We are up quite early, as it is still dark and the birds have not yet begun to sing. Thankfully, I haven’t slept, so I’m ready to get going more quickly than usual, however lethargically. While it is my second day in Brescia, it’s the first business day since my arrival, and we have some business that requires attention.
While my visa allows me to stay, study, and work for a year in Italy, it’s not enough to simply make it through customs; I must ‘register with the police’ within eight days of my arrival, and obtain a permesso di soggiorno, a residence permit (this latter piece of information was not provided by the embassy in Ottawa, which aided in the comedy of errors to come).
In Brescia, La Questura, the police headquarters, is an imposing structure, reminiscent of a fascist past, but lacking in any semblance of the grand architectural style. The straight, grey, boring lines of the complex blend smoothly with the low hanging clouds of the late winter, the perfect setting for a bureaucratic nightmare.
I was incredulous when I was told we had to be there at 7AM to queue for the 8:30AM opening of the office, yet upon our arrival I’m surprised to see that there are fifteen people in front of us. Huddled together in the damp cold, our compatriots seem both weary and battle-hardened, an ominous portent of the morning to unfold.
Despite the grey surroundings, I am decidedly chipper, for at the end of this ordeal I will be officially, legally, in Italy. When three brash young Europeans bully their way to the front of the line and immediately start smoking, while usually I would entertain all sorts of passive-aggressive thoughts with a twitching stare directed at the offenders, I don’t even bat an eye–a major breakthrough for sure!
Now with forty more behind us, at last the line moves! Our young smoking friends elbow through their remaining human obstacles and begin a short sprint to be the first in line of the first line in the first room in the first building of more to come. We follow frenetically behind, attempting to maintain Canadian politeness despite the urgency.
While grey outside, the scene unfolds inside: white lights, white floors, white walls, white doors, orange chairs, broken desks silently demarcating a safe zone for police employees only. A large grey garbage bin blocks a ramshackle door with a poorly hand-written sign above, “bathroom broken, no entry”. I have a feeling that bathroom will remain quite broken for quite some time.
Adding to the ambience are two attendants, screaming rapid-fire, profanity-laden, dialect-rich, nigh-intelligible Italian. The gentleman we approach does not seem happy to see me, but thankfully my secret weapon wins him over, if only for a moment. The angelic, effervescent beauty and melodious voice of my wonderful advocate and guide (mia tortina carina, la più bellissima, amore mio, Antonella) immediately soothes the comportment, if not the disposition, of our adversarial public servant.
After being directed to the aforementioned broken desks, we present our documents, fill out some others, and our fairweather friend makes copies and stamps them all diligently. Assuring us he has put us in as a priority, we receive two tickets, and are asked for a small sum of money, for which he is unable to give a receipt. Thankfully, we don’t have exact change anyway, so the point is moot, and the bribe avoided. Needing two passport sized headshots, we are now directed to the bar cinese across the street so I can have my photo taken while the morning rush is in full force, with bleary-eyed locals shooting back espresso and enjoying stale pastry.
Walking back to La Questura I’m left wondering if this was an opportunity for our odious official to further line his pockets with kickbacks, especially considering the preponderance of higher-quality photo booths which we are about to discover. Thankfully, the birds are now out singing in full force, and the local church bells are ringing a familiar tune (apparently, our melody for Away in a Manger is used greet the day all over Brescia). My mood rejuvenated, we re-enter the pre-waiting room to stand in line number four.
The second gentleman is now circling the crowd, tentatively seated and nervously listening for their letter-number combination to be called. While we wait, our original attendant checks in on us to assure us that we still have priority and all is well, and also to inquire if we have received the precise change to enable his personal payment. Unfortunately, we paid for my photos with the exact amount and aren’t able to help out once again.
Barking brusquely at anyone not sitting to get settled in a non-existent seat, gentleman the second begins calling out letters as quickly as possible, and further yelling at anyone now confused if he has called a B, C, D, P (I don’t know my Italian alphabet very well, but it seems many others are in the same boat as I, without a proficient translator). Discovering both our F-1 and P-1 tickets are sufficient, we’re ushered with the A, B and Ds to the proper waiting area in the next building.
Mercifully, for the time being, our new space provides a bit more room to breathe. With three walls of officious windows, half of the space is haphazardly cordoned off with red and white dollar store tape loosely tied to several listing posts, ostensibly to provide room for a more precise tier of queue to form. On the other side there are several banks of seats, a monitor to the front, and an imposing column in the middle, simultaneously taking on the jobs of holding up the sky and blocking the monitor from view.
