Today's Windmill

Every once in a while I am hit upside the head with the realization that ROME ISN'T NORMAL. It's not quite sane. It's tweaked. It got dropped on it's head when it was a baby.

It looks all right on the outside. But, intuition tells you that you better not turn your back on it. And, it would probably be a good idea to leave the little-light on at night because if you don't, Rome's gonna get you.

One dwells in the perpetual state of wondering when the other shoe is going to drop.

It's easy to understand why the ancient citizens of this crazy town found the gladiatorial battles of the Colosseum so...enchanting. They were thrilled (and relieved) to see someone else getting the shaft, instead of them.

Nothing's changed in two thousand years.

Take today, for example.

We got up and leisurely decided to go down to Campo De' Fiori to watch the crowd at the morning market and to have a coffee at a local bar. It was a beautiful day, calm and serene. You could almost hear "Morning" from the Peer Gynt Suite playing in the air.

Then, without warning, the iron gates were raised and the lions were released into the arena. The Man started receiving Italian text messages on his cell phone. He couldn't understand them. He asked Monica, the bar owner. He asked some other patron at the cafe. He was directed to ask a group of policemen who were milling around nearby. (Who says there's never a policeman around when you need one!)

The police read the message on The Man's phone and said "It's from the Police. It's something about documents."

Oh! Our Permesso Di Sojourno's must be ready, The Man thought. (See my previous post "A Town Without Pity, But Great Pasta.") Instantly, we were in action. We rushed back home to get our papers, receipts, passports, clean underwear, etc., everything that the officials could conceivably ask for. I stuffed everything in a sack and we took off.

We went to grab the next 116 bus that goes directly to the office of the Questura. The 116 is a small electric bus which has seats for eight and standing room for about eight to ten more. When we got to the bus stop we saw a crowd of about 25 people waiting. This was very unusual and discouraging because there was no way we were all going to fit. The Man stopped to wait anyway, but I walked ahead and saw the approaching bus. It was absolutely packed. I have never seen a 116 that crowded. It looked like one of those "how many people can we fit in a phone booth" kinda things. I called for The Man and told him to forget it. He didn't believe me, but then he saw what I was talking about and we decided to walk. Damn tourists!

The Questura is located less than a mile from our apartment, but it's far enough that The Man had to struggle to make it. I was really marching along and The Man was saying that there was "no hurry," "what are we doing?," "Rome doesn't work like this!," etc. I just kept saying "hurry" because I was on a mission. I had gone "lunatica," (roughly, a form of the word "lunatic").

We got to the Questura, breathless. The police guard told us we were at the wrong door. He directed us back the way we'd come, around a corner, up an alley to the other entrance. The Questura is in a grand, old palazzo, filling almost a block of space with a large courtyard area in the middle (now used for official parking). Like rats, we scurried around the wall of the building, sniffing for the entryway. Finally, we found it and were instructed by the guard to go to the green door.

We'd won the first round. We'd found the office.

Inside we were met by a man who asked "What do you want?" The Man told him about the cell phone messages. The man read the messages and told us that they were sent to inform us that we had an appointment scheduled for May 7th to come and finalize the paperwork for our Permesso Di Sojourno. My eyebrows cocked into the worry position and I said, "May 7th? But, we're scheduled to return to the United States on May 6th!" The man looked pensive and not amused. He looked at the load of paperwork I carried in my sack. He said to wait while he talked to the "Directore." Then a woman co-worker came into the room. We knew her and she recognized The Man. We've dealt with her several times throughout the years of bureaucratic haggling. She was very friendly. This was a good thing.

The man returned and said that, because there weren't any other people there, they would process our paperwork today. Flipping through my stack of paperwork, he told us we needed two copies of this receipt and two copies of that form, two copies of our passports and a set of passport sized photos for The Man (I already had my photos that looked like the worst mug shots you've ever seen).

Okay, okay. Got it. I'm totally focused and ask "Where's the photocopy place and where can The Man get photos?" The man gave rapid, unintelligible directions, (it goes like that sometimes) but I heard something about a "piccolo strada" (little street) and something about crossing the Via Del Corso. Then he told us we had one hour to get back, because his office closed at 12:30.

The game was on.

We walked outside and The Man immediately started in the opposite direction. I said "No! We have to go this way." He didn't put up much of a fight. That meant he didn't understand the guy's directions any better than I.

We followed my keen sense of direction (that's funny) and actually found the photo shop. It was in an optical store. Where else?! There was no signage to indicate that, in addition to selling 5 million pairs of sunglasses, they also made passport photos. Luckily, The Man asked. They took him into a side room, sat him down, took handsomse photos (naturally!), printed them out, charged 6 euros and then directed us to a nearby copy place where we could make copies of our documents. We rushed like contestants on a game show about three hundred yards and found the small doorway camafloged by restaurants on either side. We went in and, with the help of the attendant, got our copies. Cost, less than a euro. What a deal!

It was like a scavenger hunt.

We headed back to the Questura. The crowds of tourists were hampering our progress. We thought of catching a bus because The Man was on overload. He was dragging his feet and had tripped badly going up the step to the copy shop. I was starting to worry, but he just waved me on and said he was fine. I looked at my watch. Go, go, go!

I know that The Man had no idea where the Questura office was anymore. We had trudged through small alleyways, circled piazzas, crossed major thoroughfares and dodged countless cars and motorinos. But I had been dropping mental breadcrumbs all the way. I found the secret entrance to the Questura and we were back inside with exactly 30 minutes to spare.

The lions were sent back to their cages. We were saved!

The man came out and saw us. He didn't look particularly happy, or even surprised that we'd accomplished such a feat. I know that what we'd done was superhuman. Not many "stranieri," (foreigners) let alone a Roman, could have done it. I felt proud of us.

We were admitted back into the inner sanctum, signed some papers, got fingerprinted on a computer this time, no messy ink, chit-chatted about life and the upcoming presidential elections here and in the States. We were all friends. Then, we were done. Our final Permesso Di Sojourno's will be ready in approximately six months. Neat.

Outside we just stood there. What had just happened? The Man looked at his watch and said, "I got those text messages an hour and fifteen minutes ago. We started to walk toward the bus stop to catch a ride home.

Clouds had moved in while we were out jousting today's windmill. A few sprinkles of rain fell and Peer Gynt's "Morning" Suite began playing again faintly in the breeze.