
"Prati"
-something unintelligible-,
-something unintelligible-,
-something unintelligible-,
"Permesso di Sorggiorno" -something unintelligible-
"uffico" -something unintelligible- -something unintelligible-
"questa lunedi" -something unintelligible, -something unintelligible-,
-something unintelligible-
"pronti".

are my ears deceiving me????? did i just hear a message from someone at the questura on my home phone?

as my heart begins to beat at a mere 6,000,000,000 beats per second, i try and clean the cobwebs out of my stuck in neutral English speaking head, grab pen and paper and with sweaty palms, try to listen to the message again hoping, this time, to be able to decipher the secret message.


pressing the play button a second time, i hold my breath for 4 horribly long seconds as the machine rewinds...

(repeat same insane garbled message here)


then a third....

(frustratingly non-hilarious Halloween trick continues ad naseum)

and despite my ever growing frustration, i am still unable to make out whether the officer is telling me that my permesso is ready or if there is some sort of problem that i need to come into the office for.

throwing the pad of paper down in frustration, i grab every immigration document i have ever collected in the four years since i came down with the "I wanna live in Italy" flu, took the steps three at a time and raced down to the local police precinct faster than those buggy pushing grannies on their way to a K-Mart, blue light special.

arriving in 2.2 minutes, i am surprised to see a mere twenty pair of hopeful eyes staring back at me. this number of émigrés, waiting to be tortured by the Italian civil service, is smaller than usual, and it suddenly dawns on me that today is monday, which, besides being Halloween for Americans and Ponte for Italians, is question only day for the police at the Prati questura. as this realization sinks in, i dejectedly conclude that today is not going to be my lucky day and that there will be more tricks than treats before this crazy immigration nightmare concludes.

not even bothering to scan the now famous list of who's who in paperwork land, i pull up the last remaining free chair and let the dust gather atop me like the rest of the lost souls already waiting for bureaucratic salvation. sadly resigned, i assume that there must be some other reason for the call, some other detail that needs fine toothed review and so i pull out my paperback and tuck in for the long haul trying to not look forlorn and morose.

after only a few minutes, a woman in white lab coat (better to protect yourself from greasy fingerprint goo) walks out, takes one look at the mountain of documents i seem buried under and reminds me that monday is not a day for requesting permessos.

i stammer to my feet, an explain to her that someone in their office has called me and requested that i come in. she raises an eyebrow incredulously, makes a quick about-face, and says she will be right back.

looking around the room, i see all eyes staring at me in hopeful commiseration. like members of the same spent racing team, everyone hopes expectantly that at least one member of their bedraggled flotsam and getsam will go the longest yard.

Ms. Labcoat returns and asks me to please step back into the inner sanctum, high heels clickety clacking as she walks along the well worn length of the émigré weary corridor. we arrive at a small counter and i remember that this is where the other officer fingerprinted me back in February, this time however, instead of an ink roller, i see that that this angel dressed in white is holding a flimsy sheet of paper with my face stapled to it.

totally awestruck, she must remind me twice that it is necessary for me to sign in the big green ledger she is holding before she can give me my permit of stay, which i eventually do with shaky hands and questionable legibility.

closing the massive and frayed old book, she hands me my coveted prize and politely i thank her for both her kindness and for working on the famous "ponte" to give me my much anticipated document (well i couldn't very well thank her for contributing to my ulcer now could I?????).

she smiles and tells me "Niente" and helps me gather my accumulated mound of dead trees, walks me down the corridor, tells me good day and then shuts the door quietly behind me.

in the lobby again, i look straight into the eyes of all the hopeful faces, many of whom, have only just started the gauntlet i have been travelling on these long months. i nod my head that yep, they gave it to me and see smiles light up on some, as well as a few "wish it was mine" on one or two others. i understanding their waiting plight all too well, and trying not to gloat, i don't even look down to read what is written until i am a discreet thirty meters away from the station.

Scanning the page it is all i can do to not let out a big whoop and do cartwheels down the sidewalk!

My permesso is dated effective through October 31, 2007.

Like Martin Luther King once said.........."Free at last, free at last, thank god almighty I am free at last.


.......

