Roman Bureaucracy

In Italy, one needs an official document for just about everything.
A few years ago, before the computer really took hold, I needed a copy of my residence papers – to open a bank account, if my memory serves me correctly - which meant a trip to the Anagrafe, the equivalent of a registry office or Town Hall.
I took Lola with me. She needed the exercise.

(Oh, for a piece of red meat. I needed the protein. Robert was going through his vegetarian phase at the time, which, you can understand, was not my idea of fun)

I walked to the Anagrafe, which is near the Fatebenefratelli Hospital, one of the oldest in Europe, on the Isle of Tiberina in the middle of the River Tiber, a five minute walk from the Campo de’ Fiori. It is a truly beautiful location.
I entered the building wondering what comical relief I would experience today. Italian bureaucracy is chaotic at the best of times and, if it doesn't drive you certifiably insane, can be very amusing now and then.
I joined the necessary line to find that there were only three people ahead of me. My lucky day.

(Oh dear! He had to go and say it, didn't he?)

Me and my big mouth!
The first person in the line was a Roman Catholic priest, who had come to inform the Anagrafe of his change of address. The civil servant pulled out the man’s file (part of a huge volume, weighed a ton), and asked him if he also wanted the names of his wife and three children on the document.

(A catholic priest – wife and children?!)

"But that's impossible," the poor priest muttered, while blushing a deep purple. "I don't have a wife and children!  My faith won't allow it."
"That's what I've always thought.  It's what I was brought up to think, anyway" said the civil servant while looking down his nose at the poor priest.  "But your file thinks otherwise. Did you get some sort of papal dispensation?"
"Of course not!  There must be some mistake."
Behind him, we struggled to keep a collective straight face. It was not easy.
"We don't make mistakes," the civil servant insisted.
It was finally sorted out, and the priest left, a haggard man, his shoulders so curved they were almost touching.

(The system had claimed another victim)

Next in line was a woman, who must have been at least eighty years of age. She wanted a copy of her husband's residence papers.
"He's dead!" said the civil servant staring down at another file.
The woman gasped as her old legs buckled and she started a slow collapse to the floor. Fortunately, we caught her in time. A chair and a glass of water appeared out of nowhere. She finally recovered enough to return to the civil servant, who gave her a look that implied she was wasting his time, that he had more important things to do.
"But my husband was fine when I left home this morning," the old woman moaned.
Immune to her feelings, the civil servant droned on. "Keep his corpse at home, do you? That's illegal, unless I'm very much mistaken. Perhaps I should report you!"

(Aren't these people vetted in any way?!)

"My husband is alive!"
"Not according to his file, he isn't. Look. Read for yourself." He held up the file for the old woman to see. "Deceased. Says so right here."
"But this is the file of…” the old woman leaned forward, not trusting her old eyes, a hint of hope in her voice, “... Giacomo Coppi!" Thus came out as a shriek.
"I can read," said the snotty-sounding civil servant.
"My husband's name is Giovanni Coppi."
"Not according to his file it isn't."

(For crying out loud. Where do they find these people?)

"Then this obviously isn't his file."
"Are you telling me I pulled out the wrong file? Is that what you're telling me?" the idiot asked, his expression telling her that there was no way he could make a mistake like that.
"Yes!" we all shouted in chorus. He was getting on our nerves in a big way.
The old woman sorted out, the next person in line moved forward.
A girl in her mid-twenties, who needed a copy of her marriage certificate. Judging by the look on her face, she wasn't going to put up with any nonsense.
We held our breaths as Mister Diplomacy pulled out the girl's file. He flipped it open, and we leaned forward in anticipation.
Was her husband dead or alive? Was she a bigamist? Was she divorced? Did she have children her husband knew nothing about?

(Tune in next week, folks, for the thrilling conclusion of 'A Day At City Hall')

We held our breaths.
"Maria Galliano?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Ah!" we all cried in unison. So far, so good.
"Your husband's name is Piero Galliano..."
"No!"
I knew it couldn't last.
"His name is Davide Galliano. Davide!" the young woman emphasized.
"Not according to his..."

(She didn't let him say it)

"I don't give a damn what THAT file says," she shouted. "You go find the right file before I call your supervisor in here. Now! I don't have all day to waste."
It's amazing how shouting and throwing your weight around in Italy will get things done.
The civil servant moved like greased lightning, and the correct file appeared in seconds flat. The girl left with the right certificate.
It was now my turn.
"Yes?" the civil servant asked, still wincing from the girl's verbal blasting. "What can I do for you?"
"I'd like a copy of my residence certificate, please."
"Name?"
I gave him my name, and he went off in search of the corresponding file.
"You are German?" he said as he came back to the counter.
"No, I'm English."
"Not according to your file."

(If he says that again...)

I sighed. "I assure you, I am English."
"Your file says you were born in Germany."
"That's right, I..."
"Then you are German."
Sitting at my feet, Jump surprised me by growling.

(I wanted to leap over the counter and bite the idiot)

"Don't you think I would know what I am?" I asked the civil servant.
"That is not always the case with the people who come in here."
"I'm English."
"It says you were born in Is... Ise... Ise.."
"Iserlohn."
"What sort of name is that?"
"It's a small town near Dortmund."
"Never heard of it."
He isn't alone - not many Germans have heard of Iserlohn.
"Iserlohn or Dortmund?"
"Both."

(Oh, boy)

"They're both in Germany?"
"Ah-ha!" he cried out, triumphantly. "You see? You are German."

(Robert, do you really need that certificate?)

"I have a British passport." That should shut him up. I pulled it out of my pocket, and held it up for him to see.
"How did you get that?"

(This is going to be a long day)

"Look," I started, mustering all the patience I could.

(Wrong! Want me to bite him?)

"My younger brother was born in Singapore. Does that make him a Singaporean?"
"Does that make him a what?"
"A Singaporean, a native of Singapore.
"Is that something like Chinese?"

(Say yes, and we can get out of here)

"Yes."
"Of course he's not Chinese," the civil servant scoffed.  "He doesn't have slanted eyes!"  He leaned forward, suddenly suspicious.  "Or does he?"

"No.  But according...

(Careful with that word)

... to your logic, he is Chinese."
"However, according to this file, you are German."
I shut up...

(Very wise)

... and just looked at him. I wanted to get out of there.
He grinned at me, smug, triumphant. "Now what was it you wanted?"
"A copy of my residence certificate. Please."

(That's it; kowtow so we can go home. To what? I then thought! Another bowl of cold pasta with soya? Yuk!)

Looking like the cat that just stole the cream, he stood and went off to get what I wanted.
"Here you are," he said, coming back with the certificate. "We'll have to correct your file about you being German." With a look, he dared me to say something contradictory.

(Don't)

"You're right." I had achieved what I had come for. "Do what you like."
He slammed my file shut. "Next," he shouted. He wasn't going to take shit from anyone.

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