Michael's in love with an Italian...

...resident!  Yes, you guessed it (I hope!) -- the residency came through today.  And this is how it happened:

Last Friday, I applied for the residency, and the gentleman in the Comune told me that I had to come back this week.  He said that "it" takes a week to finalize.  I asked what would happen between then and this week, and he responded along the lines of, "Maybe nothing, and maybe the police will verify that you live where you say you do. Come back Thursday & we'll finish everything."

Only problem was that we're going to be in Paris on Thursday (big problem, huh?)! In fact, we're leaving tomorrow morning.  So, being a bit proactive (and thereby ruining the system), I went to the police station this morning to say that I was here, and yes I DO live directly across the street from them! The police officer at the front desk was jolted into a flurry of activity and scowling, indicating that he wasn't even sure that they'd received the form from the Comune yet...so I offered to go down there (yes, less than 50 meters) to pick it up.

Not having any of it, he called Carlo.  But Carlo didn't answer.  So he called Alessandro, who informed him that Carlo was in fact in the office & Alessandro had no CLUE why Carlo wasn't picking up his phone (the guys can practically see each other, but not quite).  Calling Carlo back, my friendly officer conferred with him (it's very cute to see their disbelief at my very complicated last name -- Hook) and found out that everything was done!

"Done?" I asked. "I can go to the Comune to finish everything?" "Yes, yes" (with lots of accompanying "shoo" gestures).  So, off I trotted to the Comune: around the corner and up the stairs.  I met my new best friend Carlo, who kept repeating, "It's all done." Well, it took a while, but essentially, he expected me not to want anything other than assurance that the residency had come through.  I indicated that I wanted to buy a car, and perhaps I would have to prove residency?  I was looking for a certificate or something, you know?

After some back and forthing, he decided I wanted an identity card.  Sounded good to me.  I asked what it would take, and he responded, "three photos of yourself." Further explanations allowed me to understand that I was to leave the Comune office, go to the giornalista (news stand), and get my photos there.  Feeling really excited that something was actually happening, I slithered down the worn, centuries-old stairs, and dashed to the giornalista.  I waited (patiently) while she explained the relative merits of the "Lotto" and the "Superlotto" magazines to an 80-year-old lady.  She very kindly adjusted my clothing so my shoulders didn't look crooked, then took my pictures.

Ten minutes, three photos, and 5.42 euros (that's the Comune's fee -- how do you suppose they came up with that cost?) later, I had my identity card!

(Later, when I tried to enroll the kids, I was informed oh-so-kindly that the identity card means nothing and I need a certificate of residency...but that's a later story).

Love,

Alexandra