Meanwhile, back in the Eternal City, I had discovered that one could get prints taken at our embassy. I did and, feeling very smug, I mailed them off to the Justice Department. One month later, the first set was returned to me, marked “illegible for FBI standards.” With my extra card in hand, I went back to the embassy for a new set, only to find an irate throng of Americans milling around at the closed embassy gates. I had chosen to go the day the embassy was closed due to the budget battle. Embassies are not considered “essential services,” I deduced.

Eventually I did get the new set of prints and I mailed it off. Yesterday - only 3-1/2 months after the process began - I received my response. Stamped on the back of the card was this three-word message: “No arrest records.” What an anti-climax! Can it possibly suffice for those Italian bureaucrats who crave official letterheads, embossed stationery, illegible signatures and authorized seals? Who knows? In the meantime, wait until you hear my story about birth certificates! 

May, 1996

Episode Three: Standing in Line at the Anagrafe

In my ongoing quest to accumulate all the documents required to apply for Italian citizenship, I had shared the toils and tribulations, as well as satisfaction at the  moment of acquisition of each new document, with my co-applicant. We had accepted the challenge together and expected to share the triumph as well. Unfortunately, I shall have to go it alone. One of the many prerequisites for application is that one must be registered as a bona fide resident at the anagrafe (Office of Vital Statistics) for at least 10 years.It makes no difference how long one has actually lived in a place. The important thing is how long one has been registered. Although my friend has lived in Rome for more than 20 years, when she requested her residence certificate, she realized that she had only been registered for the last 7. There was no getting around it. She would have to wait another 3 years to apply. Disappointed but undaunted, I vowed to pursue my goal just the same.

By mid-March, I had finally received the documents (birth certificate and letter of good conduct) from the States that I needed. Not only did they now have to be translated into Italian, but the translator had to swear under oath that each translation was in conformity with what was actually written in the original. I, as the interested party, was not supposed to do it myself. However, after learning the exorbitant sum an agency would charge for the job, I begged a friend to do this enormous favor for me. The translation was not so much the problem, but the oath was. I had done sworn translations in the past and knew the ropes. One merely had to type it on legal paper, stick the required tax stamps (bolli) on and present oneself at the appropriate office that was located in the central court house (which has several locations just to make things complicated) for the oath. Though not difficult, it was an errand that could easily consume an entire morning, I thought. It was a big favor to ask of someone. I decided to do a trial run before sending my friend off with the real thing in hand.

Good thinking! The office had moved since I had last been there. When I finally found the right location, the three people waiting kindly informed me that there were never many people in the translation line. Someone vaguely mentioned that sometimes the line for the authentification of survey reports, which were done in the same office, could get quite long. In any case, I saw that there were two distinct waiting lists posted, one for each service. According to logic, there should be no problem. But I was wrong. On the day my friend went, the two lists had merged into one and the scene was somewhat similar to a crowd scene from Roma Città Aperta. It took her the better part of the entire day.

Still, I now had my translations. The moment when I could present my application was drawing closer and closer. All I still needed was the certified copy of my passport, easily obtainable at the embassy. Or so I thought. More about that in the next episode.

June, 1996

Episode 4: The quest continues 

The only document still needed was an authenticated copy of my passport. I had left this particular item for last because I knew, or thought I knew, that it would be the easiest to obtain. So having finally amassed (the word could not be more accurate) everything else requested, I zipped over to the embassy, special consular services, with my passport, my money and a photocopy, as they had instructed me. This is one of the services provided to the public on Tuesdays and Thursdays only, between 9 and 12 a.m., yet nonetheless we had a bit of trouble finding a consul to sign my certified copy. That finally resolved, I took my copy and light-heartedly left the embassy. I could not believe it. I had everything! I would best describe the emotion as similar to the way Ulysses must have felt on his return to Ithaca. My sense of accomplishment was incomparable.

Several days later (the citizenship office is only open to the public on Tuesdays and Fridays as you will recall from Episode 1), armed with all my original copies and four photocopies of each one neatly divided into 5 separate groups, I presented my application to the bureaucrat behind the desk. In the last 6 months, she and I had become friends. She had shared my trials and tribulations with me and I, in turn, gave her tips to pass on to other Americans (poor souls) who were just starting the quest. She took my documents in hand and began to scrutinize. Everything was in order... except for the certified copy of the passport. After the consul has signed the copy, she informed me, one must take it to the regional government headquarters, where they check the signature to make sure it is authentic. The office in question was not far away. She suggested I run over immediately and then bring it right back. Obviously, I did. Just as obviously they blithely told me that I could pick it up on the following Monday. It was absolutely impossible to verify the consular signature that day because the office closed in 45 minutes. I wondered how long it usually took to verify a signature, but wise from experience, or simply resigned, I left the office empty-handed. The following Monday I collected it and consigned it to my friend in the citizenship office.

