Getting ID in Italy

Getting an ID

Had to get my Carta D'Identita' renewed in Italy. It expired last year, and I attempted in getting it renewed last summer when I went there on vacation. At that time, got my photos from a machine at a train station (3 Euros) and went to the Anagrafe office ("Servizi Demografici") at about 10:30 AM, but they told me that because they only handle 50 transactions a day, the "numbers" that are given when the office opens at 8:30 AM are gone within the first five minutes after the gates are opened.

This time, I returned prepared. I promptly showed up at 8:20 AM, mixed up with the group of people waiting for the door to open, philippinos, thais, moroccans, sri-lankans. At 8:33, when the gates were unlocked, we all promptly slipped through the opening in the still-half-closed door and started running towards the offices of Servizi Demografici. I had my running shoes on, or better yet, my hashing shoes. I pass one guy. I pass another. It is a race. [did I say the "R" word?] I jump up three steps at a time and pass another. Then, around the turn, one police office of the Polizia Municipale stops us all, and, pointing to us, one by one, yells with authority: "Primo. Secondo. Terzo. Quarto. " and so on.

Obbediently, we all made a queue, the police officer standing next to us. Then, one by one, we walked towards the numbered-ticket issuing machine, and pressed the button, and zzzzt !, a paper slip came out. I was "008".

I am told that for ID renewal, I must get the forms upstairs, at the Cassa Comunale office, the only place where money is exchanged. Upstairs, there is a line. We are all getting some kind of form. From listening the ones before me, I hear that the form is 5.42 Euro. The employee is already complaining that he doesn't have change for people like us that show up with bills of 10 or 20. I better have change. I check my pockets. I have two coins of 20 cents. But not the one cents. I know he wouldn't take my bill of 5 Euro and my 40 cents. I am missing two cents. The gal ahead of me has spare change. I ask her if she could, politely, donate me two cents. At first, she blankly stares at me for the unusual request, and then, consents, and gives me these two european penny-look-a- like aluminum pieces, designated to be valued as one hundredth of an Euro each, value guaranteed by powerful european nations. That buys me a form for renewal: it is a sheet of paper with two graphically iconized figures drawn on the top right corner that resemple postage stamps. One has "Diritto di Secreteria 0.30" on it, and the other has "Tassa 5.12". The drawn figures look like stamps because until recently the request for renewal was done on a special bureaucrat pergament paper called Carta Bollata with inlayed watermark, and one had to purchase "tax" stamps and lick them and paste them on the paper. So now the real stamps are not used anymore, but to keep the history and the iconic reference to its past, the figure drawn looks like a stamp with its toothed edges.

I get my form, and walk downstairs where the photomachine is located. Before traveling to Italy, I remembered I had those photos done from last summer, found them, and traveled to italy with them. And with all the pressure of getting it all right, I forget them on the table at my mom's apartment that morning. I realized it when I got to the gates at 8:20 that morning, but, hey, if I tried going back home to get them and returning back, I risked being denied service if they already handed out the 50th and last number. So, I decided, I was going to get a new set of ID photos.

The machine is working. Fantastic. But there is a problem. It doesn't give change. It's three Euros, but I am missing coinage. I have a 5 Euro bill, but I need three coins of one Euro each. I ask some employees if there is a change machine somewhere. No, there isn't. I know where to go. I know my city. I trek towards the Ghetto, and go to a tobacco shop. I purchase one metro transit ticket, and get my four Euros in change. I briskly walk back to the Anagrafe building. It's good I got my running shoes. I am fast.

Back at the picture machine, there are three nuns that need pictures. They are before me. They slowly, very slowly, get their pictures. The machine snaps three photos, or "proofs", and lets the customer choose one as displayed on a screen display. The nuns are all debating which is the photo they look best. Long conversations ensue. Decision is by consensus. ... and I am there waiting.

Then, the nuns are done, and it is my turn.

