Poste Hesitante

Having been resident in LCDDB for six whole weeks (seems longer, we’re so settled here) and with Christmas well and truly over, Stephen decided we should tangle once again with Italian bureaucracy, this time regarding our change of address. Those of you who have stuck with us on our journey so far will, at this point, be drawing a sharp intake of breath, knowing that anything to do with form filling in Italy is guaranteed to be a protracted process.

Nevertheless, we set off in the crisp air and winter sunshine of Monday morning with faith in our hearts to visit the market then see about getting a post box in the village, believing it will weigh the chances of letters actually getting to us in one piece in our favour. Unfortunately, when we hit MSP not only did we find that the market was reduced to three vegetable stalls and a couple selling cut-price clothing, reflecting the chilly temperature and the time of year, but that in the absence of other entertainment, several people had resorted in the Post Office to while away the time. We gave it ten minutes before we agreed to return early on Wednesday to beat the mid-morning rush (or mid-morning amble given the average age of the customer). Our time wasn’t completely wasted though. While we were debating whether to wait or not, Stephen received a phone call from a courier saying he couldn’t find where the house was. As he was just round the corner at the supermarket it was agreed that he’d take a tour round the old town and drop off our parcel in the main square where we would wait outside the post office The difference between the convoluted workings of officialdom and the casual way life actually happens is one of the wonderful contradictions that make Italy so fabulous

Not that he is the only deliveryman to have problems with getting packages to our house. There is one brave soul who chugs down the hill in his white transit van with a Postman Pat-like cheeriness to deliver even the smallest parcel but he is in a minority of one. One regularly phones up to say he can’t find the house, knowing that Stephen will hop into the Panda and meet him outside one of the local factories, while another admits to knowing where we live but just won’t come here. And then there was the day Luigi, our neighbour, knocked on the kitchen window to let us know he’d ferried a deliveryman complete with parcel down to us in the farm’s transit because he was too scared to venture down the road in his own van.

Anyway, to get back to the main plot. Come Wednesday morning we set off in good time with a view to conquering not only the Post Office but also the bank, heading to the former first. Yes, said Paolo behind the counter, we could have a postal box and he set about printing off the seventeen pages that comprised the required document. But then we hit a snag – yes we had our Carta d’Identica (still showing Flavia’s address, which oddly didn’t seem to matter) but Stephen only had a photocopy of his codici fiscale and Paolo needed to see the original. Oh and did we have our medical cards? And where were my wife’s details? Eh? We disabused him of the latter misapprehension and on questioning were told the medical cards weren’t really necessary but we did need to return with the original codici fiscale. Paola helpfully said he would look after the seventeen pages he’d printed off and we said we’d see him the next day.

This meant, of course, that we had more than enough time to take the low road to Montegranaro, visit the bank to tell Simona that we’d finally moved permanently and ask if we could change our address with them. She was very pleased to hear about our move and yes, we could change the address but no, not at that precise moment, as we needed a form from the Comune confirming our new address. It’s interesting why they think we would lie about where we live: they know who we are; they know that our account is in good order and they know we aren’t running an international crime syndicate from the spare room. Ah, but of course they don’t. For all the bank knows we could be pretending to live at LCDDB as cover for our plans to bring the Italian economy to its knees by flooding Le Marche with cheap pasta from China.

Undaunted, we returned to the Post Office early the next morning to beat the mad hobble and were seen quite quickly by Paolo, who gave us a form (not one of the seventeen pages previously printed) to fill in. We stood aside so he could deal with other enquiries whilst we chewed the end a pen and pondered the required details. Between what we could understand and what we could supply, there was still left an awful lot of form to complete, which we told Paolo when we managed to slip in and regain our pole position in the queue. ‘That’s ok,’ he reassured us, adding that he would fill in the rest and we should return the next day.

As it was Thursday the Comune’s 90-minute opening slot (which varies from day to day) coincided with our trip into town so, with nothing further to be done to progress the postal box, we headed across the square to the council offices and the wonderful Fiorenza. We needed to see about obtaining replacement Carte D’Indentica, showing our new address, and to sort out establishing a regular rubbish collection. Unsurprisingly we left almost empty handed; as ever, Fiorenza said that she would need to see a raft of papers relating to the house purchase before she could issue the replacement identity cards but one of her colleagues did give us an incomprehensible form to kick start the rubbish collection. Ah, piano, piano.

Having made sure we enjoyed a good night’s sleep to bolster us for what lay ahead, we made our fourth visit in five days to the Post Office in expectation of finally leaving with a box key clutched in our sweaty palms. However, we made the mistake on this occasion of not getting there till 10.30, which meant that we were fifth in the queue. I appreciate that this doesn’t sound too bad, but you need to remember that no transaction takes less than ten minutes, as had been proved the previous day when, while we were trying to fill in our form, the man following us to the counter presented Paolo with a parcel to return to an online retailer. The man had already booked it with the company and printed off the relevant documentation, so all that was needed was to scan the parcel and usher it through the hatch – or rather that is what should have happened. Poor Paolo, showing the whites of his eyes, consulted his terminal, printed off copious sheets, had the man sign some of them and then, eventually ten minutes later, accepted the parcel. That should teach him to come here with his highfalutin city ways.

What you also need to understand about the Post Office in Italy is that it’s not only a post office, it’s also a bank – but never the twain shall meet. You’d think that the most logical way would be to have two counters dealing with either postal or banking matters. Don’t be silly. What you have are two counters, one for postal services and one for banking, so that the lady teller can sit chatting on her mobile at the latter while the queue grows exponentially at the former. Such was the case this morning, when she was asking her colleague when she was starting work. Now, might be a good idea, I thought. As the dapper, elderly gentleman in front of us said: that counter is just a mirage.

Anyway, after a mere forty minutes it was our turn to spend quality time with Paolo, who duly went and collected our paperwork and promptly screwed up the form we’d filled in yesterday and threw it in the bin. Having dispensed with the irrelevant he turned his attention to the seventeen pages he’d printed out on Wednesday, shuffled them a few times, tapped on his computer a bit and sashayed into the back office now and again. Eventually, after signing fifteen different times (at the final whistle the score was Stephen 11, me 4 – but it was in his name) he presented us with a key, whispered the box number and sent us on our way, saying that the service would start in a week’s time.

When we left, the queue had grown to ten people; I just hoped they’d brought a packed lunch and a thermos with them as I didn’t hold out much hope of them seeing any home cooked food this side of Lent. Mind you, it could have been longer, as one young chap had decided that he didn’t want to wait and quit the queue after a mere five minutes. That’s the modern generation for you – no staying power.

The only other notable event this week was early yesterday morning when Stephen saw a real, bona fide wolf while he was downstairs loading the washing machine. After catching sight of it through the window, for some bizarre reason he went outside to check that it was genuine and not an Alsatian with pretensions. It stopped in its stroll up the lane and briefly met Stephen’s eyes, before it realised discretion was the better part of valour and made off across the field. Either that or it had a parcel to collect at the post office and wanted to beat the rush...