Travel Tips

Ma Kettle was born in Italy, in Cosenza, but moved to Canada with her family when she was three years old. She started the application to get her citizenship reinstated upon her arrival in Italy Sept 2003, however to date, she has yet to receive it.

Part of the problem was proving to authorities that she never renounced her Italian citizenship in the first place. Ma Kettle had to continually repeat over and over and over, that she was only three years old at the time. Her parents claim they never renounced theirs either, and Ma couldn't even pronounce 'renounce'.

Once she won that round, then she had to prove that she lost her Italian citizenship, so she in turn might reclaim it. Until she can do this, she remains an Italian citizen. Do you see a slight catch here? Ma Kettle remains an Italian citizen, until she can prove she lost her Italian citizenship, so she in turn may apply to get it back.

If she can't prove it, then she already has it. Right?? Well, not quite...

Give your head a shake...In writing this, I feel dumber than the situation sounds, or perhaps not? What seems so easy, is not. Common sense does not apply.

The fly in the ointment has been the documentation pertaining to her mothers Canadian Citizenship status. There is no doubt that her mother is a Canadian citizen, she draws old age security, pays taxes, and is on the voters list. It is simply the fact that the document she currently has is the newer wallet sized one, but the Italian Consulate in Toronto insists she produce the old, larger, ceremonial sized one. If she ever had one like that, it was replaced years ago with the wallet size which is currently being issued today by the Canadian Government.

Unfortunately, no such document can be found, so Ma Kettle has had to pay $75 for processing fees to have a new large 'outdated' version of this document re-issued by the Canadian Government....and guess what proof they required for this document? You got it, the wallet sized version!! Stay with me here, it gets better.

Ma sent a copy of the current regulations stating that the large size citizenship papers were replaced by the handy wallet sized cards as technology improved years later. Furthermore, regulations state that the current wallet size is now the Official Documentation. She quoted regulation after regulation, but the Italian Consulate remains adamant that they require the old original copy.

Italian regulations state that only ONE proof of citizenship of either the mother or father is required to complete this process Ma Kettle is presently engaged in, however, out of courtesy at the time, supplied documentation for both mom and dad. Her fathers Citizenship is the old ceremonial size, and her moms is the wallet size.

The Italian Consulate are standing their ground out of spite I fear, and for whatever perverse reason, they want both her parents Citizenship papers to be of equal size.

A year ago, a Canadian Postal Money Order for $75 was forwarded to the Canadian Consulate in Toronto for this large version to be re-issued and forwarded to the Italian Consulate on Ma's behalf.

Ten months later she received notification that a money order was not acceptable payment, and a personal cheque was required before proceeding any further. Inside this notification letter, was the uncashed Canadian Postal Money Order, payment of which is guaranteed by the Bank of Canada. It appears the Canadian Government doesn't trust the Canadian Post Office. Funny to others perhaps, but remains a sore spot with Ma.

Anyway, the long and short of it is, Ma Kettle is still waiting to be recognized as an Italian citizen (entitled by birth), who did not voluntarily give up her rights as an Italian citizen at age three, and who now must prove that her citizenship was lost many moons ago, before she can lay claim to her Italian citizenship. Very confusing. The Italian Consulate is requesting an outdated form (no longer recognized) be reproduced, and the Canadian government refuses to accept payment from a Canadian Federal authority.

Stranger than fiction.

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The 'holding pen'

Pa Kettle's experiences, step ... 'Uno'.

My story is simpler than Ma's. I am a retired Canadian citizen by birth who has accompanied his loving wife to a far-away land.

In order to remain in Italy hassle free, I needed a Permesso di Soggiorno which is documentation allowing me permission to stay in Italy. Actually, I found out I really don't need anything, because I am a spouse of an Italian citizen...sort of, ...kind of, read the first chapter.

However, in order to do things by the book, I decided to go through the process to see where I ended up. First thing I did was go to the Questura (Police station), where I joined a huge mob of hot and angry people waiting outside a locked gate at the far side of the building. The gate would open, and a select number of people would be let in, and the gate would then be closed. The people unfortunate enough to be inside the courtyard (holding pen) over lunch hour, were locked in until the workers returned to work. If it rains, use your umbrella. If you don't have an umbrella, make a friend.

