The one where I return to the visa office

As the clock ticks forward, my anxiety and dread increases. No, no, not about my return to Rome ---it's all about my return to the Italian Consulate to obtain a visa for my son.


Our first experience at the visa office was cray cray (I feel obligated to use slang that is so two minutes ago as my son has begged me not to use slang because it's embarrassing), but as it turned out, it was merely a solid introduction into life in Italy:
http://asoccermommovestorome.blogspot.com/2012/05/getting-visas.html

For reasons far too long and complicated to get into other than to assure you it was not my fault, John’s visa expired. And it expired before we had renewed it. Which meant we had to apply for a new visa. 

This could not be done in Italy because it had to be done at the Italian Consulate. Which is in America. And is open only three days a week for three hours at a time. So the competition to get an appointment is fierce.

We made an appointment to apply for a visa while we would be in America. The first available appointment was two weeks before we would return to Rome.  “We will call you if an earlier appointment becomes available,” said the visa office.

And they did. They called three separate times. "Good day, we have an opening in ten minutes. Can you be here in ten minutes?” “No, we live two hours away.” “Okay, so you will be here in ten minutes?” “No, we cannot.” “Okay, we will see you then.”

We knew from our previous visa obtaining experience to bring every document in every connotation on every possible color paper. We made copies. We had two sets of every document: one set notarized, one set not. I packed John's hospital ID bracelet from when he was born and the lock of hair from his first haircut. I packed my favorite mixed tape from high school and ticket stubs from a Metallica concert.

And now for the kicker: Mike had to return to Italy before our appointment was scheduled. So I was faced with the Getting the Visa all by myself. This was not good. I am not charming. I am socially awkward. And my bad Italian would not win me any points.

I abandoned my summer-in-America uniform of a tank top and cut-offs and dressed in what passes for dressy in my small American town but still looks slovenly in Italy. I put on make-up. I wore heels. I drove to a parking garage and walked to a train station. People stared. I was wearing a scarf in the 90 degree heat. I got a cab to the Italian Consulate. I was 40 minutes early.

The visa office had been moved from the room we had been in on our last visit and had been changed into a space half the size. There were three seats as though it was a game of musical chairs that was winding down and all the other chairs had been removed and many many many people standing. It would seem that the visa office had figured out how to make the experience a wee bit worse. There were no clocks in the room, like a casino, so that no one knew how long they had been floating in Purgatory.

There was a woman with a briefcase and a folder bulging with documents who was speaking to the lone woman behind the bullet proof glass. I could already tell it wasn't going well. I couldn't decide whether or not I should check in for my appointment. I looked to the waiting masses but no one would risk meeting my eyes for fear of provoking the Great and Powerful Oz (GPO)and having their visa application rejected. I joined them and kept my gaze firmly on the ground.

The woman in line kept protesting and trying to hand the GPO more papers. "No," said the GPO. "But-"said the woman in line on the verge of tears. "You're done," said the GPO.

I decided that this would be an excellent time to announce my arrival lest my appointment be given away. I approached the counter and the crowd behind me murmured in alarm. I told the GPO I had an appointment and wished only to check in.

"You're early," said GPO coldly.

"I absolutely am. You're right. I'm so sorry-"

"Where is your husband? I spoke with him and told him what he needed to do…there was a crying baby in here earlier. Was that yours?"

"No, no!" I could feel the sweat start building beneath my scarf.

"Where is your document?" she asked. I started to ask which one and bit my tongue just in time. I handed her one written in Italian. She didn't object so I slowly handed her another piece of paper. And another.

"Do you have your son's original birth certificate?' I handed it to her."No!' she crowed triumphantly. "I wanted a copy of it." I handed her that as well. She seemed disappointed. "Where is your husband?" she demanded again. I explained he was in Italy. "How did he sign these and have them notarized in the United States?" she asked suspiciously .

"Um..he was here?" I quaked.

"Where is your passport?" she demanded. I handed her both my passport and proactively, a copy of it. "Not yours! I only need your son's! And where is your husband?"

