In just two days, I’ve experienced the worst (bureaucracy) and best (kindness of strangers) of Rome. Let me tell you how. Yesterday, I went to Rome’s immigration office, La Questura, to pick up a new residence permit. The Questura is an enormous shabby structure that looks more like a prison. Armed guards are everywhere. Most days, it takes an hour to even get inside because of the long lines. There’s not much shade outside so people wait in the hot sun, shading themselves with the folders they brought with them that contain precious papers: passports, photo copies, tax records, expired permits, pictures etc.     

I got in pretty quickly because I arrived around 10 am, when most people waiting in line had already been let in. All I had (seemingly) to do was present a document I had in hand proving I appropriately filled out, and paid for, a new residence permit. Months before, in the same building one flight up, I was assured that once I showed the receipt, the permit would be printed and handed over. “It should maximum half an hour”, I was told. 

About an hour later, I hear my name being called. I look up in the direction where I was told my name would be called but the teller was busy dealing with a long line, more like a horde, of people. The teller calling my name was a few windows down. She looks at me and asks if I have a copy of my wife’s identity card. I can’t hear her well through the protective glass. I put my hand behind my ear, struggling to hear. 

Me: “Sorry, can you repeat what you said?” 

She repeats it. I look at her puzzled. 

Me: “No, I wasn’t told I needed that”. 

Then she asks if I have a copy of my child’s ID. 

Me: “Sorry?” still struggling to hear. 

Her: “Do you have your child’s ID on you? 

Me: “No, I wasn’t told I needed that either. If I was told I needed those documents, I would have come prepared.” 

Her: “Well, do you have proof on income?” 

Me: “What! I wasn’t told I needed that. I can show you my bank account online...” 

She looks at me disapprovingly and walks to room in the back. After a few minutes, she comes out to tell me that “they” won’t print my residence permit without those documents. 

Me: “But I was told that all I had to do was show this receipt and the residence permit would be printed. That’s what they told me right upstairs! Please, do something for me. This is ridiculous.” 

She leaves, again, to the back room. She returns a few minutes later. 

Her: “Can your wife come tomorrow?” 

Me: “What? No. She works. She can’t just come at a moment’s notice.” 

I’m fuming at this point. She goes back to the room and comes back a few minutes later. 

Her: “The police will explain all this to you in a moment. Wait here.” 

Twenty minutes go by. The tellers bring the blinds down from there windows. It’s 11:30 am. The morning shift is over. Through cracks in the blinds, I see tellers taking smoke breaks, drinking coffee, joking around about one thing or another. Twenty minutes later, the teller sees me waiting. She looks surprised. In mid-stride she says 

“No one came to see you yet?” 

Me: “Nope”. 

My anger subsides with the boredom of waiting around. I’m beginning to realize that I may not leave the building with a new permit. 

After another twenty minutes or so, I hear my name being called. This time it’s from the far back of the room. I turn, it’s the teller calling me through a white door. Good sign. I’m getting in the back door! She points to a man coming through a door with a cigarette in his mouth. 

Her: “He’s the guy that will explain everything.” 

I saw hi politely, trying to remain calk. The man asks if I have a copy of my wife’s identity card. I tell him she’s not my wife, we’re divorced. He asks if I have proof of income. I tell him that I can show him my bank account right now but I don’t have anything on me at the moment. He asks if I have a copy of my son’s passport. I ask why I need these additional documents. That I was told, right upstairs, that I would just need to present a receipt and that I would get the new permit right away. He says that the people working upstairs don’t know what’s needed for the new permit. That it’s his job not theirs. I tell him that this is really making me crazy. How can there be such dissonance from one floor to the next? “E cosí” he says. I give in. 

Me: “So what exactly do I need to bring tomorrow?” 

Him: “Can your wife come?” 

Me: “She’s not my wife.” 

Him: “Can your-ex-wife come?” 

Me: “Maybe, but what if she can’t?” 

Him: “No worries, you can come without her. But we need a copy of her ID.” 

He finally tells me that I need 

1) a copy of my son’s ID 

(2) a copy of my wife’s ID and 

(3) my US tax returns. 

I thank him and leave the Questura... in a very bad mood.  

The next day, I arrive with all the necessary documents. I hand them to a different teller this time who asks what happened. He remembers me from the day before. I told him the right hand isn’t talking to the left hand. He nods his head with a ‘whattaya gonna do’ kind of look. I sit and wait. An hour later, I hear my name being called. This time, it’s coming from the happy window, where people leave with a permit in their hands and a smile on their face. It looks promising. The teller asks me to sign in two places and voila! I have my new residence permit. I’m elated! It’s valid for five years. I ask if I should come back here in another five years to renew it.

Her: “Yes, unless the law changes!” 

Delighted, I head back to my co-working space. The gloom hanging over me the last 24 hours starts to lift. I feel lighter, happier... and then... I suddenly remember that I was supposed to be reimburses in the amount of 200 euros but no one at the Questura said a word. Grrrrrrrrr. I turn the car around. Google maps tells me that they’ll be closed by the time I get there. I select, ‘Go to destination’ anyway. When I arrive they are indeed closed but I explain my situation to the guards outside and they let me in. Once inside, I explain that my receipt says I should be reimbursed but no one told me anything about it and I was so elated to get my new permit that I forgot about it. “...OK, sit there and wait.” An hour later, my name is called from the same happy window. I’m expecting to either see a check or some cash coming out of the yellow file with my head shot on top. I’m given a form instead. The teller says that I have to go to another Questura, closer to the center of Rome, and present the form and a receipt. He says he’s not sure the other Questura will accept the form because they’ve recently upgraded their forms but he hasn’t received the new forms yet. 