I watched and waited, waited some more, then decided that I'd play dumb, left the mob and entered the Questra through the main door. It worked like a charm, unfortunately when questioned what I was waiting for, I was informed by a uniformed gent that I did not require a Permesso to visit Italy as a tourist. I tried explaining that I really wasn't a tourist as such, but he remained steadfast in his proclamation, and sent me on my way.

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Padova's Questura (Police Station)

Step ... 'Due'

The fact is, a visitor may remain in Italy for three months using his status as a cash spending, sightseeing tourist, but, by law, he must apply for a tourist Permesso within 8 days of his landing on Italian soil. No tourist in his right mind ever does, and if they do, they usually get the same response that I did.

However, when I returned to the Questra two months later, I once again used the main door. There was the usual long line which I joined, but after awhile I realized it wasn't moving, more like mingling. There is a glassed in section, with a slot cut under the glass through which the visitor is expected to bend at the knees and talk to the inhabitants out of the side of their mouth. The inhabitants of this glass cell are, ironically, policemen.

There was a short line for this area also, and as I waited patiently, a small segment of Padova's citizenery continually cut in line, allowing me ample time to re-read the instructions written in Italian informing the straniero (foreigners) of ... who knows what ? No one could understand it.

Finally, my turn came. Brandishing my Canadian passport, I displayed my warm 'but slightly confused' smile, and slide my papers through the slot. It was really quite easy, in fact the policeman called another policeman over who spoke a smattering of English, and I was able to explain that I wanted a Permesso di Soggiorno. He looked concerned, frowned a bit, and told me that I wanted a Carta Soggiorno instead.

"Huh?", said I.

"Better", he said, "especially if you want to live in Italy". I had been warned that the officials didn't really know the proper procedures, but he was trying so hard to be helpful, and was most apologetic about his English skills. He told me that I had to go to another office, and actually came out of his glass cage and wrote down the address and the hours from a sheet affixed to the wall. He took great care in repeating everything over and over so I would understand. I tried again and again to explain that I really just wanted the ordinary permesso, but, he was adament that I really wanted the other. This kindly policeman was so pleasant, and explained that this was his first day on the job.

Who am I to argue with a policeman? Besides, I really wanted to experience this process that is considered so out of step with todays society.

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Prato della Valle

Step ... 'Tre'

Off I went, with instructions in hand, for a three mile trek past Prato della Valle, through unchartered, unknown territory, but my quest became a success one hour and a multitude of wrong turns later. I always carry a map of Padova, but oddly, not on this day. I also found my map of Canada to be of no use what-so-ever.

The street number was clearly marked, however I found no signage indicating the offices contained within. Hoping I wasn't intruding upon private property, I stepped into the tiny courtyard, opened the door, and headed up the stairs. On the top landing, I heard voices, and followed the sounds. Still no official signage but lots of hand written notes affixed everywhere. In Italian. Remember, the visitors to this office are every nationality 'but' Italian.

Oh no, another line. No receptionist, no little machine to take a number, no wickets to stand at, just a corridor and people. Lots of people. I took my rightful spot at the back of the line, and waited. And waited. And waited. No order of any sort, and the line shifted as people got tired of the endless wait and left.

The younger couple in front of me were very quiet, of East Indian descent, and spoke in hushed whispers to one another. Minutes after they were shown into the office, I heard the office worker yelling at them, with the young man attempting to respond. No idea what the problem was, but they left moments later, very obviously shamefaced.

The angry office worker then focused her eyes on me...I felt a chill.

I tried my trusty 'slightly confused' smile, asked if she spoke English, but her response was a very curt ... "No" !! She called out something or other to a co-worker, then bypassed me in favour of the dark haired girl behind me. I continued to wait, with no explanation given.

