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I've come to notice that the majority, if not all, Italian guidebooks confine themselves solely to the realm of the inanimate. Visitors are obsessed with the beauty and perceived mystery of the ancient. The countless cathedrals, statues, piazzas and other historical must-sees draw tourists from far and wide. Most recently, the ubiquitous "Da Vinci Code" by Dan Brown (Buy it for only $22.77 at Chapters today!) has brought these hot spots further into the mainstream. I myself am guilty of travelling the well-trodden route of the ardent sight-seer and have a great appreciation for the arts and history. That being said, I'd like to attempt to throw some bona fide grit into the mix for those who may be interested to see beyond the Leaning Tower of Pisa and Pavarotti arias. Of course, one shouldn't be surprised that a healthy dose of cynicism will accompany my observations, but I'll try and keep it within limits.

I have a Visto Nazionale. This little document allows me to stay in Italy for extended periods of time and to transit in the "Schengen" Countries for short stints. According to article 5. paragraph 2. of the "Testo Unico" n.286/98, I must report myself at the proper "Questura" within eight working days of my arrival in Italy in order for me to request a "Permesso di Soggiorno". A few important facts:

• A Questura is essentially an immigration office.

• The Questura hours of operation are worse than those of a bank's - 9(ish) to Noon.
• Unbeknownst to me, working days include Saturdays.
• I'm a bit of a procrastinator.

pro·cras·ti·nate Pronunciation: pr o krast e nat, pr e k-, -raas-, usu -ad.+V Function: verb intransitive verb : to put off intentionally and usually habitually and reprehensibly the doing of something that should be done : delay attending to something until some later time : be slow or late in doing or attending to things pro·cras·ti·na·tor Pronunciation: ]e(r) Function: noun Inflected Form(s): -s : one that procrastinates, Matthew Jardine (see adjacent photo)

Seven working days (actually eight, see above) after my arrival in Italy, I decided that I should visit my local Questura and see what this "Permesso di Soggiorno" was all about. My experience with Italian administration up to this point had left me a wee bit jaded, so my expectations that my Permesso would be processed in a swift and efficient manner were rather low. I woke up early, hopped into the Punto and was off to the Questura.

I found parking (it's not hard; in Italy you park wherever the hell you like) and negotiated my way through the crowded sidewalks until the Questura was in sight. I glanced down at my watch - 8:30. Nice. I rounded the corner to the entrance of the building and found to my dismay an assembly of about 25 people of various age and descent milling around the large, locked, iron doors of the immigration office. Everyone but me seemed to have passports, forms and other assorted documentation in hand. When the doors were finally unbarred around 9:20, the rabble of hopefuls funnelled in and jostled for prime position in line. After standing in line for 30 minutes, a man of least 70 years scratched my name into a tattered hardcover notebook and instructed me to come back the following working day so I could stand in a different line to talk to a person behind a different window.

I was daydreaming of rainbows, lollipops and sunshine when I was jolted back into harsh reality by the woman behind the glass. It was Monday. I was standing in line in one of the most derelict hallways I've seen in a long time, waiting for my chance to request an application form. Apparently, the Italian government was able to track down the Queen of the Harpies and had somehow convinced this part woman, part vulture to work for them at their immigration office. This woman behind the glass sent forth a multitudinous cacophony of screech and croak and scream and squeal and shrill that penetrated me to the core. The man in front of me was being chastised for reasons unknown to me. I was getting nervous. My hands were beginning to sweat. Even the paint shared my sentiment, as it too was pealing away from the walls in an effort of retreat from the clamour coming from behind the glass. I was next in line and my colleague/translator had not shown up yet. Jesus, where was he?

The poor bastard in front of me was clearly getting frustrated and tried to point to something on one of his forms in an effort to explain his case. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of crossing the protective barrier of glass that separated him from this cranky she-beast. The woman smacked the man's hand with impressive speed considering her sizeable stature. The man shrank back as the woman scolded him with an outstretched finger, assuring him an oversight like that would not be tolerated twice. The man, now clearly broken, his shoulders deflated and drained of pride, gathered his things and left the window. My turn.

"Chi è il prossimo!" barked the woman impatiently. I stepped up to the window and thrust my passport and other documents underneath the glass and blurted, "permisso di soggiorno?" This was met with a string of Italian delivered at machine gun-like speed. My next move was to stare back at her blankly. After a few moments I managed, "Non capisco" - well played, I thought to myself. At this point, thank the heavens, Scott arrived to my rescue. My eyes darted back and forth between the two as Scott tried to explain my situation. I'm unsure what exactly was said, however the volume of the conversation was lowered to a more reasonable level, which was encouraging. It seemed that I needed to stand in another line that led to the next window down the hall in order to retrieve the form.

The man at the next window seemed utterly bored with life. Every move he made was with an exaggerated effort and accompanied with a loud sigh. My request for the form had clearly ruined his day. He sent me upstairs and after some roaming around I found the correct room and obtained the form. It was getting close to noon and line downstairs had grown considerably, so I decided to call it a day.

Tuesday. 9:30. Questura di Latina. My life had become a series of lines. I was standing about 10 people deep, although my favourite immigration officer was working her magic at a good pace so the line was moving along nicely. The ogress had her hair pulled back in a bun so tightly that the skin around her eyes was stretched back along with the corners of her mouth, forming a seemingly permanent grimace. I narrowed my eyes at her and felt a renewed sense of determination wash over me. Unfortunately, I would not be able to confront her until the next day. Although the line was moving steadily, there was also a continual stream of applicants cutting into line. These poor unsuspecting bastards didn't have any idea what sort of wrath they were threatening to unleash. My jaw became firmly clenched. Soon after, the vein that runs up the left side of my forehead began to swell and pulsate with every angered heart beat. The hour was nearing 12:00. The line began to resemble more of a huddle. The people near the front were eying each other and shifting their feet slightly to gain some sort of advantage. The air smelt of stale sweat. If these people thought they were going to go ahead of me, they should think again. The person ahead of us was almost finished, the time to rush the window was any moment now. The large stamp used to brand the papers with the Questura's official seal was like a starter's pistol for the beginning of some sort of race. A race that I would win. The woman behind the glass raised the large stamp and everyone leaned forward in anticipation. As if in slow motion the stamp began its descent and thundered into the paper below...

Wednesday. 10:00. Questura di Latina. I had given up caring if I ever got to the window. I stood chatting with some others that I recognized from previous days, sharing stories of how the Italian administration sucks. I finally made it to the window and slid my documentation through the bottom of the glass. The woman took a look at the customs stamp in my passport and then strolled over to the calendar and condescendingly counted eight working days from the date of my arrival. I was late. "Don't patronize me, you fuckin' turbo-bitch", I thought to myself. Thankfully, Scott was able to turn on some of his so-called charm, or maybe it was the sexy Canadian accent, but whatever it was he smoothed things over and I was able to get my coveted permesso di soggiorno.

And now for something completely different…

A guy I work with, Edoardo, and myself hopped into a car last weekend and drove up the steep winding switchbacks to the medieval town of Sermoneta. This is one of the few places you can visit in Italy where you won't run into a billion tourists, and is absolutely gorgeous. Be sure to check out some of the pictures I took in this update's photo set. This weekend I'm heading to Naples solo. Wish me luck.