Him: “Go there and try with this form. If they accept it, good. I they don’t, you’ll have to come back here in a month or two to get the new form and then go back there to get reimbursed.” 

Me: “I’m leaving for America tomorrow. Can I get reimbursed in a few months from now?”

Him: “Yes, no problem. Even in a few months.” 

I thank him and head to my car. I open the trunk and stash my bag. As I’m closing the trunk, a thought goes through my mind. 

The keys are in the bag!  The bag is in the trunk!  Shiiiiiiiiiiiiit!!!!  Shit shit shit shit shit shit! 

I try opening the trunk with brute force hoping to beat the locking mechanism. No luck. I try the doors. No luck. I try the trunk again. No luck. 

Shiiiiiiiiiiiit! 

I’ve got about an hour till I have to pick my son up from school. I’m supposed to meet a friend for lunch in half an hour. Those plans go to shit. I make arrangements for my son to get picked up and let me friend know that I won’t be making lunch. 

I’m right next to a police station so stroll through the gates and ask the guard if he knows how to get into a locked car without the key. He kind of laughs and tells me to call a tow truck. I ask about 10 other people walking around the area. They all say the same thing. Call roadside assistance. 

I decide to call the rental car company. They tell me to call their road side assistance, an entirely separate company, and they’ll tow the car to the nearest dealer. 

Me: “But can’t you send someone with a copy of the key?” 

Rental car company: “The copy is at headquarters and we would have to call them to get a copy of the key. It could take 3 - 4 days to arrive.”

Me: “But I’m leaving for America tomorrow. What should I do?”

Rental car company: “Well, sir, I’m sorry to say that we might not be able to open your car but we can give you a replacement while you’re still here.”

Me: “But my laptop, passport, my child’s passport, my ex-wife’s passport, my new residence permit... it’s all in the trunk.”

Rental car company: “We’ll do our best, sir. Call the number for roadside assistance. They’ll take care of you.”

Me: “How much will this service cost?”

Rental car company: “About 150 euros.”

Me: “There’s really nothing else we can do? In the States, you call a locksmith, they break into your car with a hanger or something and you call it a day.”

Rental car company: “No. That’s not how it works here.”

I call the number and, I have to say, they were very professional. They even answered in English. They said someone was on their way and that I needed to wait about 30 - 40 minutes. 

I’m really frustrated at this point but I decide to walk away. Besides, it’s lunch time. I walk to the nearest restaurant and immediately order a glass of red wine and pasta all’amatriciana (the dish that gets its name from one of the towns that were completely raised recently by a powerful earthquake). 

During lunch, I ask another dozen people if they know how to unlock a car without the key. They all respond the same way... “I’m not a thief! You’ve got to call a tow truck.” The 5 or 6 people next to me repeatedly say “That’s how it is in Italy... that’s how it is.” I even ask the barmen where I grab a coffee after lunch. Nothing. No one has any ideas. A woman drinking an espresso while standing next to me suggests breaking the window with a rock and calling it a robbery. “That’s the only solution. That way, you get your laptop and passport.” Hmmm... not a bad idea. But I already called the towing company and I just don’t feel comfortable breaking things and making up stories. That just won’t work. 

I walk back to my car and wait for the tow truck to arrive. About forty minutes have passed since I went for lunch. There’s no site of the tow truck. I begin thinking through all the changes I may have to make if they can’t unlock the car today. I watch and wait, watch and wait, watch and wait. I start getting nervous again. Feeling helpless. 

All of a sudden, a man comes out from sliding blue gate that’s right behind me. I turn to look at him. He looks at me, a bit worried, and says, “Are you waiting for me?” I notice his blue overalls with the word ‘car repair’ written above the pocket.  

Me: “No, I’m waiting here because I locked the keys in the the car.” 

He looks at the car, pensive, curious like. 

Him: “That car over there?”

Me: “Yep”

He walks over to the car and starts feeling around the driver side window. He messages the black rubber coating around the door. He stops and looks at me. It looks to me like he’s thinking, “Can I trust this guy?”. 

Me: “You think you could help me?”

Him: “I think so...” He grins. “I’ll be right back.”

He goes back into his shop. At this point, I start feeling a glimmer of hope. I hear clinging and clanging, some buzzing as if a saw was going at steel. He comes back out with two screw drivers and a long piece of wire with a little loop at the end. He carefully jams one of the screw drivers into the top window. He then calls one of his employees and shows him how to hold the screw drivers in a way that slightly props the window open. He sticks the piece of wire inside and in a matter of minutes... he unlocks the car. I’m totally beside myself.

I thank him profusely. I give him a big hug. He invites me to his garage for a coffee. I gladly accept. Turns out he owns the place. I ask him why he helped me. “Because you needed help”, he says. 

I smiled the whole way back to my co-working space. I thought about how lucky I was and I wondered, again and again, how I got  so lucky. I remembered a storytelling evening I attended a week earlier. Someone told a story about how, at one very difficult point in her life, she needed angels to help her out and signs began appearing everywhere around her. I don’t believe in angels. I never have. Even after listening to her emotional and rather believable story.