I still continued to wait. And wait, but with tightly crossed fingers this time. The line behind me dwindled. The angry office worker was certainly efficient. Some people simply disappeared, thinking perhaps today was not a good day for their problems to be heard.

Eventually a young fellow came out, and asked pleasantly in English if I would please follow him. Relief !

Two people were in the office, and I explained my request for a Permesso. They smiled kindly, but shook their heads in unison. "No, we don't do that here. You must go to the Questura", the young fellow replied in English. I explained that it was the Questura who sent me here in the first place. "Yes", the young fellow said, "they often do that".

To their credit, these two fellows were very knowlegeable, asked all the right questions, inspected all the documents that Ma Kettle had collected during her process, but, alas, could do nothing. They explained the proper procedures I should follow, told me I must be firm in my requests with the Questura, and not accept no as an answer. Easy for them to say.

They phoned a colleague who spoke very good English, and after repeating my story once again, she uttered a curse word directed towards the uniformed gents I have made mention of, and explained precisely what I had to do. She also told me that due to Ma's status, I really didn't have to do anything more. She explained that I couldn't be expelled from the country for overstaying the three month period. "However", she said, "not all policemen understand the immigration laws, and it might be safer to obtain a Permesso".

BINGO, someone finally understands. She also told me that I was past the acceptable date (expiration date??), explaining the eight day rule to me, warning that I might get a comment or two, but to stand my ground. I told her I was sent packing by the Questura when I made my first attempt, to which she responded with an additional curse word.

I left the office with document in hand, duly signed and stamped, and armed with the English speaking lady's name and phone number, with instructions to call if I didn't get cooperation from the Questura. I was told to return to the glass cage, hand over the form, and be tough.

'Tough' looks better on others, I don't wear it well.

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Bubba

Step ... 'Quattro'

Of course, the Questura was closed for the day. I was told to return at eight the following morning, to the dreaded gate at the side of the building. It was now after 2PM. I had been at it for seven hours straight, including travel time. My feet hurt, I was wiped. It is 'draining' dealing with inefficient government bureaucracy.

The following morning I was up at the crack of dawn, or perhaps it was the crack of a lightning strike that I heard instead. It was pouring out, coming down in sheets, and I knew that I would soon become one of those poor souls in the holding pen if I went that day. Besides, I didn't want Bubba to want me as his new best friend just because I had an umbrella. I postponed my trip, and played on VT instead. A very fruitful day if I recall correctly.

After a weekend of rest and relaxation, I felt I had the energy to continue. So I was up at 6am, in line just before 8am, and still in line at 10am. I had found myself being pushed off to the side by 'big' people, missing the first wave. When I finally clawed my way inside the room, I found wall to wall humanity, with wickets surrounded three deep , and bright red non-functioning 'electronic' numbers fastened above the wickets, frozen in confusing random order. This was a mini United Nations I was attending, and each participant seemed to have their own extended family, whose presence I realized was required to assist the newcomer through the mine field.

There was no rhyme or reason to procedure within that room, no obvious order, no one issuing instructions, no nothing. A complete shambles, an absolute disgrace. The bureaucracy makes a mockery of a persons dignity, and for those faced with such continued abuse over so many months, the desire to flee builds, creating an over abundance of illegals in Italy. I was one of the lucky souls because I could go back to Canada in a minute if I so desired. Many of these immigrants had no home to return to, and they were treated in a way that makes me embarrased of my colour.

I had no idea of the process, whether I was expected to register first, and if so, where and with whom. I asked questions, but it took ages before one official eventually told me very bluntly to leave. He may have been telling me to return to the main entrance, but after the official 'wave off', he became absorbed in another deep discussion of sorts (read arguement) with a group of jabbering monkeys who answered every question in perfect harmony, almost like an off key Barbershop Quartet. Such needless confusion, so much pent up anger on the part of the officials as well as the immigrants. A very simple fix, or is this the PLAN?

I went back to the main entrance, lined up again, and eventually came face to face with a pumped up little dictator behind the glass walls. This guy looked nobody in the eye, used hand gestures, and had the disinterested frown down to an art. Speech was impossible this day due to a copious amount of jack hammering outside the Questura, so instructions were difficult to follow, but watching his finger, I learned I had another line to join. Two sharp jabs meant 'go there', followed by three more jabs which meant 'NOW'. I sheepishly complied.

