So, about 27 days ago I had to go the Questura which is basically the civic branch of the Italian Police Department. The Questura deals with a tiny little matter know as "immigration". You may be familiar with the Italian immigration system and the necessity of the illusive "Permissio di soggiorno" which in English means, "Permission to Stay". This is all very important paperwork and one really wants to make a good impression at the Questura, as you might imagine. You should probably dress nicely and comb your hair. Remember to be polite.
On the other hand, if you are me, in addition to looking good and sucking up to the police-person behind the bullet-proof glass, you sort-of want to show-off your brilliant Italian skills.
All goes according to plan. I show up. I wait in line. Ten minutes later the policeman is looking at my documents. Everything is in order. He directs me to another room where I will have to go get my fingerprints taken. Got it. Go out the door, take a left, it's in the back of the building. There's even a sign outside that tells me where to go. No problem.
So I arrive at my second stop here at the Questura. I am the only one there! Excellent, no line, no wait. I feel a little sorry for all fifty of those poor people still waiting in line. The gentlemen in this new office is on the phone and directs me to take a seat. He doesn't really seem like a police officer given that
A.) He's dressed in plain clothes.
B) He's dressed worse than me.
C) He's on the phone discussing his cable TV subscription and trying to get a lower rate which he apparently saw advertised somewhere.
D.) While on the phone his really good-looking friend shows up to apparently just hang out.
So, I end up waiting about ten minutes and he hangs up the phone. Another five minutes later he invites me into the office. So, here I am with the random office guy and his hot friend. He takes my documents and starts entering information into his computer, offering his friend a tutorial on how this is done using my personal information as an example.
Occhii: Brown.
Capelli: Brown.
Altezza: How many centimeters are you?
--I don't know the metric system, I am American, sorry.
Tu hai tatuaggi?
--Pardon?
Tatuaggi??? Do you have any tattoos? At this point, he is pointing to his arms and legs, and to his friend who has a couple tattoos on his arm. His friend is pointing to his own tattoos and repeating the word. "Tatuaggi??? Tatuaggi??? Tatuaggi???"
--Si, capisco. Uhhhh, perche?
Per riconoscere una persona.
--Ah. So at this point they need to know if I have any tattoos so that God-forbid something happens to me or I commit a crime, they will have an additional resource to know who I am.
--Si, io ho un tatuaggio.
Dov'é?
--Nello mio culo. This is it people! This is the phrase that counts! Not only have a just used a slightly vulgar term for my butt - "culo" where I probably should have said "my backside" but I have also just used the wrong preposition.
Mi scusi? Dov'é?
--And I repeat it, like a fool!
Propio dentro?
--Ahhh, no. No, I do not have a tattoo "in" my butt. I have one "on" it.
Sopra? Che cos'é?
-- No, not above my butt, on it. And no, I am not going to tell you what it is! Does this guy really think I am going to show him my butt tattoo?
And so here we are. We have just shifted away from any real need to even enter this information into the computer anymore and now we are talking about the tattoo that I may or may not have "in" or "on" my butt. This is my own fault. I mean how hard is it to remember the difference between "on" and ''in"???
So, I combed my hair, I dressed nicely, I was polite to a point, and then I tried to show off, or rather, I just tried to speak basic Italian. I have not yet received my Permisso di Soggiorno. Should this be my last blog, it's because I got deported.
Post Script: A fellow American I know recently went to the Questura to ask for the Perimisso. She followed the same steps that I did. The guy at the back office took her documents and said, "Americana? Do you know her? She's American too!" And then he showed her a photo of me. Way to go, Julia! Hai fatto una bella figura!
Third time's the charm they say.... except this is my fourth time in Italy!
