Today was the day my roommate Clara and I ventured forth into the great unknown of Industrial Rome to the Questura Ufficio Immigrazione, which is on Via T. Patini, 19, in case anyone needs to know. But don't expect it to be on any maps of the greater Roman area... After arriving last August, I submitted my information to attain my Permesso di Soggirono, aka: My Permit to Stay. Basically, it makes me a legal person living semi-long term here in Rome. It means I'm not just a tourist, I'm here to do something (in my case, study... English Literature. "Litteratura di Inglese? In Roma? Per che?" everyone asks me. Trust me, sometimes I wonder too!). Now, my understanding is that this process used to be fairly simple - a matter of going somewhere, performing some act like getting your fingerprints taken, giving someone some small amount of money (perhaps for the Mafia? One never knows), and then exiting that somewhere with Permission to be in the country. It's not that simple any more. Per che? Io no se! Perhaps because the Italian government seems to collapse every year and a half... maybe this was a law brought into action by some past government that hasn't been changed because Italy as a whole is more concerned about the health-hazard garbage problem in Naples or whether a region in Northern Italy is going to declare their independence from Italy... or who can wear the most designer items at one time, no idea! I just know that I have a lot more patience for people funneling through Ellis Island (wait, that's not in use anymore... but I somehow guess the process must have been similar!).
OK, so Clara and I left about 7:30 to catch a bus, which was the first of our 4-part journey. It was raining, which I did not realize when I got dressed because I hadn't bothered to look out the window. Lazy of me, I know. Anyone who knows me knows I HATE having the bottom of my jeans be wet. And since I don't go for the skinny-let jeans, if it's raining, my jeans ALWAYS end up wet! Today was such a day. 2 inches were soaked by the time we got on the bus.
We made it to Termini without any problems, Clara had to get some passport fotos (they have little automated stands here, like those funky photobooths that are in malls? They're in all the major transportation stations in Europe, and cost 3-5 Euros for 4 passport photos. BRILLIANT. Someone needs to bring that idea to the states!), and then off we were on the metro to the end of line B. The metro is both a very cool and very creepy place for me. The music is always this happy, carnival type music that somehow freakily contrasts the dim, dank, urine-smelling subterranean passageways. And there is always a cold wind. That creeps me out too... I think the poets would call it "the touch of dead posey" or something.
We reached the end of the metro, and exited the station looking for bus 437 or 447. Bus 437 left every 30 minutes, bus 447 left every 15 minutes. We saw a bus 447 at the bus stand across yonder, so we take off running for the bus. Literally, sprinting. My leather trench coat was flying, gum wrappers were falling out of my purse (thank goodness I didn't loose my passport and all the important info for the Permisso!), and my scarf was flapping in the wind behind me as only scarfs can do when their owners try to leave them behind whilst they are attached to the neck.
We dashed across streets with passing cars (I invision this scene as quite dramatic if my life were to be made into a blockbuster movie... Some great music going here, the camera panning in to see how my jeans now have water soaked 6 inches up from the bottom thanks to the puddles) screeching to a halt around us, and the horns blowing and hands waving and people yelling in Italian as only true Italians can do, and we jump onto the bus... Only to realize it isn't turned on. In fact, it's "Deposito," meaning, it's at the end of it's run and waiting for the appointed time to leave (side note: this must be the ONLY time when Italians make an effort to run on something like a schedule... And I think the reason is because the bus driver likes to grab a cappuccino and smoke a cigarette). Not only was the bus not going anywhere at that moment, but the bus is half full of Romans watching the drama of the American girls crossing the 15 lane highway (OK, that's added for dramatic purposes of the movie...). Clara and I sit down, checking to make sure all appendages are still attached, and 30 seconds later a handsome, young Italian man POUNDS on the window next to our heads, and points across the parking lot at another bus 447 that is actually running and ready to depart on the route. The whole busload of people gets off the bus, we wade across the gravel/mud/wet parking lot (8 inches wet now), and get on bus 447 number two. Thanks for looking out for us, handsome bus driver!
The Ufficio Immigrazione is out in Industrial Rome, I think. The road the bus drove down had factories on one side of it, and scrubby fields with disrepaired fences on the other. I soaked up the view of every green blade of grass and rolling hill that I could. We got off at a bus stop on a very obscure, non-government looking stretch of road. I began to wonder if we were being used in some drug-trafficking heist or something for the Mafia - I thought it would have been a nice touch to my action movie - but it ended up it was the legit place. We found this out by walking three blocks down a scantily paved road with no sidewalk and huge mud puddles that - for the most part - the drivers avoided. I was very thankful, although one inconsidered chap drove through a mud puddle/pond and sprayed a nice stream of water all over us, properly soaking the bottom 2 feet of my jeans (Well, OK, that detail was added to the movie too...).