I met one young lady whose roots were in Sicily, but had moved to the US years before. She had been in Padova for two years, and recently married an Italian fellow. She had attempted this process much like I was doing, and was so frustrated by the lack of instructions and the continually changing requirements that she simply gave up. She had returned this day with much anxiety, but with high hopes. Presented with another address to go to, she threw me a cheery wave and proceeded on her way. Two hours later she was back, spiting mad because she shouldn't have been sent elsewhere, and now had lost her place in line.

As I pointed out to her, she hadn't missed much, I had not advanced more than two positions. She decided to throw the towel in that day, and I half expected our paths might cross in the following weeks.

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"So", Ma asks, "How was your day?"

My first taste of Official-dumb...

Strange how non-thoughts numb your brain while standing still. I was second in line, and had taken no notice of a young lady who had slipped along side, until she pressed against me. The obvious reaction is to give way a tad, and in doing so, she deftly occupied my space. I was now third in line. I had no idea how to react, since a protest in a foreign tongue was likely to go unheeded. I stood there, trying to think how I could regain my rightful spot, and yet maintain what little dignity I still possessed after a terrible morning. The door opened, and the next in line was admitted, leaving her now in first place.

All the good deeds I had ever performed in my life were rewarded that afternoon. An Italian fellow stepped up to her, and told her she was cutting in, and to return to the back of the line. However, to my amazement, she refused, and ignoring the hue and cry of the others in line, stood fast, but raised her plastic folders in front of her face, leaving just her eyes exposed. This gal had balls I must say.

The door opened again, and she walked through, one step closer to the inner sanctum. To my absolute joy, everybody in the line yelled at the official to send her back out again, declaring that I was next in line, she had jumped the queue. He simply shrugged, and closed the door, leaving us to fret and fume. I made fast friends that day, but sadly I saw none of my protectors ever again.

The door opens once again, I slip forward, with eager hands gripping my documents. I was received by the same guy who let the queue jumper through. I started to explain my requests in English, but no one understood me. The sacred door had not closed tightly behind me, and one of my protectors stepped forward to help with the translation. Thank goodness, because the official was shaking his head 'no', and she attempted to tell me what the scoop was. Apparently as I mentioned earlier, a tourist to Italy has eight days to obtain a Tourist Permesso. Since I had not, I was in default and illegally in Italy. I told him I had tried to obtain my Permesso two months earlier, but was told it wasn't required. He said he didn't care, I was now an illegal.

Well, I blew my cool. The frustration over the long wait outside in the holding pen, the disturbing scene in the receiving centre, and then the frosting on the cake of the queue jumper, coupled with this guy telling me I was an illegal because his office refused to document my arrival proved to be too much.

I let off steam, I hollered, I vented, but I did not curse. I also got nowhere. He refused to deal with me, and dismissed me, telling me to go to another Questura. This is called passing the buck. Well, I lost it again. He refused to give me his name, I had no idea if he had any authority, and the best I could get was an address of this other Questura, and only because I refused to leave until he produced it.

I left, frustrated because the door wouldn't slam, just a slight hiss at my departure. Perhaps it was the official, I doubt if I'll ever learn which.

Another seven hour day, with zero results, except I'd now made an enemy at the Questura. Was this progress?

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look for the flags

Official-dumb, phase Due

This new Questura was located on a large Piazza, amidst the few high rises found in Padova. No large crowds milling about, no motor scooters zipping past, and no workmen using jackhammers.

As I approached the front entrance, I stopped to open the door for a lady walking behind me, and proceeded to follow her into the police station. There was a young policeman who asked for our documents, much like an admittance pass that the school secretary gave you when you were late for class. The lady had one, no problem, but all I had was a ripped scrap of paper with this address scribbled on it that I had demanded the day before from the other Questura. The policeman looked at it, looked at me in disbelief, then began with the questions. Of course, I had no idea what he was saying, so I kept repeating "Canadese, Canadese", hoping it might suffice. It worked, he let me in.