She asked for my plane tickets. "And you will be arriving on the xx of August?" I knew that one was a trick question because it was an overnight flight. I answered correctly and moved on to the bonus round. "Sign this," she said. I.Couldn't.Find.My.Pen. And just as there were no clocks in the office, there were no pens. I suspect this was a test of your endurance and resourcefulness. Like being in a Tom Hanks movie where he has to fight for his life because is being kidnapped by pirates or stranded on a desert island or has to get to the top of the Empire State Building at closing time to kiss Meg Ryan.

I turned to the crowd, "Pen! Pen! Stat!" My comrades in battle hastily thrust pens at me. I was leading the troops. I was William Wallace. I was thisclose to being the first person to successfully obtain a visa.

I signed and handed the paper back to her. She pulled the old switcheroo and handed me a different sheet of paper. "I thought I told you to sign this!" she snapped. I've watched the Tudors. I knew not to protest. "You are absolutely right," I relied,"I'm so sorry." I signed.

"Sit down," she commanded. I sat.

The next contestant was a man studying language at a university in Italy. His father accompanied him and spoke to the woman in Italian but it was very clear that he was American because he was wearing shorts and a golf shirt. She did not like this. The conversation went as followed:

Man: I was never told that was required. I spoke with the visa office and they said I had the correct documents.

Great and Powerful Oz: I am the visa office. You deal with me. This is unacceptable and insufficient.

Man: It was fine last year.

GPO: No it wasn't.

Man: Yes it was. This is my visa from last year. This is the same paperwork I submitted last year.

GPO: No.

Man: I don't understand.

GPO: That is not my problem.

Man: Do you have a pen?

The man's father turned to the crowd and said, "Non gentile, huh?" I don't think anyone else understood him because I was the only one who sucked in my breath and ducked. His son kicked him and turned to the GPO, smiled and  reiterated everything he had already said but this time he said it in Italian.

GPO: Why didn't you tell me this was your visa from last year and that you had already spoken to the visa office? You should have told me.

Man: I know, I know. I'm so sorry. I should have told you. I apologize Signora. It is my fault.

Boom! And that's how you get your visa and go on your way. We all subtly gave the man the thumbs up and high fives as he left, triumphant.

The GPO called my name. I stood up. "Where is Mrs. xxxx?" she demanded again in exasperation.

I moved the one step needed to reach the window as she obviously could not see me. She handed me my paperwork. "You're done. You can go."

"Grazie, grazie, grazie mille, buona giornata," I replied, bowling and scraping. I ran to the elevator and closed the doors as fast as humanly possible. I threw my temporary visitor badge at the security guard and  jumped into the path of an oncoming cab, looking in terror over my shoulder lest the Great and Powerful Oz change her mind. But I was safe. It was over.

Oh, and the train broke down on the way home and we sat on the tracks for over an hour before a rescue train arrived to take us back to the train station and inside the train it became hotter and hotter and people became angrier and angrier. And because I had successfully obtained my son's visa and emerged unscathed from the office of the Consolato Generale D'Italia, it was the very best train ride I could possibly imagine.

Two Unrelated Things

Well, unrelated except that they involve me.

I was waiting in line at the Wal-Marts ( I know that there are many who boycott the Wal-Mart, but when did other places stop carrying magazines? WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE MAGAZINES???? Do you know what I look forward to doing when I summer in America? I like to have an icy cold IPA that I wouldn't find in Italy and I like to read American magazines that I wouldn't find in Italy. But I can't find American magazines in America either. Some of the magazines I have happened upon on the shelves are four months old. Have people simply stopped reading non-electronic versions of magazines? Because that would be a huge bummer for us all. And so as it turns out, the Wal-Mart is the lone place I have found where the latest issues of  magazines are re-stocked on a regular basis.)

and so, yes, I was waiting in line at the Wal-Marts and it would seem that patiently accepting and waiting in a long line in Italy is an experience that does not translate to America. Is it because there are so many cashiers and lanes open in American stores that the wait seems unnecessary? Is it because there is an overall need to hurry? Is it because we buy in such bulk here that comparatively every individual takes such a longer time to get checked out? Is it because we don't bag our own groceries? Is it because the woman in front of me was instructing the cashier where to put each of her 72 items? "No! Don't put the cheese in that bag!" she said. "Put the cheese in the bag with all the things that are yellow!"

"Oh! Okay!" replied the cashier. "I was putting it in with all the cold items." And so he took the cheese out of the bag filled with cold items and put it in the bag where all items were yellow.

