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.


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