September
has been a tempestuous month. The weather has
slowly cooled and while on most days it is still
warm and sunny, in the evening there is a stiff
breeze that helps to drop the temperature. When
the sun is not shining it means it is raining.
Dark clouds come in from the coast and congregate
over the mountains like sullen teenagers skulking
around a park bench. Slowly they edge towards
us, encouraging each other onwards, taunting the
town until Barga is engulfed. The rain is heavy,
large droplets splash onto the terracotta tiles
playing out a staccato drum beat. What begins
as a slow waltz soon develops into a battle of
the bands as a deluge is released from the sky.
It is in the evenings and early mornings that
you realise Italy is just not geared up for cold
weather – though the periods of warmth and
cold are of a similar length in Tuscany. Whereas
in Britain we have developed homes to cope with
the inclement, grey, wet and cold weather by introducing
wall to wall carpets, thick rugs, central heating
and insulation in an attempt to keep the cold
at bay in Italy they have used every building
material and construction technique to keep the
houses cool. This is all well and good in the
summer, but the summer only last three months
which leaves a further nine months of coping with
stone floors that act as refrigerators, cantinas
that allow cold air to permeate the building above
it and central heating that is too expensive to
run. It does however go some way to explaining
why so many of the markets in Tuscany have stalls
selling thick colourful jumpers even in the height
of summer.
One
place in which I have been warm is the office
of the Questura in Lucca, an office I have had
cause to visit several times over the last few
weeks; an office that I never care to see again.
We had to get our ‘Permesso Di Soggiorno
Per Stranieri’, a document that entitles
you to work and stay in the country. This requires
you to take every document that proves you exist
and are not an illegal immigrant, terrorist, undesirable,
malingerer, or state scrounge to a little window,
in a tiny office, that is surrounded by everyone
else screaming and shouting for the same document.
We had geared ourselves up for this visit knowing
that it would cause tempers to rise and nostrils
to flare. We had read all the scare stories and
asked every ones advice (all of which was either
out of date information, had no bearing on reality
or was just plain lies). We knew this would be
hard work but we were prepared.
The first two trips to the Questura were abject
failures as the office was closed, even though
the opening times were visible on the outside
and we had the correct day and time. When a police
officer was found and was asked ‘why it
was closed’ the answer was a simple, ‘it
just is’. We spoke to the Commune in Barga
in the hope they would help as we could not apply
for our ‘Resident Status’ until we
had the ‘Permesso’. They stated that
the office in Lucca could not close; it was impossible
and so rang on our behalf. They found out that
the office was closed but would reopen next week.
We were to go on Monday and try again.
Our
third attempt was more successful but the most
gruelling and demoralising visit. The office was
open and we made it inside. People had formed
an orderly rugby scrum in the small office and
laid siege to the five unmanned windows. As there
were no signs to tell you where to queue, we decided
to split up and attack separate windows to see
who could gain the most information. I chose window
five and using an old flanking technique I had
seen on a war documentary I applied elbows and
knees until after an hour I had managed to work
my way to the front of the rabble. Once at the
window the officer on duty did his best to ignore
me for a further half an hour until he decided
I had blocked his view of the desperate hordes
for too long and bellowed at me in Italian before
lapsing into a sulky silence. Twenty minutes later
when I had managed to translate what he had said
I left the window. It seemed I had been at the
window for reservations only.
Helen had managed to work her way into the middle
of the pack that were crushed around window three.
I threw myself into the fray, dodged a low kick
to the groin, rolled between the legs of a desperate
old couple and leap frogged a Japanese student
before I made it to Helen’s side. Two hours
later we managed to stagger the last three feet
and made it to the window. We were then ignored
as this police officer took several personal mobile
calls and chatted with a friend. Eventually after
banging on the bullet proof glass, jumping up
and down and gesticulating wildly she noticed
that someone was in front of her; she told us
to go away and try window five.
We
started to advance on window five feeling demoralised
and frustrated. Around us people pleaded, screamed,
attempted to bribe or offered their children as
human sacrifices, anything to get the required
bit of paper work. An officer stuck her head around
a door and looked at us.
“Are you English?”
We nodded dumbly, in case it was a feverish trick
to get us to queue at window four instead.
“You need to come back tomorrow”.
“When and at what time?” We screamed
as the desperate men and women spotted their prey
out from behind the glass wall and launched an
attack. She answered before disappearing under
the advancing army.
The final visit was quick and painless. We arrived
early and joined the scrum by the main doors which
were unlocked late at 9.15am. We rushed to window
five and made it to the front. We were surrounded
by UK nationals who formed an orderly queue and
started up a little light banter to past the time.
Half an hour later our documents had been examined
and we held in our hands a copy of our Permesso
(the actual document will not be complete for
a further three months). It is a pathetic, badly
photocopied A4 sheet that contains details you
can get from our passports and a couple of official
stamps, but right now it is my prized possession.
Our summer in Barga has now come to an end. Autumn
is nearly upon us and the larder is bare, therefore
it is time to move to warmer climes and start
work.
I will miss this town perched on the side of
a mountain, the local people who smile at my poor
Italian and reply in flawless Scottish, the music
and the art, the views across the hills carpeted
in thick set chestnut trees and the sound of the
Duomo striking the hour; but the good thing about
leaving is that you can always return.
Next Month: Savona calling…
Adam J. Shardlow is a writer now living in Barga
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