The monitor is now our only source of credible information since our escort is wholly preoccupied with stressfully sorting the onslaught of newcomers, their tickets in hand, eager to wait in line, so they may wait in line.
A loud noise from above! It works! The first flash of the monitor reveals the presence of a lone employee, stalwart and reserved, defended only by flimsy tape and bulletproof glass, ready to take on the day. “A-1 to sportello 6” the TV proclaims, and an excited young family bounds toward the window. Eventually A-2 is called. When another employee arrives, we hear the now-familiar sound, and B-1 makes their way to a greater future. Then the As and Bs begin to queue by their respective windows, and we hear the clarion call to C!
At this point, nervousness reigns. We were assured priority and now we have three lines formed by expert dancers of a waltz to which I’ve yet to learn the melody! My mind immediately leaps to conspiracy: is it possible the powerless pedant pilfering pennies from the poor preconceived our predicament?
As it turns out, no, he’s just an ignorant asshole literally trying to make a buck any way he could, be it by charm or intimidation.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a woman appear behind the glass. As she approaches her place, off to the side and out of my previous line of sight, pasted over her place, I see a war-torn paper with a large, bold, stolid F! The woman sits, and the monitor chimes F-2! What the F is that? That’s not my F!
Thankfully, by this time our waiting room has reached peak-bedlam, and we’re able to make a move. That’s right, we walk right over that tenuously tied dollar store tape and line up behind the hopeful group now huddled before sportello 12 and wait patiently to storm ahead!
Watching two native speakers of Italian engage in formal conversation is a really lovely thing to behold. The poetry inherent in the language shines forth and both speakers seem to lift each other up as if affirming their joint quest to share the truth of Roman republican values. Thankfully my companion speaks with the same elegance that she exudes through her visage, and the conversation to which I am treated makes the wait worthwhile, however fruitless it may be.
For, while the forms we had filled out, signed, stamped, and photocopied, were brilliantly produced, they were to be presented at a different window opposite hers, which would not yet be open for another forty minutes. Once we receive approval at this new window (for which we do indeed hold a ticket, P-1) and sign new forms in duplicate, both beautifully stamped, we are to return to line F, where our ultimate approval awaits!
So we stand; and we wait.
During this interlude, a note: the only reason I have made it this far, however impatiently, without serious abuse is because I am a white male with a Canadian passport and a native Italian willing to fight for me. As we watch the room, Antonella and I notice a distinct difference in the attitudes of the triage employees depending on who they were speaking with. European looking clients are almost treated as if they are human, while every person of colour is assaulted in some way, screamed at or insulted, if not literally manhandled. These men are not speaking to be understood, but to obfuscate and put down, as if their pride demanded it. How many newcomers give in to the bribe thinking it is their only way forward? Despite how one feels about the issue of immigration, there has to be a better way; there has to be a way to feel secure and not treat others as if they were cattle. Hell, I would demand better treatment than this for cows!
Grumpily, a man arrives. His window is set in a booth inaccessible from the main offices as the other sportelli are, so he has to wade through the crowd, a look of utter disgust never leaving his face.
His is the window for P, and as we had P-1 we are first up! All the forms look great, but we are missing something, so he takes our package, sends Antonella away and ushers forward the next in line while I stand to the side dumbfounded. Not wanting to abandon our hard-fought documents, I attempt to discern what has happened. Thankfully, the next in line seems to have the same problem as we do, and all becomes clear: we need copies in triplicate of three pages of my passport (photo, visa, stamp of entry), as well as Antonella’s own proof of residency.
Back in line, our forms are finally stamped and the stamps themselves officially signed, and we are off gleefully to return to sportello 12, the F line.
The soothing respite of elegant Italian commences once again, but is briefly interrupted as the woman with whom we are currently engaged leaps out of the relative safety of her glass booth to berate the great berator himself! I’ve never seen such an arrogant prick so succinctly scolded–what justice is this!
This justice is not for us, however, as the reason for her anger becomes clear. Now that everything has been clearly sorted, stamped, signed, sealed and delivered, it seems that all was for naught, as I didn’t need to be here after all, and indeed she doesn’t have the appropriate forms to help us, and we were misdirected. We were not meant to be simply registered with proof of residence, but we must apply for a formal permit, and we cannot apply for the permesso di soggiorno in the Questura, but we must venture forth another day to the Prefettura di Brescia, depending on their hours of operation.
In summary:
- 4 hours passed
- 8 lines waited
- 2 tickets held
- 6 stamps stamped
- 8 headshots taken
- 12 photocopies made
- 8 Euros spent (in photos and copies, none for bribes)
- 0 permits acquired
A Nix in Brixia 
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