It was unquestionably my fault – traveling with an expired passport. I never look at it. I surround myself with secular art, music and literature, so I live as if all other things were eternal, which they are not. My trip too intended to celebrate a timeless piece, the friendship with my best friend Giovanni, which has defied decades of distance and change. But surely, my passport was dated. I made the embarrassing discovery at the check-in at Hartsfield. After consulting with two supervisors, a kind Delta attendant sent me off to my gate and wished me luck with the Italian custom. Speaking about dodging a bullet… my vacation could have ended right there! I was too tired to fight back anyway. You work triple to afford a week of leisure; then, work double upon return. Vacation can be taxing. But, what can I say, I believe in miracles. I was traveling with my three year old, Layla, just the two of us, away from the house terrorists, if you know what I mean. Layla could not be more pleasant on the long flight. Better than an adult. In Roma, I told the “dogana” officer that I was in care of my little angel. He smiled, then asked me when I was planning to return. He looked at the ticket, then recommended that, upon arrival to my home town, I would head to the passport office and find another type of angel, someone capable of miracles. There I was, in Italy! I just could not get out of it.
Before I start with my little story on how I managed in pre-August Italy to get a new passport in seven days, you need to know that, by the time August is around the corner, all ranks and levels of the Italian bureaucratic apparatus, from employees to officials, deem themselves on a pre-vacation status. They come late to the office, leave at odd hours, spend time at the bar with friends, taking turns with colleagues to deal with a very angry public. People are trying to get things done before heading to some exotic island. Many made my same discovery, days before departure, and there they are, imploring personnel who are mentally elsewhere. In anticipation for a well-deserved vacation, all public offices are open only in the morning. By noon, you can hear the employees saying under their breath: hey, I am doing you a big favor just by listening to your story, so if I am talking to my colleagues about my vacation, don’t you dare interrupt me!
Off-season, under the best circumstances, it takes two weeks to obtain a new passport. If you need it in one week in late July, you either have a “saint” (i.e. some internal connection to an employee or to the director of an office), or you are just dreaming. The office is part of the police station, so tipping is out of question. Only patience seems to work. In a place where the public is upset, serenity bears a sign of distinction that makes your case heard. But if you tell them you need the passport in one week, you can get laughed at, or hit with the old saying: where do you think you are, in America? Being well aware of these cultural habits, I did not hesitate. Bureaucracy did!
But time was only one of my problems. I have been away for a little over 30 years, and all my Italian documents of personal identification expired sometime during the last century. Bottom line: without a valid document, I do not exist in Italy, even if I am a true native. I was facing confinement in Sicily, until mid September, when work resumes. What to do? What to do? The outlook was decidedly blue! I am quoting Cole Porter’s “A Foggy Day (in London)”, not to sound Americanized (which I am), but because, as in the song, “it turned out to be, the luckiest day I know!” My “she” was indeed a virtue, temperance. My epiphany was: slowing down to rhythms I am no longer accustomed to.
Back to the documents of personal identification, frantically digging in my old drawer revealed an expired Italian Driver License, my social security number and various expired membership cards. I took them to the passport office, to see if they induced pity on me, only to discover that they tipped the servicing officer on my extensive residence abroad – not that I was really trying anything… Meanwhile, my resourceful sister found an insider. He was a veteran, but could only offer a maybe. I was given a long list of documents I had to produce within 48 hours in order to make it by the dead line. One had to come from the Miami Consulate. I figured, my vacation was over.
But inasmuch as I detest bureaucracy, this one offered no permanent threat. Italy is the ideal place for a short, idyllic vacation. If it had to last longer, so be it! Breathtaking landscape, temperate climate, friendly people, incredible food, art everywhere you look. I adore Italy, but frankly, I am not made to live there long term. Too much uncertainty for my taste, too many opinions, too many voices, too many taxes, and conversely, too little attention to production and trade. Italy fell in love with the illusion that the government can provide employment and funds to run the nation. Nowadays, it watches boring TV programs and tries to break even. It is parasites feeding parasites, watching parasites. Armani, Pirelli and Ferrari can’t run a nation’s economy, believe me! Not even Italian wines, who have kicked French producers in the rear bumper for their superior bouquet, can’t make up for a nation that lives off the pension’s system. But even after such long absence, my ability to cope with bureaucracy was nearly intact, like riding a bike. It was a partial relief.
