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Arrangiati!
- University of Minnesota Press
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Arrangiati! The Corriere della Sera newspaper recently announced that the government in Rome is proud that Italy has only about thirty thousand laws. Opposition politicians estimate there are more like one hundred thousand, but no one’s quite sure, which seems a bit worrisome. Either way, Italy has more laws than probably any other country, but most are rarely enforced. For example, if a new tax law is passed, some Italians will hold their breath and hope the law or prime minister is soon changed. New laws sometimes make the old laws illegal , which makes obeying the law in the first place a risky proposition. In general, it’s best to wait it out. New elections can’t be too far away. The verb arrangiarsi—literally meaning “to arrange yourself ” but more accurately “to work the system”—sums up the Italian knack of surviving in spite of a generally unfriendly government. When many Italians immigrated to the United States and brought this well-practiced survival tactic , some got the reputation of being corrupt. When I try to obey all the laws in Italy, I realize I’m being naive. To renew our permesso di soggiorno, “permission to stay,” for another three months, we cross the border into Slovenia to get a new, automatic tourist visa. The guard, however, lets me right back into Italy without restamping 86 my passport. I ask him if he can stamp my passport, thereby validating me for another three-month stay. He becomes suspicious and hauls me aside for questioning. When I tell him I wrote a book about scooters, he warms up and talks to me about his father’s 1957 Lambretta for fifteen minutes while my friends are waiting impatiently. He finally stamps my passport but only on the condition that I call him up to shoot a photo of his dad’s scooter if I write another book. Once back in Modena, Katy and I assemble our documents to apply for another permesso di soggiorno at the police department, or questura. I am finally beginning to understand the language and the bureaucracy. We carry the necessary materials—two photographs, a photocopy of my passport, a letter from the people supposedly hosting us (that our friend Marina wrote), and ten Euros worth of marca da bollo, or official government stamps. Most importantly, I’ve met one of the head people in the questura, named Lida, who told me to come see her if I ever need help with my permesso di soggiorno. On the steps of the questura, I ask the guard if Lida is in, but he just laughs, “Yeah right, you’re friends with Lida. That’s what everyone says.” He taps the barrel of his submachine gun and indicates for us to get in line like everyone else. I then remember that Guido introduced me to a friend of his, Seba, who works there. I ask the guard if Seba is working. This time the guard doesn’t laugh but starts interrogating me about this “friend” to see how well I know him. “What kind of car does he drive?” “What kind of car?” I respond. “I have no idea.” “Well, what days does he work?” he asks. “Umm, I don’t know his schedule,” I respond. “I can tell that you are not friends then,” he says, convinced , and motions with his machine gun for us to get in the long line with everyone else. Arrangiati! 87 [18.206.238.189] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 07:52 GMT) When we finally get into the office, Seba comes out from behind his desk and gives us kisses on both cheeks. While other people are waiting impatiently, he asks how life is treating us in Modena. Once inside the large hallways of the questura, I see my friend Lida, who invites us up for a coffee. She says I have to be more insistent with the guard to be let in, but I tell her I’m a little hesitant of being pushy around guys with machine guns. In her office, Lida pulls out the appropriate documents and winks at us knowingly, “You’re not ‘working ’ here in Modena, are you?” I was always taught lying to a cop is not a good idea—much less to one of the heads of the police department—nevertheless, I take the cue. I’ve learned the finer points of how to arrangiarsi and assure her that we’re not “working.” Our permesso...