The Questura Venezia-Never the same Twice

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Friday morning, I’d already arrived late to the station where we were all to meet to take the bus to the Questura. It is 7:30am and I am standing among the buses. They really did leave on time. Hm.

So I ask which bus into Mestre (mainland Venice) takes me to the Questura office and once I exit the bus, following the throw of people ominously heading my way. We are in a residential neighborhood and a 7 minute walk through some buildings, past a church, and we near a huge, dull, windowless building. Sure enough, a line of 150 or so people were already lined up, eager for the 8:30 doors to open. I spot my peers and sneak into line with them. They turn around, not completely surprised that I managed to show up on my own, though I am embarrassed I missed the meeting time the same.

We chat for at least 30 minutes in this long and growing line. I am surprised at how orderly this small group of immigrants/foreigners/students is compared to the chaos at the Florentine Questura. Once we make it to the booth to pick up our ticket to stand in line for the next 4 hours, the program coordinator of our group begins the expected rhetoric from the Questura polizia. “Non e’ scritto qui che avete bisogno di questo documento.” “E ovvio che hanno questo documento se hanno gia la visa.” And this continues on as they lead us into an office, explaining that we do not have the form with the special stamp. Our coordinator has brought groups each year, and each year they ask for something new. My gut instinct early that morning was to bring ALL documents, knowing that they tend to ask for the one thing you’d never have expected to be important…and it becomes key.

Eventually we a great deal of arguing we were given our numbers. We see the screen. 81. The first in our group is 94 and she is seen exactly 3.5 hours after we enter the building.

But at this point things were still not smooth. Several of us had to hand write a document declaring that we were missing various things that the original embassy never gave us. Sitting in the waiting area, with crying children and tired, bored people, I was trying to comfort my peers. Several juniors from Connecticut college here for a semester as well as 3 other graduate students from my same program. Only I speak Italian in the group. And the only women older than I is a 40 year old English major from Atlanta, Georgia. All 6 are fairly new to Italy and studying abroad in general. I recount them with a few stories here and there…and when they need a translator or our group is accosted by an Italian-speaking intruder, they point their fingers at once to me. It is ironic that the groups of Americans, overly loud, with funny slang and humorous gestures that I once made fun of in Florence, are now my peers. I am in and among them with little choice. But, I must say, I enjoy seeing them feast already on this experience abroad, and try their very sincerest to say “grazie” and “scusi” . They tell me about which gelato they have tried and I help them order food until they get the hang of it. Their individual stories are already coming out. How did you get here? What kind of life did you leave behind? What kind of person will you become influenced by this place?

And we talk and talk and talk, waiting for those numbers…and when 94 blinks on the screen, the first of our group walks in nervously to see the judges. Half way through the waiting, our program coordinator must leave to run errands. I inadverntently become the leader. Approximately 20 minutes per person, as our third member enters the doors, I am called in to translate. Jaws drop. The document for health insurance does not give enough information. I am speaking with the handsome young Questura police, who, after several minutes of conversation, offers us a choice. Leave and go pay for the state health care at the local post office and run back, or come back another day with more paper work. I then explain this to my peers. It is now almost noon and the post office is a mile away. I show them how to fill out forms. They have no money. I offer to use my Italian credit card as I have a feeling the post office doesn’t accept American credit cards. Sure enough, we run/walk, full of adrenaline and frustration, to the post office and find another line. After I figure out which kiosk we’ll need to wait for, we end up being 15th in line. Waiting again. 20 minutes later, I’ve showed them how to fill out the forms, and payed for their insurance because indeed the post office does NOT accept American credit cards and our agent said not but a word.

This time, fearful that the Questura may close, I run ahead of the group, hoping to get in line to the young polizia and prove our accomplishment. I arrive a few minutes before the group, and end up standing in line behind a small Indian family for another 30 minutes. At this point, the station is almost empty. Other polizia pass by me many times, but say nothing. I wait in the room, while others remain outside, a place reserved only for the number called…but this seems different. It is 1pm, and the other girls who already received their permesso di soggiorno are at the local café waiting patiently for us.

At 1:30pm, the dark-haired young polizia gestures me in line. I hand him my papers. They see my name and curious at its northern Italian origins. I explain my heritage and what I’ve been doing in Italy. I smile and speak their language, and finally things go a little smoother. I write a few more declarations and am finished. I ask if my other 2 peers are next (meanwhile the gentleman with the called number is angrily waiting as we’ve slipped in before him) and the man behind the counter smiles and agrees amicably.

At 2pm we are leaving, each of us with our documents in hand. The ladies thank me. I had sensed their nervousness before, their introduction to the ambiguous and frustrating lack of organization in Italy. Luckily, I’ve already been immersed in it.

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