Italy, despite its famous beauty, is chaotic. And Italian people, despite their beauty, are often easily irritable and short-tempered. I had heard about it before, but now that I’m living here, I often have to witness (and endure) it all.
Not all the experiences are bad, though. Sometimes I found it amusing too to hear the driving Italians curse other drivers (along with all the members of their family) that they deem guilty of not driving (or parking) the way they should, with a series of cussing words (the richness of their vocabulary amazes me) spoken loudly, fast and furious. And, shame on me, those words still sound pretty.
On the other hand, my experiences with the questura (immigration office) are not the ones I want to repeat (I’m so glad it’s all (almost) over now…). We had to skip classes and waited all day long there (only to find out that we would have to return there some other time!), among other upset foreigners and unfriendly employers, who would hiss ‘cosa vuoi?’ (what do you want?) at you if you came near to them unexpectedly, even before you managed to open your mouth to say ‘buongiorno’ , let alone ask information or at least the clarity of what to do or where exactly you should go. And if you happen to meet someone nicer, who would answer your simple question, their answer(s) sometimes are proved to be misleading (and often vary one person to another).
When I went to the questura for the first time, I had to wait almost 6 hours (and skipped lunch) before finally a police officer came to me to say, “Sorry, it’s 3 pm and we’re having a pausa now… you better go and come back later,” while pushing my back to the exit door. It took a while for me to collect all the words I needed to say and amazingly I got them all, right in the threshold. So, with one foot still inside the room and another outside, I summoned the courage to look up to the big guy and fire my well-thought words. I said, “Sorry, but I’m NOT leaving this place until I get the CLARITY of what I should do the next time I come here. I went to the questura inside the university for foreigners and they sent me here to submit all the documents. There is no queuing number and they all told me to stand in line, but then they called out the names of the applicants randomly and told me to wait for my name to be called and….” Before I could finish my sentence, he suddenly groaned, “Oh you’re from the university, come back inside and I’ll make you the appointment!” Then he checked my passport and wrote down my name and gave me a form which stated when and what time I should be back. And, knowing that I’m an Indonesian, he then blabbered of how he watched a documentary movie about Indonesia and that my country should be wonderful etc…etc…, while I secretly lamented on my one day being wasted in that chaotic place.
The chaos also touches the university life. When I enrolled myself for the level which I’m now in, I had to go back and forth to the secretariat 8 times! The problem was, they did not want to let me skip one level like my previous professor suggested and they found a zillion excuses for it (‘oh this declaration letter from your prof is not valid, he needs to sign that green form over there’, ‘oh, your final marks have not been delivered, come back tomorrow’ (and when I checked with the prof, he swore to have delivered them the day before!), ‘oh, we can’t let you move to the highest level until we talk to our boss ‘(who is rarely in the office around that time)). Finally, two hours before my train left for Venice, I searched for their boss in the whole campus, and managed to drag him with me, back to his office. He is a helpful and friendly old man, and while we were on our way to the secretariat, he interrogated me of which one of his employers who gave me difficulties, because he said he already told them all to let me in. Several minutes later, my enrollment was done and I could depart to Venice with a relieved heart.
All those experiences have taught me to appreciate more those kind of people, who would listen patiently and eager to help others in need. And fortunately, roses still exist among the thorns. Also in questura (yes, believe me, also in questura!) of the university. The female police who was in charge the day I came there was very helpful and kind. She asked whether I would like to extend my stay here in Italy when my visa is expired. When I said yes, she jokingly offered to switch place with me. She said she went to Indonesia once and would love to return. “What struck me most about your people,” she said, smiling, “is how they always smiled. Such beautiful people.” And her statement struck me too. She was not the first Italian who commented like that. One of my Italian friends, who came to Indonesia for a short holiday, also said that he was impressed with the Indonesian smiles. “People in Italy don’t smile that much,” he added.
And now that I think of it, I find it amazing that Indonesians are well-known for their smiles and cheerful attitudes. Indonesians, who work harder (with only 1 hour pausa and sometimes have to work on weekends too, or juggling two jobs to make their ends meet) and are paid less. Indonesians, who cannot afford to go on holidays too often. And Indonesians, who often have to go through the fears of the terrorist attacks and witness innocent people being killed by the actions of some morons, who think that by doing so, they will get to heaven.
And so, I’m really proud of the Indonesian smiles, which are enough reasons for some Italians to want to come back there. And I hope and pray that Indonesia will continue to smile, even when la vita (life) does not seem to be always dolce (sweet).
(this note is to let my Indonesian friends know that I suffer with them for the bombings today)
by : Tanti Susilawati
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