To signify that I was grounded, my old passport was immediately confiscated. At this point, I was officially a nobody. In addition, my re-entry had triggered an interesting mechanism I was unaware of. Individuals with children cannot travel abroad without the authorization of the other parent, no matter where such parent resides. Apparently, this law prevents bad fathers from abandoning their offspring, skipping their alimony obligations, or altogether kidnapping their children. Fair law! I am sure that it prevents people from having extended disputes, which is a very interesting approach, worth exploring further. “So, I heard you want to go to the Seychelles? We need to take care of business first! How about your apartment plus an open account at Prada?”
Now, picture this: I am not used to asking permission to anyone for my movements. I am just not used to leashes. Try to imagine my reaction when I was more or less jokingly ransomed by the mother of my child, with a faxed list of requests bearing a warning: “otherwise, you can stay in Italy!” Eventually, somebody got me by the jewels! I accepted not because of the threat of confinement, but because the list contained cooking duties and some sexual favors, two activities which, in spite of my age, I still prefer to slowly decomposing in eternally-vacationing Italy.
This was the beginning of a little Calvary, all compressed within ten days of vacation I originally pictured as sitting under an umbrella by the sea shore, being served cool drinks and ice-creams by beautiful women in skimpy bikinis, whispering nice words to my ears, watching my daughter picking up seashells. Instead, I spent six days at the passport office of the Questura Centrale di Palermo, looking at angry people, fully dressed, no Margheritas allowed at the counter, learning what bureaucracy had made of our society. I did it peacefully, bearing the kind of resignation that only a visit to your old home can give you. After all, the bar was around the corner and its cappuccino was outstanding!
I found that Sicily has not changed one bit. Circe sand bagged Ulysses’s ship upon arrival, encircled him with incredible food and charm, and turned his crew into pigs. She still does it to anyone who is willing to surrender to its numerous temptations. There is plenty of them, plenty of reasons to stay, and she would go to any extent to prove that you are in Paradise, of course, until you make love to her. Then, like in any relationship, she would show you the other side of her. Those who argue that the Circeo is not in Sicily, should think again. I have a different version, complete with navigational calculations, based on Homer’s indications. They seem to converge not to the Tyrrhenian Sea, but to the island of Pantelleria, south of Sicily, which is a far better matching location for the type of trouble our Odyssey’s hero endured.
Back to my little issue, I paid my dues, taking a daily bus trip to downtown Palermo – a very pleasant ride, especially in the company of my daughter who was thrilled by the novelty of public transportation – a civil institution Atlantan’s don’t enjoy. Not that Marta goes anywhere, but the lure of sitting in idle traffic in an air conditioned BMW and enriching the oil-producers, is irresistible.
There, the eminent Tito Mazzetta put together the first piece of my puzzle, hours before he – as a true Italian – flew over the Atlantic, toward the Italian shores. Meanwhile, I paid daily visits to the passport office to verify that the documents coming from the U.S. had arrived. But faxes were not connecting, not until I sent one of my best friends in person to the Miami Consulate, then had the document overnight via Fedex. It worked, except for a slight miscalculation. The local Fedex is run by Italians and takes three days to deliver a document to your door, once it has cleared custom. The overnight document was sent on a Saturday afternoon, it arrived the following Thursday. After all, summer is a commonwealth luxury, and “Italianness” must be a permanent condition, perhaps a hard earned right, among working European nations.
Of course, at three in the afternoon, when I eventually reached the beach, every square-inch of sand had been claimed by a forest of tables, chairs, towels, umbrellas, and various other devices whose sole function was to state to late visitors and naïve onlookers ”THIS PIECE OF BEACH IS MINE”. People were bathing, but dare getting close to one of their props! On the third day of this canned-sardine beach life, I landed, so to speak, a ride on a boat, and watched the scene from the sea. There, I romanticized of a time in which terrorism was not in the picture and bureaucracy was in its infancy. I remember that you could come in the U.S. as a tourist with any document, by stating where you were heading to, showing you carried enough money to be independent. Now, in the era of suspicion and fabricated consensus, it is a miracle they don’t check who you vote for. Like Mickey Mouse, bureaucracy has grown up to a cow! Is there life on Mars? This time I am quoting David Bowie! Poetry helps me skipping comments on other modern fabrications. Is bureaucracy unavoidable? Not in a large society!
