Routine Immigration

Can you believe this bridge dates back to 100 BC!? Most of Ponte Pietra was blown up in WWII and then rebuilt with original materials. Kind of amazing when you think about it (or walk on it, which I do a few times a week b/c it leads up to a great lookout point).

Well, life here is starting to feel kind of normal. I have classes to teach, places to go, people to see (sometimes)...Having somewhat of a routine feels good. After over a year of not working, I can now finally tell the difference between a Saturday and a Tuesday. I can now say "TGIF!" (not that I'd want to). And pretty soon I'll receive an actual paycheck! 


For the first time in my adult life, I have a job that doesn't require an alarm clock. I get to wake up when my body decides it's time to rise & shine. Long gone are the days of having to drudgingly crawl out of bed to start my coffee pot and get to work by a certain ungodly hour (only to find my vice principal waiting at the gate to tell me I'm five minutes late). I'm on a different time schedule now. I'd like to call it my Italian time schedule. It works for me.

Morning Friends

The longest part of my new morning routine is waiting in line for bread at the best bakery in town (which is only five doors away!). It often takes twenty minutes to get to the front of the line, where I always end up feeling tongue-tied and overwhelmed by the choices. The overly serious woman who works there wears a sequined hat everyday, maybe to offset her demeanor...and when she's ready she sternly says "Prego!" and I just say "pane" and point to one of the ten different types of bread...and then "brioche" and point to one of the ten different types of brioches...and then I sometimes point to something else, like the zucchini & cheese pizza encased in flaky puff pastry. My ordering skills are slowly improving and pretty soon I might be able to go in there and actually pronounce the specific names of the bread and pastries. Now, that's a goal! 

Routines make me feel comfortable and give me a sense of belonging when there might otherwise be none. They provide a sense of familiarity in an unfamiliar place. It's strange to live in a city where I don't quite fit in with the tourists, but where I certainly don't fit in with the locals either. I'm just kind of on my own, trying to understand the logistics of a new home, while at the same time trying to keep myself happy. And a routine is part of what makes me happy.

But talking about pastry choices and new morning routines becomes super ridiculous when one steps out of their "Me, Me, Me Bubble." I left my bubble last week while waiting in the immigration department of the police station (the dreaded questura). While hovering outside of my bubble, I realized how difficult it is for most people who move here to work and live and survive in a new country. Like, really survive. For most of them (I presume) it's not just about happiness and comfort and routines. It's about providing for families and creating a new life. 


When I arrived at the police station I was surprised to find 200 foreigners already lined up along the street outside of the building. About 150 more people lined up behind me. The gates opened at 8am and then one-by-one, we were herded into one of two very small rooms. Babies, kids, elderly folks, women, men...all from around the world. And then there was me...the only person from North America, quite possibly the Western Hemisphere. Most were from Algeria, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, India, Libya, Tunisia, China, and the Ukraine. It made for fantastic people watching, but it was also sad because there we all were, waiting for our numbers to be called so we could learn the fate of our futures. Would we be granted permission to stay and live here legally? And I felt like I was the only one of us who didn't really care one way or the other. I knew I'd be fine either way. The looks of exhaustion on those faces made me realize (once again) how easy life is for me. Many of these applicants had obviously been there before and knew the system very well, almost like the immigration department had become part of their new routine in Italy. While some left looking devastated, others left looking like they had just received the best news of their life. 


When my number was finally called to go in the back "interrogation" room (five hours after I arrived!), the stern man opened my passport and instead of questioning me, he flashed a big smile and said "U.S.A.!!!!" and then "California!!!!" and then "Hollywood!!!!" and that was the moment I knew I'd get my permission to stay. Then I left the building to start my afternoon routine and return to my bubble.