"Well, I didn't know you were putting it in with the cold things. Okay. Put it back in the other bag, I guess."

In any other circumstance, my impatience would have gotten the better of me and I would have left the store rather than wait in line. But today was special because there were new magazines. So I waited. And seethed. I was unable and/or unwilling to put my hard-earned slow Italian pace of life enjoyment into practice. So we'll chalk that up as a fail on my part. And then when I got in the car, I thought the sports announcer on the radio was broadcasting the World Cup final and I turned up the volume but it was not the World Cup final, it was a Nascar race.

Yesterday my mom and I went to get pedicures. We like to go to a place that happens to be owned and operated by women from Vietnam. When one Vietnamese woman asked me a question in broken English, I answered her in broken Italian. Because if I can sort of understand what someone is saying to me but there is still a language barrier, my brain apparently thinks I'm in Italy. And this happened every single time I spoke with any of the non-native American women in the salon. So it was not unlike being in Italy because I was speaking what I think passes for Italian but no one could understand me.

Hello America

This may be a controversial position to take, but holy moly, jet lag is vile.

But do you know what isn't vile? All of the choices one has when shopping in America. I went to Target to buy allergy medicine and shampoo and two hours later I stumbled out, cross-eyed from staring at the three aisles of shampoo. Three Aisles. It Was Amazing. How many choices do I have in Rome? Two. Two shampoo choices. And one is out of stock.

And so in the spirit of a world in which there are three aisles of shampoo choices, I present Hello America. It's like Goodnight Moon, but without the mouse on each page. Or the bowl of mush.

in the great big land
there was a dishwasher
and an ice maker
and HGTV
and microwave ovens

there were country back roads
and  high efficiency washing machines-- so large
that all clothes could be done in one load.

and there was flavored coffee
and central air
and products galore
for all types of hair

there were windows with screens
and frozen cuisine

hello clothes dryer
hello all you home goods i can't help but admire

hello garbage disposal and organic yogurt

hello bagels and hello mexican food
hello IPAs that have been freshly brewed

hello starry sky and
hello firefly

and hello to all things unnecessary
that i am going to buy

Summer Post

We have been having a hella heatwave and as it is 98 degrees by 8:00 am, I should be thrilled to be getting the heck out of dodge but still, I'm feeling sad to be leaving. I am looking forward to spending huge chunks of time over the next couple of months with my greatly loved family and family of friends whose absence I never stop feeling(I have a nephew who has gotten teeth, moved on from crawling, and started walking since last I saw him!), but (dare I say it, even in a whisper?) I think Rome is starting to feel like home to me.

I will miss my neighbors who insist on speaking to me at great length, even though they know I can only catch every 7th word and the children who stop to pet the dogs and insist that Stella is both Sookie's mother and a boy and the flower boxes tumbling a cascade of blooms into the world from the smallest space or window and the umbrella pines-those Dr Seuss trees never get old-and the way that there is a ruin around every corner. I will miss the long line at the grocery store that never results in the opening of an additional lane because all available cashiers are drinking espresso and talking to the one cashier who is not ringing up groceries so much as he also is drinking espresso and chatting with the aforementioned cashiers.

I will miss having to buy movie tickets that already have a seat assigned to them as though it is a concert and the inevitable squabble because someone is sitting in the very seat that you spent 10 minutes scoping out on the map at your home computer in order to choose the optimum chair. And the dogs that are in stores and restaurants and parks and purses. Because everyone is a dog person.

I will miss the families traveling in a pack, soups to nuts; the dads in suits with children on their shoulders; the families picnicking wherever there is a spot of grass; the elderly couples walking arm-in-arm and dressed to the nines on any random Tuesday afternoon; the pockets of older women wearing winter coats on a 75 degree day, their faces turned towards the sun.

I will miss the sense of style that makes a walk outside like living in a magazine or movie and I will miss the sense of time or lack thereof where one can never be considered late because life is not meant to be lived in a hurry and I will miss that everything shuts down for several hours every afternoon or whenever the person working feel like it is time to be done. It keeps you guessing.

