outside my comfort zone

Today I took another tiny step towards being a legal immigrant here. I have done all the paperwork, chased up everything I could, been fingerprinted, photographed, all those things. But still I don't carry with me the papers I need should I ever be stopped by the Carabinieri. Hopefully, the digital trail is all on the police computers, and there would be no problem. It would be some comfort to know I have them, rumpled and worn, in my bag. The fact that the papers I am chasing now are due to expire at the end of April makes it a matter of urgency to me.

Knowing I would have to wait some more, I allowed the whole morning to process this step. And yes, there was plenty of waiting, plenty of thinking time, plenty of trying to understand the Italian spoken around me. The woman ahead of me was in a hurry, not happy to wait. She thought the person in the office ahead of her may have jumped her place in the queue. The young girl behind me had lost her driver's licence. She too was checking her watch frequently, but declined my offer to go ahead of me. I guess that was because I was old enough to be her mother, and age carries advantages here.

Once in the office, the large door firmly closed for privacy, the staff were as patient, relaxed, friendly and attentive as anyone could wish for. There were no problems with completing the forms, documents; all seemed to be well. Having looked very closely at my passport photograph, and my Italian resident photograph, and then at me, the woman processing my request said to her assistant, with a lovely smile at me, "No it is not her photograph, she is a more beautiful lady". Makes you feel wanted, in a funny kind of way, that a complete stranger can be so kind to a battle-weary foreigner.

Then she didn't quite question my sanity, but did ask if I knew that everyone in this village is a little crazy. I said yes, I knew, and I was also a little crazy, that is why I love living here. They each shook my hand and I think she said, "We can't call you crazy, but you said it yourself, and we must agree with you. Welcome to our town". And it's true, I have heard it before. "If you're not crazy, we don't want you here".

The next step is a visit from the inspector who will come to check that I really do live here, that it is not just a holiday home that I am claiming reduced tax on. Zacchi, you may earn your tucker that day. Picture a slightly frazzled me running up the stairs to open the door, with Zacchi Fizzgig bounding excitedly at my feet. I am sure we make the perfect crazy couple, should checking my insanity level be a part of the inspector's job.

Then my next hurdle is to figure out how and where I get my Italian Driver's Licence. My rumpled, worn, and literally falling apart International one runs out soon and I am only allowed to drive on that for one year if I am an Italian resident. I have to sit and pass my Italian Driver's Licence. Scary stuff.

I think, in March, I will go back to the same office and look as innocent and sweet as I can, and simply ask for one. Do you think it will work? Maybe, this is Italy, after all!

I would rather drive in the middle of Rome than sit my licence in Italian.