Now that I have entered into a state of international marital bliss (see previous post), there is, as you might expect, a price to be paid. And that price at the moment is trying to gain legal status to stay with my spouse in Italy and also to be able to travel about the European continent without fearing that I overstep overlapping and/or conflicting immigration regulations with dire consequences. We knew this day was coming; things are probably going as well as possible under the circumstances, but at the same time, I now have a much larger and lived appreciation for the anxiety and downright blood-chilling fear that must haunt the days and nights of millions of otherwise innocent immigrants and refugees who are trying to live a better life in places outside their own borders and must interface, as I am currently doing, with loads of bureaucratic administrative units, usually doing so, as I am currently doing, in a language not their own.
Shortly after our marriage, T called his locale commune (his township or local municipality) to inform them of a change in dependent status and ask for the next steps. In typical charming Italian fashion, he was offered the warmest wishes of congratulations and told it was merely a simple matter of going to the questura (police station) in a nearby town and applying for my permesso di soggiorno, a permission to reside in Italy for a period greater than three months, the renewable document required of all non-EU citizens who wish to live in Italy. I had a hunch that it would be slightly more complicated than that, and indeed it is proving to be so, even though we have not yet gotten any hint that we won’t ultimately be successful, and that marriage is probably the fastest route in any case to obtain this document. But as inspiration for you to read this post and for me to not lose heart, here’s a shot of one of the villages not far from T’s home:
- Travel 45 minutes over twisting and rutted mountain roads. Go to questura. Chat with lovely officer at the counter. Be offered a long photocopied list of 35 requirements. When stomach stops sinking, notice that she has only checked nine of them and written in two additional for us to provide. These include: a copy of T’s permesso; our marriage certificate (translated into Italian; it is mercifully brief); a full copy of my passport; three separate confirmations of our identity and residence; a copy of my Italian tax ID; certification from T’s accountant that he has sufficient sums to provide for me; four photos; and of course an odd amount of tax to be provided in the forms of stamps. None of these things are, of course, available in the questura.
- Head over to the Palace of Justice, thankfully in the same town. Get lost amid the soothing light blue walls of the building and find a kind security guard who takes us up to where we need to go. Check with the administrative judge and learn that indeed our five-language marriage certificate is not sufficient and that an Italian translation is required. The judge decides T’s language skills are sufficient and immediately deputizes him to do the translation. We take note of the slightly pornographic art on the walls of the judge’s office and beat a hasty departure.
- Drive to another village for a copy of T’s permesso. Although he already holds a carta d’identità (which requires the permesso), this is just how it has to be. But not so fast. All of the required offices are open either 8:30-12:30 or 9:30-12:30 and most do not open in the afternoon. Thankfully this one does (two days a week), but we have arrived at 12:15 and are charmingly turned away and asked to return later in the afternoon with the suggestion that we buy some tax stamps in the meantime. We decide to have a long lunch. Then we head to the tobacco shop where the stamps are sold:
- Ah. By now it’s 3:15 and we’re a little antsy, but clearly there’s nothing to be done until the shop opens at 4:00 pm. A local bistro offers a lovely glass of local white and some nice conversation with the bar keep. At 4:00 we buy our stamps and head back to the office for T’s permesso. Mission accomplished!
- Head home, fill out the three self-certified identity and address forms, make a pile of photocopies, translate the marriage certificate, and congratulate ourselves on our initial foray.
- Day 2
- Head back to the Palace of Justice (again a 45-minute drive along twisty and rutted mountain roads). Return to the office of the administrative judge with the interesting taste in art. With great flourish, he pulls out some forms, fills them out carefully by hand, staples them all together, stamps the margins in about four or different five places, and wishes us well, then pointing us in the direction of the next office where we will be assigned a case number.
- At the case number office, watch in utter amazement as our certificate is registered by hand with pen in an oversized registry volume that looks a good bit like the ones pictured below:
- Celebrate this step with a cappuccino next door.
- Next, off to a different building in the same town for my codice fiscale, my Italian tax ID. At this moment, I’m certainly happy to pay tax to just about any government except my own, so this is fine by me. Here, at least, the 21st century seems to be in evidence:
- This step was rapido. ‘Nuff said.
- At this point, since we were nearly finished collecting the paperwork and even though it was Tuesday and we weren’t supposed to turn it in until Friday, we decide to have another chat with the folks at the questura (police station) and check for any necessary invoices or tax stamps.
- Happy to see us, lovely police officer offers us an appointment for May 22nd (this is May 9th). Seeing the instant dismay on our faces, she revises this suggestion for May 15th.
- All of a sudden a long conversation breaks in rapid Italian between the female officer, her boss (a male officer) and T, all articulating and gesticulating in a manner and speed far beyond my somewhat anxious nonverbal interpretative abilities at the moment. Several hair-raising moments transpire in which both officers were shaking their heads and waving their index fingers back and forth in a clear “Definitely not!” message. Naturally, assuming the worst, I take this to mean that someone was coming imminently to restrain me and place me in local detention. Fortunately, this is not the case, and T hastens to assure me that the “Definitely not!” was in response to his concern that I would have to leave Italy during the time my permesso was being processed. “But you’re married!”
- Shaken but not stirred, we leave the questura and head 45 minutes up twisty and rutted mountain roads to T’s shopping village of G and the office of his accountant, fortunately arriving at 11:45 am before the mandatory 12:30 shutdown.
- Sit patiently and wait 45 minutes for the accountant to write a long and detailed affirmation that the income tax documentation he is providing in support of our application for permesso is indeed valid and current, all the while counting the number of Virgin Marys that adore his office. (As a feminist aside, I am fascinated that no one thinks to ask *me* if I have financial resources for my own support. But this is rural Italy; my ability to generate income is not even considered. The fancy restaurant in town still gives ladies the menu without prices…)
- Leave accountant’s office famished and flattened…head to lunch, proud as punch that the paperwork is at last completed and make plans to head out of town this weekend because….once we submit the paperwork on Monday, *I am expected to be physically present in T’s home pretty much continuously until the carabinieri make their unannounced visit to confirm my marital status sometime in the next….weeks….*
- As compensation, though, here’s a view of the landscape around T’s home…even I, non-nature-lover that I am, must admit this is a lovely sight:
- I will keep you posted on this most interesting chapter of my journey…in the meantime, if you have any suggestions for amusing and time-consuming online games or puzzles, please send them my way. I am sustained by my charming and supportive spouse as well as the hope that I get to see more of the local flora and fauna. Have I told you about the wild boar that infest the neighborhood? Stay tuned.