Well, not yet. The repair men is there standing and he, too, is waiting for the nuns to finish up. Tells me he's gotta reset the machine and do some quick maintenance. It will only be one minute. He was fast. Finally, I sit down. He notices I am tall. Or at least taller than most customers. He teaches me to spin the spiraling seat so that it descends down quite a bit. My eyes must be aligned to a line on the semi-reflecting glass.

I get my shots. Flash. Flash. Flash. The repairman peeks into the booth. Looks at the images on the display screen. Says that the one on the right is no good. "They'll reject that". I looked perfectly normal to me, but, hey, he's the permanent expert in facial bureau-aestethics here. The second one is OK, but I am slightly looking down. The third one is perfect. Asks which of the two I like. I said the second one, the one where I am slightly looking down. He says that indeed the eyes show up better on that one, and he thinks that it will pass, and hands signs me a gesture that it is OK.

I make the selection and press the confirm button. My pictures come out seconds later. Yeaaah !!

Now, it's time to go to the Servizi Demografici office...

I am missing a pen. That can be serious, potentially fatal. But luckily, met this Thai friendly chap, and he lends me his pen. I fill the paper form that I paid 5.42 Euro with all the necessary personal information. The address must match whatever address they have in their database. I learned that the hard way 11 years earlier when I submitted a form on which the address was different from the one stored in their computers, something that got me yelled at by the government employee. So I just copied the same address that was on my expired ID card: "Lawrence Apts, Princeton USA". I moved outta there in the mid-nineties. Nice place, by the way.
Done with the writing. Now the numbers. Look up the electronic billboard, and check at what number they're at. They are at "020". I am "008". So, clearly, they must have signaled my number some time ago while I was getting forms, exact change, photos. All with the help of a spare two cents, a metro ticket seller, three nuns, and a repairman.

I see a guy standing up front and see his ticket. It says "021". He thinks he's next. When "021" shows up, the teller window numeral is adjacently displayed. Teller window 6. I briskly walk there before mister 021, immediately followed by mister 021, we both want service, I speak quickly and clearly saying I was getting photos, and in less than 10 seconds, the employee signals mister 021 out, an effective example of non-verbal communication. It's my turn. I feel that I'm close to done. Smell victory [but without napalm fumes of Apocalypse Now].

I hand my form, my pictures, my old ID. "Devo rinnova' 'a carta didentita'", I say.

She types my last name. I can read the flat screen display from where I am. Text comes up. It says that I am blocked from further service for "mancanza di accertamenti" [lack of requested information]. Trouble. The employee checks with a collegue. They see I am in the AIRE, Associazione Italiani Residenti all'Estero (Association of Italians Resident Abroad). She tells me I gotta go to the AIRE office, fourth floor.

Run up the four floors of stairs. Ask around the offices bordering the grey hallway. They signal me to the next and next and next hall, side hall, niche here, niche there. Finally second door to the left, walk in. I am in lack of breath. There is one guy, seated, surrounded by paper on three walls. Has one computer. Asks what I want. I am still panting. "Gotta renew my ID".

"What you want from ME? go to the first floor". He's right, what am I doing there? gotta qualify my request: "They sent me up here. Here. Look me up", and I toss my old ID.

He types the last name in. Waits. Then reads. Thinks. Hand on chin. Head forward. Then, seconds later, hand off chin and head slightly backwards. OK, I can tell he figured it out. Here it comes:

"Oh yes, we sent you a letter two years ago, but we got no response". Explains that given all the identity fraud cases, they sent letters to make sure we expats indeed exist. I said no way I could have gotten that letter because I changed address five times in the meantime since last time I registered myself in the AIRE database.

Well, here I am. I got my old ID. I am here. I exist. Can we get myself cleared up?

"Oh no. Only the consulate of Philadelphia can do that". They don't have the authority to intervene. They manage residents of city of Rome, but I am in a different zone, a "twilight zone".