And I will miss that life is lived outside and I walk a minimum of seven miles a day without even noticing and the double-parked cars outside every cafe and the residents who have brought their dining room chairs outside to sit in the street and gossip or the women hanging from their windows to call out to the passersby below.

And I will miss the truly spectacular beaches only an hour away and the scarves worn in the hottest of weather because wind on the necks is responsible for every ailment and the lines of hanging laundry in the poshest of homes because clothes dryers ruin clothes and the strict rules of food and coffee because things are combined and consumed only in certain ways at certain times. Period. And the gesturing. No one simply flails their hands. The movements are as complex and orchestrated as to be a sign language all its own.

And the driving. I know. But as chaotic and bizarre and reckless as it is, it has a certain logic. Honest. And at the very least, it is funny in a horrifying sort of way.

The weather, the sunsets, the rainbows, the lizards, the all-day Sunday lunches. Gelato and pizza and mozzarella di bufala. Sheep grazing under the watchful eyes of fluffy dogs. Rather than a one-stop shop, there is the butcher, the pharmacy, the bakery, the fish store, the bread store, the open air market for fruits and vegetables. The Vespas and teeny tiny cars. The beautiful language. The greetings of "ciao bella/o!" and the double cheek kiss. The belief that breakfast should always be something sweet. The belief that children make the world go round. I will miss the person I most love.

It may exasperate me when I return in the fall, but for right now, I miss what it is to live here.

Throw Back Thursday Photos. Except it's Wednesday. And the photos are new.

light through the pantheon

Not Old Navy bathing suits

Adorbs! VW wedding bus with honeymoon surfboards!

by the time I walked home, this matchbox car was gone...

I had no idea these existed outside of Mad Men

Cinderella

jellyfish in sabaudia

first beach day of the year 

As an American, I am not familiar with  "NICK, the easy rider maple syrup aka the American Way of Life." But it was 5.50 euro as compared to the 9.90 euro "Canadian" maple syrup, so welcome home, NICK! 

purple socks

nothing says Italy like a Confederate flag helmet

I don't like line jumpers or the mask from Scream

So my son needed a new bed. This necessitated going to Ikea. I know, I know…you are all thinking but wait, you live in a major European city! I mean, not major enough that it is ever destroyed in apocalypse movies the same way that Paris and New York and London are, but it still is a big city and it is in Europe. One might assume that in such a city, a 40-something person would perhaps have furniture options that did not involve sweating over cartoon instructions and assembling said furniture  with those little black not-a-wrench-not-a-screwdriver thingys. But one would be wrong.

We do our best to avoid Ikea during any reasonable hour because it is difficult to maneuver around the Italians who bring every family member from their second cousin's niece's boyfriend's little sister to their great-great grandmother and then they all proceed to heatedly argue over whether to buy the Glurg or the Haav while the leashes of their dogs wrap around your legs if you stand in front the 1700 pack of tea lights for too long. (In the end they usually go for the Glurg. Who wouldn't?)

I once tried hitting Ikea on a Wednesday morning. I arrived five minutes before it opened and found myself waiting in a mass of people behind a roped-off entrance as though we were all participants in a 5K American Turkey Trot. So really there is never a good time to go to Ikea, there are just times when you may get a parking space and times when you may not.

I had tried to order my son's bed online, but the Italian Ikea website had been having technical difficulties for over a month and finally I knew to admit defeat and order it in person.

The drive to Ikea isn't bad as it is a pleasant blend of small town roads and highway; you pass both ancient aqueducts and flocks of sheep guarded by fluffy dogs. It has only one spot that makes my palms sweat and that is when "merging" (*there isn't actually any merging here) onto the highway, you have to cut across four lanes of traffic to get off the exit that is parallel to where you have just entered the highway, but generally it is fine because the sense of accomplishment afterwards is akin to giving birth.