Maybe......just maybe.

as part of my monthly self-flagellation ritual, i decided to stop by the Prati questura this morning.

why this seemingly strange and painful rendezvous with local law enforcement precincts you ask?

well, for those of you who haven’t had the pleasure (or displeasure) of hearing me whinge, up-close and personal, about this subject, my bizarre fixation with men in blue uniforms is part and parcel to my ever elusive quest for the Italian equivalent of the holy grail:

the renewal of my Permesso di Soggiorno for Lavoro Autonomo.

walking from the apartment along Viale Mazzini, i found myself acting-out every good luck superstition i know. wearing my lucky socks and armed with crossed fingers, toes, arms and eyes, i walk gingerly to avoid sidewalk cracks, throw salt with my right hand over my left shoulder and do my best not to draw strange looks from passing Romans who all thankfully have been spared the perils of bureaucratic insanity so often heaped upon stranieri.

but in spite of all my amulets to ward off pending evil, i am resigned even before i get there. resigned because i am almost certain that my name will not be on the coveted completion list.

reason for pessimism you ask?

an almost unalterable belief that my names continued absence must be directly related to the need for me to perform years of twisted penance for what must surely be multiple lifetimes of severe disrespect for government civil servants in general and men in blue uniforms in particular.

as a result, and like so many émigrés in Rome, it seems that i will be perpetually trapped upon the time-to-torture-myself-yet-again-with-ridiculously-futile-activity merry-go-round and so i have no false illusions that today will be any different.

that said, i’m not surprised when i scan down the list of lucky names on the "Nanny, Nanny, Boo Boo We have New Permessos and You Don’t” list taped to the glass booth at the entrance and fail to find my name. but as i look again for a second time just to make sure, rolling my pointer finger over the few names located under my alpha letter, (there are six) i am still disappointed that the fates have, once again, failed to give me the goods.

letting out a disgusted sigh, i check the list a third time, this time to see if my friend Eowyn’s name might be there, as she too is another hopeful "I wanna live in Italy even if it kills me" schmuck, but guess what....hers isn’t either, and as the injustice of it all overwhelms me, i start to become unglued.

this is my THIRD, yes, count it ......THIRD Permesso di Soggiorno.

not my FIRST,

not my SECOND,

but my @&%$£7&!!!! THIRD
such wonderful, obscene little, nasty, and all too necessary pieces of paper, and i want to shout this to every police official in the building!

i have lived in Italy for almost three years. i have one of the rare, but golden, work visas that desperate wanna-be Italy expats the world over would sell their sister into slavery for. i am gainfully employed, don’t jaywalk, and to date, have not killed anyone, (though the idea is crossing my mind more and more often lately in direct proportion to this never-ending immigration paper shuffling).

almost in tears, i begin to wonder if throwing myself on the ground in front of the station entrance and grabbing the ankles of the officer smoking his cigarette there will expedite my missing document. but thinking more rashly, and realizing my idea posed a substantial likelihood of having ashes thumped on my head, i suck up my frustration, put on my best unconcerned academy award winning smile and ask the officer politely if it is normal for a one year renewal to take eight and a half months.

“certo! Anche un anno!” comes the officer’s unconcerned reply

and so i push a bit farther, using my best damsel in distress mode..... sweetly manipulating, like Scarlett O’Hara wooing Rhett.

i explain to him in bold drama, why this itsy bitsy slip of paper is very important to me.....that i need my permesso for my residency

and that i need my residency, for my patenta
and that i need my patenta, to drive
and that i need to drive, to get to work,
and that i need to work, to....to....to....

to pay taxes!

“taxes?” yes taxes!

and bemused he suggests i speak with the paperwork nazi in the back office.

once there i knock timidly, remembering the last time they growled at me for entering their reserved castle without being summoned, but this time they seemed to be in a good mood.

one of the two officers looked up my information on their computer, then turned around, reached about midway up the bookcase behind him to a very small stack of folders marked “Nuovo Permessi”. from this stack of five or six files, he thumbed along and removed the one he was apparently searching for, with my name written on it.

holding my breath, almost faint, i begin to have hope, begin to think that maybe, just maybe, i was being to pessimistic early, maybe, just maybe, this might be my lucky day,.

opening the folder, he reads something and then snaps the folder closed.

“almeno un altro mese” he replies.

sometimes the gods of immigration have a sick sense of humor.

An umbrella for every occasion

Listening to INCUBUS - Under My Umbrella

When I close my eyes... I can see for miles. When I close my eyes... I remember why I smile. Under my umbrella...

Some people collect normal things....like paperweights!

Others venture into slightly more predictable acquisitions, dependant upon their regional location or recreational tendencies.

Travelers in the American southwest collect little spoons etched with the names of various tumbleweed cities. Italian tourists are hell bent in satisfying their ever growing need for micro-sized versions of Pisa’s leaning tower or Florence’s favorite phallic symbol.

I, on the other hand, (a stand in the elements, public transport brat) collect umbrellas. And while I refuse to label my brelly stash as obsessional, (Insert image of Imelda Marcos’shoe closet here) my ever-growing collection could be construed my some analysts as a bit of a problem.