I question whether I might have been allowed in if I had not had this very 'unofficial' looking pass.

The waiting room was half filled with people wearing flowing robes of various colours, a quarter the size of the reception area that I had come to know so well from previous visits to 'Official-dumb' , but with limited seating for patrons. No signs posted, but another glass partiton to focus on. This one had glass, true, but was simply a partition to prevent drafts from the Piazza entering when the door was opened. It even had a ledge on which documents could be spread out and examined, rather than being forced to stand on one leg and balance them on your knee as in the other Questura.

Everything was quite civilized, very clean, and even the policemen appeared neater in appearance. This office was organized, seemingly well run, a complete change from my previous Questura experiences.

I took my place in line, and quietly waited while a case worker presented client after client to the patient looking Corporal inside the partition. No loud exchanges, everything very orderly, and even an occasional joke was exchanged. I felt comfortable, relaxed.

However, just as the Corporal was finishing up with the case worker's last client, I felt a presence at my side. Memories of the girl cutting in line the day before came flooding through my thoughts. I removed my paperwork from my back pack so I'd be properly prepared, when the girl spoke, "I am next, I was here before you". I looked at her, and realized it was the same girl I had opened the door for. I hesitated, because it was true, I had opened the door and allowed her to proceed me, but she had taken a seat, and hadn't lined up like I had. What to do, what to do, so, immediately emblazoned with a unexpected courage, I looked her directly in the eye and said ... "OK".

Alright, so I'm less than courageous, write it on my tombstone.

Suddenly, the path was clear. The lady stepped forward to the partition, wearing not exactly a smirk, but certainly a look of triumph. Ah, well, it was a beautiful day outside, and I did manage to convince myself I had simply been a gentleman. The term 'push over' never occured to me for a second...

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hmmm, a new entry date, and I'm set (perhaps...)

Official-dumb, revised.

The Corporal stepped out from behind his partition, and walked towards the two of us. "Canadese", he inquired? He extended his hand towards me, and unsure if he wanted to shake hands or wanted my documents, I allowed common sense to prevail, and presented my papers. He looked them over carefully, frowned a few times, checked my passport, frowned again, and pointed to my entry date with his thick finger. I knew the drill by now, I knew what he was talking about, but then solving this problem was why I was standing before him in the first place.

Surprisingly, the lady who upsurped me in line, but whom I had unknowingly bettered by being the strange Canadian, stepped forth to translate for me. She told me I would have to leave the country, and enter Italy once again, obtaining a new date stamp in my passport. I explained about the original Questura refusing to proceed with my tourist Permesso two months earlier. She translated this most important fact, but alas, the Corporal simply shrugged, and held his wrists together showing that 'his hands were tied'. His instructions were repeated, leave and immediately return.

I said "NO" quietly, "not this time". I was polite, respectful, but most insistent. I repeated my entire quest for legality, line for line, date by date, but the Corporal once more gave his gesture. I debated some more, at which point he disappeared behind the partition. He made numerous phone calls, perhaps to his mother, his butcher, I don't really know, but ten minutes later, he reappeared, placed his wrists together once again, and shook his head. He really was kind, and I believe he had tried.

No choice, I had to leave Italy.

This time, he patted my forearm, gave me a look of concern, and promised that he would personally process my papers once I was able to present a new entry date in my passport. For some reason, this man had gained my trust, and I left paperless once again, but confident this time that I was on the right road.

Of course this meant a new dilema for Ma and I. To leave the country presented so many choices, should we go to Germany, Austria, France, England, or perhaps Slovenia to visit our old VT pal KristaB, or even Spain to annoy BeachDog and Carmela. Such choices, allowing me the opportunity once again to appreciate our new lifestyle. Even faced with expulsion such as I was, I realized I was purring, much like a well fed cat might.

Stay tuned, lots to go. Please read my next travelogue for the continuing saga of the Kettles' right to eat pasta.