However, I had barely left our apartment when I hit a snafu. You know how all roads lead to Rome? All the roads leading out of Rome and to Ikea were closed and being guarded by police. Fences had been erected across all road entrances and then the entrances were further barricaded by police cars and then lastly the police stood in front of them. Maybe the roads were on strike? The detour route to which every single car, scooter, motorcycle, bicycle tour and tour bus were being directed was the Appian Way. Yes, that Appian Way. The one with all the original stones dated back to 312 BC that bear the deep imprints of chariot wheels. The one that you usually aren't allowed to drive on. For drainage purposes (those clever Romans) the road comes to a peak in the middle. It is difficult to walk on even in hiking boots. But driving on? It was not unlike a simulator ride at Disney or an old fashioned American wooden roller coaster. The ones that really hurt your neck and jar your body to the point that your bones vibrate? Yeah. Like that.  I just tried to focus on what would happen first: would my car bottom out or tip over? And would I at least get a free cornetto out of the deal from a sympathetic passer by?

first we tilt one way...

and then we tilt another

My car's alignment will never be the same, but with all the other cobblestone roads and potholes, the alignment wasn't great to begin with and so I was extremely pleased to emerge 1 1/2 hours later from the Appian Way unscathed. And then I looked in my rear view mirror and saw that someone had strapped the mask from the movie Scream to the headrest of their passenger seat. Sure. Moving on.

I decided to decompress by stopping at a shoe store. I forever live in the hope that I will find shoes that are as comfortable as Birkenstocks but have four inch heels. I did not find those shoes but I did manage to knock over a towering display of boxed sandals that was over five feet tall and stacked into six columns. Yep. Every single box had thumped and clattered onto the floor by the time I was done. It was like a very bad sitcom in which the character who is a little bit dumb but has a heart of gold knocks down the pyramid of soup cans in the grocery store. The salesperson rushed over as I apologized over and over and began to rebuild the tower. The salesperson repeatedly and very kindly told me not to worry and to stop helping her, but as it was 100% my fault, I couldn't stop helping. I was doing a good job. I stacked the shoes in the correct order, largest size to smallest size and everything, but the salesperson stopped being so kind and told me seriously to knock it off and stop helping. So I did. And I apologized  a couple dozen more times and thanked her profusely for cleaning up my giant mess and then I left, completely re-energized and ready to begin my day at Ikea!

And actually it wasn't a bad day at all. I found the bed I wanted. I dithered over whether to get the beech, birch, oak, black-brown, or white washed oak (beech won out as I knew it would). I managed to convey my order to the very helpful man at the computer who was friendly and patient and accepting of my broken Italian and who reminded me to buy slats for the bed and whew! Ordeal over.

Except you know how when you go to Ikea you suddenly see all these other things that you didn't even know you needed but clearly you do so you have to get a big cart and fill it to overflowing and you can hardly see over the top of it? Yeah, so that happened. And then in usual Rome fashion, there was but one cashier open, but that is par for the course and after two years I no longer even mind. However, I have been having a lot of trouble with line jumpers lately. It is a way of life here and while I never mind the person who has one item when I have 42 who asks if they can go ahead of me because it's the logical and right thing to do( especially as in the grocery store I still attempt to buy my groceries American style and inevitably am asked if I am having a party due to the sheer volume of food), and I don't mind  the little old lady who has only a loaf of bread and pushes past me like I'm not even there, it really sticks in my craw when other people completely ignore the fact that I have been waiting in line and step in front of me to give their order/pay for their items. Prior to the last couple of weeks, it hadn't happened to me all that often but lately, for some unknown reason, it's become a daily thing. Upon asking for advice from my Italian teacher, she wrote down a phrase for me to say. "Just memorize it, "she said."It doesn't really translate." I know that it doesn't have any swears in it because my son hears a lot of Italian swears at school and then we look them up on Google Translate when he comes home and so we are getting pretty fluent in the swears category.

Anyhoo, I was waiting in this very long line when two women appeared and simply got in front of me. There were many people in line behind me, so there was a pretty clear line and it wasn't a situation in which we are all just in a wedge formation pushing forward towards the cashier and may the pushiest person win. Of course the phrase my Italian teacher had taught me flew right out of my head, so I said in Italian, "Excuse me! I was here first." One woman completely ignored me but the other turned around and looked at me as though she had no idea what I was saying. And while I had almost said "Sansa" instead of "sono" (too much Game of Thrones watching lately), I had not. And I knew that my Italian had been correct. So the woman looked at me a moment longer and then decide to ignore me and turned her back to me again. Quite frankly, I had just had enough of being line jumped when I had been patiently waiting for 20 minutes and I wasn't swallowing my annoyance and putting up with it today. I just wasn't.