I don’t collect umbrellas intentionally mind you, and certainly not of my own volition…..but taking a gander into my closet and viewing the ever growing stack, more than one casual observer has been lead to believe that I may have an uncontrollable fetish for the damned things.

The reality though, is that I am absent minded, more so, than usual these days and I keep leaving mine at home, when halfway through the day, the bottom lets out and it begins to rain, cats, dogs, baby elephants, small refrigerators, etc. And although I thought I moved to Rome, the land of fine weather and warm café’s, for the last six weeks, it seems as if I have been mysteriously teleported all the way to Merry Olde London.

Last headcount, the result of being a bear with little brain, I had purchased 13 of the little €4, buy-m-as-you-exit-the-metro-stop buggers since moving to Rome and to anyone who doesn’t travel via ATAC bus, tram, metro etc., this could appear to be a smidge on the obsessive side. I, on the other hand, have decided to consider them my new found and inexpensive fashion accessory. Now….if I can only remember to carry one (instead of just collecting them), have one suitable for almost every social occasion or mood swing.

There is my rainbow colored peace demonstration umbrella_- perfect for whacking George Bush with or perhaps Silvio Berlusconi if I ever get the chance.

There is my basic black “I am a poet, not Mary Poppins” umbrella which is, of course black and very small, not large with a talking beak and which goes remarkable well with my black boots, black skirt, black blouse and black purse (do you detect a theme here????)

There is my “I AM A TOURIST AND I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT IT” umbrella, which is a replica of Filippo Brunelleschi’s fabulous Duomo and one that I use when I am feeling whimsical about Firenze and also lend to unsuspecting friends when they forget their own (because I know I will alwaaaaaaaays get it back).

Then there is the Burberry plaid (or at least that is what everyone tells me) designer jobbies that an ex-boyfriend bought for me that I try and avoid at all costs, which, despite all my efforts, never seems to break or get stolen, no matter where I leave it.

There is the plain forest green jumbo umbrella that is great for kissing under or walking hand and hand with your favorite girlfriend window-shopping long after the shops close.

There is my bright neon yellow, “please don’t run over me in the cross walk” umbrella and my equally shocking I-bought-this-at-porta-portese-for-2€ model which even I agree is too cheap and too ugly for more than the most desperate.

Also for those raining sideways days, I often choose my “This is an Emergency!” orange colored, quick folding, ever-dripping metrobus model, designed to let bus drivers see me shivering at the fermata at more than forty paces.

Then there is my discreet, yet professional business umbrella collection, guaranteed to go well with all my work related attire and ranging in color and dimension from discreet gray, to wow! shocking burgundy.

Yesterday we had our first full workday of sunshine in quite some time……….

just hoping the good fortune continues before I succumb to my urge to have a commando green umbrella of the hardened metro warrior variety.

my schizophrenic kitchen

listening to miles davis while making soup today, the sound of his lips blowing gentle like the humid breeze outside my, for once, rain free Rome apartment.

onions made naked,
sliced provocatively into half moon slivers
molding to my pan as they succumb to the influence of a pleasant sardo Vermentino
a touch of antilles scotch bonnets and a long lingering kiss from a bottle of sabina olive oil
left to simmer jauntily atop my stove.

now all they need is a saucy french hat (of gruyere of course)
to be worn atop a steaming crock.


sometimes cooking is a lot like sex.

~sparrow

A time to remember....

cried unshed monsoons this afternoon,

 

remembering her,

 

as i silently pulled large hanks of hair

out of my dying mother’s head.

 

she'd asked me to do this for her,

no way of knowing its price on my soul

or the even now too fresh images

of the night before

when she stood naked

after her shower

frantic, that the tub wouldn’t drain

for the tresses she had lost.

 

perhaps i was selfish, not wanting to see her go

three strands remaining

to every fifty or so

that slipped like silken feathers

to float into the wind.

 

“the birds can line their nests with it”

and I, gulping, “yea, sure, it will be soft, warm”

like the gentle hugs I was soon to miss.

 

as i watched handful after handful turn loose in my hands

i wished i was one of those birds.

 

~sparrow~

 

You Know You Live in Rome when…

you tell your relatives “I live in Rome, next to the Vatican” but you tell your friends “I live in Prati, just down from Piazzale Claudio-around the corner from Giacomelli’s.

you don't consider vespas driving on the sidewalk or seventy year old men checking out twenty year old girls unusual occurrences.

it takes you 55 minutes to ride 8 miles by bus from centro to EUR on a work day and you tell yourself “Che culo!”.

there are at least fifteen ways to get everywhere and you know which mode of public transportation to take based upon: the weather, time of day, current political climate or terrorism drill closures, (and whether you are coming or going).

filling out forms at the post office no longer scares the hell outta you.

you know that traffic lights are only opinions and that it is best to walk quickly in cross walks, even if you are elderly, despite the fact that they seem to indicate that you have the right of way.

