I think I've probably written here, in the past, about my feeling that living in Italy sometimes echoes life in a Kafka novel. Actually, it's probably a good thing that I've read The Trial, because it lets me pretend that certain frustrations are taking place in a fictional land, and it is all engineered to make me smile and think about literature. This helps.
The following blog entry is pretty long, but I tried to add as much detail as possible so that I could accurately depict a recent experience. Sorry - if you fall asleep halfway through, I understand!
Italy has never seemed more like a vortex of bureaucracy than it did this morning, when I had to complete a task for one of my various bosses. I have been working recently as an assistant to a woman in my choir who has a business as a naturopath/healer/tour guide/B&B owner. She wanted to insert the name of her business in the city's web directory, which for linguistic purposes we'll call "Bologna Web". (It actually has a different, unpronounceable name.)
To be added to Bologna Web, we were informed that first we had to go to the city's PR office and request an application at the front desk. I did this, and was promptly given an application, which I brought back to my boss. She filled it out and sent me back to the PR office. This is when Kafka stepped in.
I returned to the original front desk, ready to hand in the application. The man there told me that I had to give it to the woman who takes applications for Bologna Web, at a different desk in the back of the room (the PR office, which is open to the public, is a large room with various stations that give tourist info, internet cards, etc). He waved me along. I went to the desk labeled Bologna Web, and the woman there looked blankly at the application. She had no idea what it was. I went back to the original desk. The man there, now oddly furious with me, told me that I hadn't listened to his directions and I needed to go to a different desk that had nothing to do with Bologna Web, but with Free Information.
Feeling slightly discouraged, I went to the Free Information desk and handed the application to the woman there. She flipped through it and immediately informed me that it was missing the Certificate of Association. Indeed, on a page of the application, it was indicated that my boss was supposed to staple the Certificate to her application. So I took back the papers and went to the office, where my boss printed out the the Certificate and we stapled it on.
The next day, I brought the Certificate and application to the Free Information desk. It was accepted and I was given an official receipt with the time and date.
A few weeks passed. Yesterday I received a phone call informing me that the application was being processed, but the company Statute was missing. "But why was it accepted if we need to submit the Statute?" I asked. "When I handed in my application, the woman at the desk told me that all the documents were complete!"
The voice on the phone was stern. "It's not her job to tell you what's missing, it's your job to follow the instructions."
Odd, considering that the woman had been perfectly happy to tell me that the Certificate was missing. But, okay. What now? I was told to go directly to the office of Free Information on the building's second floor, where I could hand in the Statute without re-submitting an application.
This morning I set off in the rain, Statute in hand. I arrived at the city offices and immediately started to worry. The PR office is easy to find, as it opens onto Bologna's main piazza. But the Free Information office on the second floor proved to be quite impossible to find: the city offices are located in a huge building comprised of many wings (including the police department). Each wing has its own entrance and its own second floor, and I did not see the words "Free Information" on any of the various directories.
I went to the main stairs, which have already had a starring role on this blog, as they're connected to the area where city marriages take place. I've photographed various just-married couples as they joyfully descend the steps. Today, though, the stairs were wet and empty. At the top, everything was closed. A door had a "Secretary" sign on it, but peering in, I saw nobody. I headed back down. Nearby, I found the City Archives Office, and asked the two women at the desk if they could help me. Unfortunately, they'd never heard of the Free Information office.
"But you could go to the PR office," one suggested.
"I was told that I could skip that, to hand in the Statute and enter Bologna Web," I answered.
"Well, Bologna Web is located in the PR office," she replied. "Try going back there. Otherwise we just don't know what to tell you."
I went back to the PR office, and headed directly to the Free Information desk.
The woman there, whom I recognized, stared at me blankly. I explained that I had recently applied to be added to Bologna Web, and I needed to hand in a Statute.
"That's impossible," she said. "I don't take Bologna Web applications."
I had a moment of confusion. "Well, I applied with you."
"If you applied with me, you didn't apply to Bologna Web."
"Ah." I'm still confused. "But can you tell me where to hand in the Statute?"
She exchanged a look with her coworker, as if to say, 'What a moron this girl is!'. "Go up the stairs and to the Secretary's office. But don't say a word about Bologna Web - just say that you want to hand in your Statute!"
Now unsure as to what I had applied for, I went back up the marriage-stairs and pushed open the door to the Secretary's office. The long hallway was empty and silent except for the hum of the Xerox machine. However, I was determined to get rid of that damn Statute no matter what. I walked through the main corridor and looked into a few offices. They were all empty. I heard voices from afar, but saw nobody, and there were no signs of life (or even papers on desks).
Luckily, further down the hall, an open door revealed an extremely young-looking girl at a computer. I knocked.
"I am trying to add a Statute to an application here. Can I give it to you?"
Amazingly, I was in the right place. The girl (who seriously appeared to be 18) looked through a mountain of papers and found my old application. She flipped through it.
"Your Statute isn't here," she said.
"No." I showed her that I was holding it in my hand.
"But on the phone, you told me that you'd handed it in."
This was patently untrue. I told her that I hadn't said that; I'd said that I hadn't known that the Statute was even necessary.
"You're right!" she said, laughing. "You did say that. Sorry." [This was probably the only sensible interaction I had in the entire place. Thank you, nameless child.]
She took the Statute and told me that she'll call me if we're missing something else.
Please, please, let that application be complete.
