Permesso Di Soggiorno Part Two

Permesso di Soggiorno Part Two: The Paperwork, the Pizza, and the Existential Crisis

WOW. What a few weeks it’s been since I first wrote Part One of this bureaucratic opera disguised as a residency application. Welcome to Florence, where the wine flows, the tourists stumble, and the Italian government dares you to try and stay legally.

Florence: The Gateway Drug to Italy

Florence was a strategic choice. It’s tourist-friendly, which means if you butcher the language, they only half roll their eyes. You can survive your first few months on Google Translate, espresso, and blind optimism. I moved here thinking: “I’ve got this. I’m Italian. I was born in Caserta, Naples. I’ve got the cheekbones, the birth certificate and I’ve got…”

Oh no. No, no. What I had was delusion.

The Italian I Thought I Was

I grew up in Australia in a very Italian household, which basically means I was raised on pasta, guilt, and yelling. I kept the language up for a while, but life happened. Somewhere between kangaroos and corporate jobs, the fluency faded. I didn’t notice until I was trying to explain something to a local Florentine and realised I might’ve just told them their dog looked tasty. They nodded. I smiled. We both left confused.

Caserta: Homecoming, Headaches, and Baptismal Bureaucracy

Flash forward to me dragging myself (and my language-shattered ego) back to Caserta after 23 years. Cue dramatic train ride from Florence to Naples, then to Caserta. Cue existential weeping as I stood in front of my childhood home on Via Acquaviva. Also,. cue surprise hotel being right next to my cousin’s flat. You know, the cousin who was a child when I left Italy and was now a full-grown stranger politely pretending we had something in common.

My friend and I spent the evening eating glorious pizza and pretending we weren’t overwhelmed. The next morning, I was hugged and cheek-squeezed by my aunt and uncle, both of whom had aged like fine wine left in direct sunlight. We cried. A lot. Then we marched into the Caserta Comune where I asked for my birth certificate and was instead handed a Certificate of Baptism. Because in Italy, apparently, Jesus and your legal identity are interchangeable.

Naples: Where Road Rules Go to Die

Before heading back to Florence, we detoured through Naples, which is less a city and more a real-life video game where traffic laws are suggestions and pedestrians are bonus points. I’m convinced the locals play Grand Theft Auto: Zebra Crossing Edition.

We learned very quickly that in Naples, the correct response to a car speeding toward you on a pedestrian crossing is not to make eye contact and assert your rights… it’s to run. Run like the car owes you money. Every vehicle looked like it had survived a demolition derby. Honestly, we didn’t see a single undented car. Not one.

You’re Not as Italian as You Think, Darling

Here’s the thing I realised: I’m not Italian. I’m Australian with a side of trauma and tomato sauce. The cultural gap is real. In Italy, family comes first. Always. Even if Nonna’s been dead for a decade, she’s still calling the shots from beyond the grave.

Italian men don’t so much cut the cord as stretch it like mozzarella until Mamma gives permission. And food? It’s sacred. Fast food? Blasphemy. I once saw someone eat McDonald’s in Florence and swear I heard a priest cry in the distance.

Permesso di Soggiorno: Now with 80% More Confusion

Back in Florence, I had my second appointment at the Questura. I was scheduled for 8:52am, which sounds precise, but this is Italy, where time is a fluid concept and queuing is a full-contact sport.

I waited for sportello 14 while dodging a girl from China, a guy from Morocco, and an Indian nun who body-checked me with surprising grace. Once fingerprinted, signed, scanned, and slightly violated, I was told to go stand by a door. I stood there for four hours. Just… stood there. At one point I started questioning my own existence. Was I ever really born? Or was I created in that waiting room?

Eventually, more fingerprints, full handprints (because apparently my palms hold secrets), and another forest’s worth of paperwork. I was told I’d get a text in two months. Or a message from the Pope. Who knows.

Citizen or Tourist? The Great Italian Identity Crisis

The best part? While applying for a Permesso di Soggiorno (Permission to Stay), I was also applying for Italian citizenship. Yes. Simultaneously. Even the officer helping me looked confused. He shrugged in that very Italian way that said, “Sure, why not? Let’s roll those dice, amico.”

What does it all mean? Who knows. Maybe I’ll get a shiny new passport… or I’ll end up banned from re-entry. Maybe I’ll discover I’m actually Swiss.

Part Three Coming Soon (If I Survive)

So that’s Part Two of this spaghetti-flavoured saga. Tune in next time when I try to decode Italian citizenship law while dodging rogue Vespas and eating my feelings. Until then, have a wander through some of my newer blogs or my Memoir & Real Life category. Where bureaucracy, identity crises, and barely-controlled sarcasm are always on the menu.

Arrivederci.