"I couldn’t get to work because there was a sciopero " is a common and real excuse for being late."

finding a parking space" actually becomes an appointment on your daily calendar. (E.g.. 7:00-8:00 PM Gym, 8:30-9:00 PM - find a parking space, 9:00-10:30 PM - Dinner reservations with Paolo and Lorenzo.)

you don’t have a Walmart, Kmart or Target and don’t miss them.

you know exactly how much time it takes till your number comes up for your turn at the Post Office sportello and leave to do your shopping until immediately ten seconds before (cleverly pulling an extra two tickets for the nice old ladies seated next to you).

when you say “lets eat early” and you mean "lets have dinner at 8:00 PM".

you elbow tourists out of the way on the Metro escalators to "gently" remind them to WALK LEFT, STAND RIGHT.

going to work early means being there by 9:00AM.

you don't bat an eye at 500 UN workers and businessmen in suits running like their lives depended on it to catch an overpacked Metro car that will be followed by an almost empty one in 120 seconds.

You call it EE-KAY-AH and not EYE-KEY-AH, and are well aware that the two in Roma are just a "tad different".

when Fiumicino and Ciampino Airports are and always will be "Fiumicino" and “Ciampino, not "Leonardo da Vinci di Fiumicino” and”Battista Pastine di Ciampino”.

you never refer to the 'Metropolitana' as the 'subway'.

you can tell by the size of people's cars (or motorinos) where they live and maybe even what neighborhood.

you've claimed that there's nothing to do this weekend even when you have the entire country’s capitol to explore.

you have the Metro map and all bus routes completely memorized, yet act like you aren't from around here when someone asks you “which way to Trevi Fountain?”

you meet someone else who says they're from Rome and you realize they live an hour and a half away from you.

you notice that there's been construction on the same section of the Lepanto metro station for the past 2 years and yet you've never see anyone working on it.

you know exactly when you're approaching the city on a Sunday evening, without ever seeing a sign, only because your speedometer goes from 100km to 0.

you know that China is no longer in the South Pacific, but has now been relocated near Termini.

the few times you have gotten lost in Roma you have somehow ALWAYS ended up in Sette Bagni and every road out somehow leads back to Sette Bagni.

you realize that the Via Aurelia is Roma’s very own version of NASCAR.

you have learned that there is no such thing as North, South, East, or West on the GRA, just “towards this” or “towards that”.

you go anywhere along Tuscany’s Argentario for the weekend and everyone you meet is from Roma-bene.

you understand that all this rain temporarily means no more dog c”*p on the street.

ice on the roads just means that you pay more attention to other cars, but still go 75 mph on the highways.

you know at least 2 politicians.

it is more common to see cars the size of erasers than ones the size of Sherman tanks.

you know how to pronounce Julius Caesar’s name and know it doesn’t begin with a “J”.

you consider Northern Lazio to be in no way similar to southern Lazio.

you know which bridges to cross over the Tiber depending on if you are coming into, or exiting centro.

you can successfully harmonize with the alert for the name of the next metro stop on the B Line.

you have been known to steal figs and persimmon from city trees, but know to avoid the pretty oranges.

what i should be doing

Listening to 3 Doors Down “If I could be like that”

OK…..What I should be doing.....

1. Getting off my lazy culo and riding my bike with these guys around Terminillo.
2. Talking with J about organizing a Women in Black vigil for Rome this year.
3. Reading up on how to set up a list-serv in Yahoo for a new, yet unnamed, literary group in Rome.
4. Running by Il Goccetto to pick up my cashmere scarf that I left two weeks back.

In reality…..What I am doing….

1. Sitting in front of my computer still in my Jalaba, drinking my third espresso in three hours..
2. Writing a syllabus for a 2 day workshop on cross cultural communication in English.
3. My laundry.
4. Downloading an insane number of MP3 songs and wishing I had an MP3 player for the 11,000 hours I spend in the metro each week.
5. Getting ready to go to a business meeting ON MY DAY OFF!!!!!!!!!

Instead…..What I would like to be doing….

1. Going to a bookstore to drool over wine books that I need (did I just say need???????) but cannot afford to buy.
2. Listening to Al DiMiola playing Piazzolla but he always makes me think of old flames, chances missed and cold rainy evenings that left tears in my eyes as well as smiles.

3 – Knowing what I should be doing and where I should be headed.

And the word of the day is.....

Torschlusspanik.

 

(German term meaning "the fear of diminishing opportunities as one gets older")

 

sigh........