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.