So I repeated again in Italian that I had been there first. And when she turned around and looked at me in great annoyance with no intention of moving to the back of the line, I switched to English in my frustration and while she may not have understood my words, there could not have been any mistaking my tone of voice. She moved very slightly to the side. Enough that she wasn't directly in front of me but not enough that she wouldn't easily make it to the cashier before I would. Suddenly an Italian woman in line behind me leaned over my cart. "Signora!!" she barked at the woman, "this woman was here first!" She said many more things in Italian but it was too fast for me to understand, although she was clearly giving the line jumper quite a dressing down. The line jumper responded in an indignant tone and my Italian defender turned to me and shrugged and said kindly, "Oh! She is pregnant!" and smiled. Because that is always respected here. I did not think this was a good defense because I have also been pregnant and that never made me butt in line and if she was desperate to pee or something, she could have followed the Italian practice of putting her items on the floor to hold her place in line (that's right. If you get in line and there's a six pack of water on the floor, you have to respect that water as though it is a person and take your place in line behind it. Lining up is all very complicated here.). However, because my kindly Italian defender deemed this okay, I had to make a big show of looking at the woman's belly and smile and exclaim ,"Oh! I see! Please, go ahead!" while I scratched my nose with my middle finger like I was in a John Hughes movie.

And then because I had been petty and jerky with the middle finger move that no one but me noticed or appreciated, when I got to my car in the parking lot, there was a red van that had parked me in. There was no possible way for me to back out of my parking space. There was also no way for me to get into the driver's side via the driver's side door. I know that the usual practice when one is parked in in Rome is to just hold your horn down until the driver emerges from the cafe where they had been having their espresso, waving their hands in a patience!patience! fashion and then they leisurely move their car. However, I was in a big parking lot. And no one was going to come move this monstrosity because I honked my horn. I considered writing down the licence plate number and asking the Ikea people to use their loudspeaker but I had never heard that done in Rome and I didn't know if I would be able to make them understand what I wanted to happen. I have become a parking demon since moving here--possibly even able to rival my sister who can, in one move,  parallel park a monster truck in a space barely large enough for a Smart Car --and studied all my possible maneuvers to get around the truck. There was a car parked on my passenger side, a tree in front of me and the van parked diagonal blocking the area behind me and the driver's side of the car. So I climbed in through the passenger side door and drove over the tree.

Incidentally, the bed should be delivered in three weeks.

A whole lot of nothing

I just realized that last year around this time I posted a rant about the influx of people wanting to enjoy a vacation in Rome. Which means that not only am I kind of an a*%hole, but also that I re-tell the same stories. Wait, is that redundant?

I have been sitting on our balcony a lot as of late because the weather has been lovely and there are no crowds on our balcony. Because I do not have the miracle gene possessed by Italians that allows them to retain their beautiful skin while smoking and tanning, I wear a big hat when I am in the sun. And I mention this because my big hat is currently on the floor because if I put it away I will have to go get it later and I can't put it on the table because it makes me think of that movie in which Matt Dillon was a drug addict? And maybe robbed pharmacies? And Heather Grahm wore a hat and put it on the bed and Matt Dillon freaked out because it was bad luck to put a hat on the bed and sure enough she ended up dying and they had to hide her body in the ceiling. Or maybe they had to hide the drugs in the ceiling. Either way, I just realized that means I can put my hat on the table because the bed was bad luck but no one said anything about a table!

And I think that maybe Heather Graham was also prostitute in that movie. And that makes me recall that when I am waiting for my son's school bus, people always slow down and gawk at me because I am just standing alone on the side of the road and I started worrying that maybe people think I'm a prostitute? Granted, I've never actually seen a prostitute in the city. They are always out on random stretches of highways of sorts and they are usually sitting on lawn chairs. Also, when I am waiting for the school bus, I am usually wearing non-fashion sneakers and non-fashion jeans and some type of poncho and my hair is in a very non-fashion braid and sometimes I even have my pull-along grocery carrier with me because I stopped at the market on the way and sometimes people stop to give me a couple of euro, so I have come to the conclusion that people probably just think I'm a gypsy.


*Disclaimer: No one has actually ever given me a couple of euro because change is an extremely precious commodity and if you have ever read this blog, you know darn well no one has any change.