But seriously, in order to obtain a passport, one must clear the following procedures: Release (lettera di assenso) by the other parent of your little ones, with consequent official translation from the district Consulate, in my case Miami. This entails you have been fair to the other parent. Nulla Osta (clearance) from the same Consulate confirming your residence abroad. No tricks there. Verification you cast your vote at the last political elections. Two strikes and you are out! Then, there is the criminal background (Fedina Penale), which is a serious matter. Mine cleared only because of my extended absence from Italy, otherwise they would have found out I am not fond of Berlusconi, which in certain public offices (including some of our consulates) is considered a red flag, or that I smuggled explosives for years – which Sicilian cannoli are, if you eat more than three at a time. You must also obtain clearance from the traffic bureau – by paying off all your fines. This could amount to millions. I was weighing my luck, not knowing what could possibly come up.
I belong to a generation that left Italy before traffic restrictions were introduced. Back then, I was parking everywhere I could, although never blocking anyone’s rights of egress. I was a creative parker, in the sense that, where there was no parking-spot in sight I “created” a space. I did it by lifting a Cinquecento or a Panda and shift it a meter or so, then squeeze my car in between. Glorious times! Now, I cannot lift my bag without a grunt. One last hurdle, the application requires two forms of valid identification. Of course, I did not have any, and had to obtain my first one by taking two witnesses to City Hall (Municipio). There they were sworn as people who knew me, or at the least could swear that they did. I took my sister who, needless to say, made a false declaration. By the way, she is not the only one who has not figured out who I am. These days, I am having some difficulty myself.
An additional half-dozen of untold procedures, such as previous violations of visas, custom policy, or residence status, must clear before a passport can be released. In addition to be as clean as spring water, you must be kind to the employees of the office, or your file may sit on the back burner at libitum (and that is, without an end). To symbolize the lethargy of the Italian administration, a fat stray dog, laid motionless, in an apparent state of summer coma, in the same position, day after day, in front of the entrance of the Questura. He did so, oblivious of police officers and pedestrian traffic. As he transfixed to a statuary icon, no one seemed to mind. Taking inspiration from it, I took naps at that office, while I was waiting for my turn. I was jetlag, so it worked just fine. My daughter was playing around with other children. There were entire families there, making the place a small Italian happening. But for intervals of untold length, I identified with that dog, and discovered the pleasure of dozing off. An army of citizens made sure no one would lose their hardly-earned turn. Did I have to come here for a nap?
Now, this is the dramatized version of my vacation. In reality, the passport was the punctuation of my recount, with many episodes of sheer luxury and joy, being the rule. Numerous times, I sat in a state of bliss in front of a granita di limone, and bowls of divine ice-cream. I had late night conversations watching the stars. I spent precious time watching my mother and child engage in play. In fact, I slowed down to a healthy pace, slept when I was tired, ate when I was hungry. My daughter and I seemed to connect at a deep level, in a way I never experienced with any woman with whom I have had the chance to share vacation time. Obviously, there is something irresistibly cute in a young princess, which becomes less cute when the same princess becomes an adult. There, graciousness does not seem to follow age, not in my long and extensive experience as a man. Conversely, children do not seem to mind much their parent’s little idiosyncrasies, which they accept as a given. I thus hung into this imperfect timelessness, knowing it will end, contemplating the miracle of harmony, looking at the symphony of the million components of our society, witnessing its necessary complication and inner impenetrability. I was floating above a reality, which so many others deemed restrictive. I felt privileged.
In the end, the much anticipated fax from Miami arrived. My passport was released the day before my departure, without fanfare or special remarks. When I told the police officer how efficient was their office, she asked abruptly: “what did you say?” I replied: “I just remarked how efficient is your office”, at which point she raised her arms and in a loud tone, yelled: “COMPLIMENT!”. The entire office froze up! Her colleague grabbed a chair and showed it under her, stating “her knees go limp when she hear a compliment. Every other employee joined her in a choir: “COMPLIMENT!”. Other employees came out of closed doors, saying: “is it even possible? Who is it?” Another officer asked me, where I was from and I said: from Palermo. Impossible, he said. Well, I have lived in the U.S. for thirty years. “There you go!”, he said. “No one from this city appreciates us. This is the first compliment we received in July! If we had an award, you’d be the winner of it!” For a brief moment, I was an example to the rest of the petitioners. This is no dramatization.
The circle was complete. I had witnessed a small miracle. So did they!
Through them, I was thanking Siclily for letting me go. But, in doing so, I might as well have offered the first contribution to the restoration of the American reputation abroad, an America that respect hard work and appreciates forgiveness, an America so different from its current image.
I am glad I did it.
I am yours sincerely, Giancarlo Pirrone.