They now have everything, except for my W2 form (the Italian equivalent is a modello 101) for 1995. When my employer gives it to me, my friendly bureaucrat happily informed me, I'll have to make a notarized statement attesting to its veracity, and buy more stamps but make only one (not four) photocopies.

In the meantime, my application is being processed. I asked how long it would take. She acquired a very serious expression and said, almost under her breath, "Soltanto 3 anni" (only 3 years). I am still trying to decide if she whispered the answer because she did not want the others to know that I was receiving such rapid processing OR if she was embarrassed at the length of time it would take. I fully expect new developments to arise during my waiting period and if they do, you'll be the first to know. Otherwise, you're all invited to the party...in 1999!

November, 1996

Episode 5: The Fugitive From Bureaucracy Returns Victorious (Almost) 

Harried from work (too much) and time (too little), I never managed to pass by the Ministry of the Interior in July to check on the progress of my application for citizenship. As you may remember from previous articles, I had begun gathering and successfully completed amassing the enormous quantity of documentation necessary to apply for citizenship in my adopted country. When I had handed in the lot, they had informed me that in six months or so, I could ask the citizenship office at the Ministry how far my file had progressed. Since they had initially told me the whole thing would take a couple of years, I did not think it would make much difference whether I checked on the status a month earlier or later. I had gone in January when they informed me that "we" (I obviously had moved up a notch and was now considered something like an ancient Roman federate - a term coined in the 4th century by the emperor Diocletian for Germanic barbarians who were at times Rome's allies but at times also foes) were still waiting for some sort of final security check. They advised me to come back in June or July but not to hurry since my application had "only" been pending for a mere nine or ten months. As I said above, I never got around to it and at the end of July was resigned that I would have to wait until after summer vacation in August before gaining any further information.

Wrong I was. In the middle of August (actually the day before August 15, Ferragosto), I found a very official letter in my mail box from the Ministry. In trepidation, I anxiously tore open the envelope and read that a presidential decree dated July 1 had granted me citizenship. With a great sigh of relief and an enormous sense of satisfaction (if I were a sportier type I would have thrown my clenched fist into the air and shouted a vehement "yes!"), I began to realize that I had attained my quest ("goal" does not indicate the same emotional connotation). The note stated that I simply had to return to the office where I had originally handed in my application for further instructions.

I happily went down to visit my "old friends" at the citizenship office several days later, after having first made sure the office still received the public on Tuesdays and Fridays (forewarned is forearmed). They gave me back the heaps of documents (the originals) that I had handed in a year before and informed me that the only thing I still needed to do was make an appointment to be sworn in (at another office of course). I rushed over and was given the choice of day and date. It seemed like a dream come true. I merely had to present myself on the appointed day at the time agreed to with proper identification and two witnesses (I assume to testify that I was actually the person who had presented the application).

All five of us (several well-wishers had joined the fold by now) were there on time for my big day. I must admit the ceremony was short but sweet. After checking our identification, we were ushered into a small but intimate ceremonial room with flags and a very large desk. I had half expected piped-in music with the Italian national anthem (an entire band for me alone would have obviously been a bit too much and the room was already overcrowded with just us in it), but that was my only disappointment of the day. The official ceremoniously came in, put on his white, red and green sash, adjusted his hair (actually adjusted his hair, then put on the sash and then readjusted his hair) and swore me in. I was a citizen.

After a few complimentary phrases, I asked when I could apply for a passport. The next day, I was told. Wonderful, I thought. With my hand on the door knob about to leave, I suddenly remembered to ask about getting a new carta d'identità (the identification document which is required whereas a passport is not). My old one indicated that I was an alien resident. I was informed that a carta d'identità requires a birth certificate and since Italian offices do not have one on record because I was born in another country, I would have to go down the hall to the office which dealt with the transcription of foreign birth certificates. They were very kind there and informed me that I only had to acquire the documents from my home state, have them translated, take them to the consulate in my home town, have them authenticated and then...

Back to square one (but as a citizen this time). After all, if I had persevered and gotten the mass of other documents, what could possibly complicate one, little insignificant birth certificate! How many times had Dr. Richard Kimball thought he was about to catch up with the one-armed man in his never ending crusade?

By Michael Brouse, Rome.