We came to the back of a parking lot with fences that looked like they were indicating there wasn't a way through, but Clara assured me the fences were just for the dramatic affect of the movie, and we wandered through the maze, stepping around cars, puddles and red and white "do not enter" tape to get to the front gate. We made it JUST before a huge crowd of people came, but unfortunately arriving just before a huge crowd of people doesn't mean you get to go in line right away. One man was answering and direction all the people from a windowed counter, and Clara and I were number 3 in line for about 15 people-worth of questions.
We got a number and took a seat, and only about 10 minutes later were called to a different window. The guy who helped us has an uncle who lives in Michigan on a lake. I think he thought Washington and Ohio were close to Michigan, because I think he was asking us if we knew him. I caught all this from hearing the words "Michigan" and "Largo." Clara later confirmed my understanding of the dialogue. We had the whole "Litterature Inglese? In Roma?" conversation, peppered with the proper astonished facial expressions and my humble acknowledgement that yes, I am crazy, yes, I chose to come here because Rome is beautiful (Although, I must say, my jeans were practically screaming opposition to that idea right there in the waiting room), and yes, my Italian is really pathetic... Fortunately, you see, I've memorized this conversation in Italian, so it usually goes pretty well. "Allora" our Michigan-uncle Questura friend finally said, which is how all bad news is given because that's how all news is given because that's how all conversations are started in Italy. Allora. Then, to roughly translate: "There was some mistake, perhaps the secretary at the post office made it, or maybe a computer mis-printed something, I can't say, but there was a mistake, and I have tried to fix it. I tried to put the two of you together for an appointment at the Questura in Trastevere in April - that is the earliest I can get you in - because you need to go to the Questura in Trastevere to complete the next step. Not here. You should not be here. You see? That was the mistake. You are good, though. OK. This is all OK. I scheduled your appointments, and here is the paper you will show them. You are not together because, you see, the computer is telling me there are no appointments together, but this is good. You are good. Everything is good. Go to the Questura in Trastevere on April 5th for you, and April 7th for you - they are at the same time, if that helps - and all will be good. It will be perfecto. You are good."
By this time, my following skills were lagging, and all I was understanding was "tutto bene, tutto bene. OK? Tutto bene." Clara reminded him (quite calmly, I might say, considering the scene that followed) that our visa expired in May, and we needed to GET our permissi before the visa expired, but that got a "Va bene? Tutto bene. OK. Arrivederci!" with a warm smile and something else about Michigan (probably an invitation to visit his uncle there and eat fish). At that moment (I picture this as being a close up of my eyes in the movie, like when the protagonist realizes something important) I understood 3 things: First, that something had gone wrong; Second, that all 5 feet, 100 lbs, and personality-the-size-of-Texas of Clara was going to blow up in front of the Ellis-Island-like waiting room full of African, Middle Eastern, and Eastern Europe immigrants staring at the two light-haired Americans; and Third, that we were being politely excused and I needed to get Clara out of the room FAST!
Heroically, I tucked her under and arm like a football and carried her out, flailing arms and legs surrounding me (Well, that's what'll happen in the movie...), and we found ourselves back in the maze of the parking lot, with me asking, "What just happened?" Clara, understandably upset, accentuated her point by speaking very loudly about *%#@! Italians in general and the $@*#%! Italian government and the $&@*#! immigrations process and how on $@#*%! earth we were going to get back into the country in the fall without our Permissi. I have to say, I agreed with every word. She ranted, I raved all the way back the 10 blocks (that's what it felt like!) through the pond-splashed road to the one bar in probably a 10 mile radius (and if you've ever been to Italy, that's saying something!!!) beside the bus stop. In proper Italian fashion, we decided that this situation called for enduring and drastic measures, so we went inside and ordered cappuccini and cornetti. After standing under the dripping awning of the bar for 20 minutes waiting for either bus 447 or 437 to come (we aren't picky!), and an entirely-too-long bus ride across from a man who hadn't showered in several weeks, I suspect, we back-tracked the remaining steps of our journey and came home soaked, tired, and success-less on our quest to legalize our residency here.
I hope that helps explain what a rubbish party is. I only wish two things: 1 - that I'd had a camera to document the party, but alas, you'll have to wait for the movie! and 2 - that I'd worn a skirt and boots. I HATE HAVING WET JEANS.
I made it in time for my 2nd class of the day, and naturally the 3rd as well. The 4th was cancelled because we're writing a paper for the midterm over the weekend, so I came home and fell fast asleep by 4:30PM. Clearly the rubbish party exhausted me, because I slept until 7:30, and got up to do homework... and do other fun stuff like "hang out" on facebook and myspace. Now, I'm going to sleep for the night because I'm still tired, and tomorrow I intend to awaken and accomplish great and mighty things.
Although I didn't have my camera today, here are two photos from last night, as promised.
The gang, minus Tanner, who was taking the picture
The Trumbo trio - bearers of southern grace and charm to Rome en masse... And after another couple hours with them, all my thoughts are "wyath ah SUHthrn AXsent" Yikes!
