Fingerprints and Phantom Lights

So apparently I’m a criminal.

Because I’m a foreigner, I’m automatically a criminal. Well, at least that’s what it felt like on Thursday morning when I had to make a stop by the police station to get fingerprinted. Twice.

It all has to do with that silly permesso-thing. When I turned the permesso application in to the post office, I was given a time and date to show up at the police station to get fingerprinted. So I go to the station with one of the ladies from the International Relations Office, Rina, to ensure that the Italian police force has proof in case this criminal American decides to disrupt the peace of Teramo.

My appointment was at 9:48. But everything except the trains runs late in Italy. So it was closer to 10:00 by the time I actually got around to fingerprinting. The process was pretty easy. I didn’t even have to speak to the guy. He would hold up a finger, and I would copy which finger it was and place it on the scanner. When I thought we were done, Rina told me, “Now we come back in 30 minutes.” Great.

So we go across the street to grab a croissant and some tea. 30 minutes later I am taken up to the second floor to do who knows what, along with an African lady, a Chinese lady, and some other white dude who wasn’t American. It was actually pretty funny, because the group of us covered all corners of the world.

I was first in line, so a few minutes later I’m ushered into a room that looks like it should be in a doctor’s office, not a police station.

Holy crap. What are they going to do to me?

Apparently, if it is your first time in Italy (and you are living here for an extended period of time) you have to get fingerprinted twice. So, the nice guy behind the desk asks for my passport and I sit in the chair across from him.

He asks for eye color, well actually looks at my eye color for himself. It took him a little while, because if you have ever seen my eyes up close, they aren’t exactly one color. Some days they are more green. Others they are a light brown. And others they are gold (I’m not kidding). And they always have a grey-blue circle outlining whatever color they decide to be. Rina said, “You have beautiful eyes!” Gee, thanks. :)

Regardless, it took the guy a while to figure out what color my eyes were. And I couldn’t understand what he ultimately decided. I guess I’ll find out once I get my permesso.

Then I had to stand up and get my height measured.

And then my second fingerprinting. Which was more like a hand-printing. I had to do each finger on each hand. Then the thumbs again. Then my 4 fingers pressed together on each hand. Then my entire palm of each hand.

What? Do you want my Social Security number now? Blood sample? Pee in a cup? Geez Louise.

After that, it was over. Pretty painless actually, but I still feel like I have criminal written on my forehead. Although, all foreigners have to do this. Not just Americans. Still, that’s profiling.

However, I STILL did not receive my permesso. I have to return to the police station in 1 month and go in the morning to tell them that I am there to pick up my permesso. Then I have to return that same afternoon to actually pick it up. Thank goodness my legs work just fine. Sounds like I’ll be doing a lot of walking back and forth.

That afternoon I went for a run in the park. It was almost hot and sunny for once. I think I went a full week or more without seeing sun in Teramo. I was suffering from a Vitamin D deficiency. If this keeps up, I might just have to buy a membership to the tanning salon next to my apartment. I mean, vitamins are important, right?

That night Romeo decided he would teach me how to make spaghetti. I was super excited, because I thought there was some fantastic Italian trick that I would learn. For anyone planning to come over here, bear this warning: making spaghetti is exactly the same as making it in the U.S. And Romeo thought he was teaching me something world-shattering. Psh. I could have done that myself.

Friday was a lazy day, except for going running. I think I’m doing better about running than I ever did in the U.S. Perhaps it is because I have so much free time, I may as well fill it with something productive? After running, I checked my mailbox. Something was in there! I pulled it out, and it was for ME!

I go running up the stairs and into my roommate’s room. “I GOT MAIL!” I say excitedly. He smiles, and takes the envelope. I got my first letter in Italy, from my grandmother. It was a Valentine’s Day card and a Zits cartoon, and I think Romeo was laughing at how excited I was. He is slowly figuring out that it doesn’t take much to make me happy. My first letter in Italy can do the trick.

After opening my mail and turning on some music on iTunes, I laid on my bed to cool down after my run. My light was off, and my hand was nowhere near the light switch. The next thing I know, my light randomly turns on. By itself. Freaky. So, I look at it, and turn it off quickly. Now my light switch is backwards…you flip it up to turn the light off and down to turn it on. This is going to drive my OCD crazy.

That night I decided to have chicken nuggets and plain spaghetti noodles for dinner. From a very young age, I have enjoyed plain pasta with butter and salt. No sauce. Nothing fancy. Just incredibly unhealthy pasta. So, I take the spaghetti and my roommate starts telling me that I was doing it wrong. I should make the sauce first and THEN add it to the pasta. I look at him and bluntly say, “I’m not using sauce.”

It was like I had committed the biggest Italian culinary crime in the history of Italian cooking.

Romeo’s face can’t be described. The fact that I would eat pasta sans-sauce completely boggled his mind. “But that’s not how you cook it in Italy!” “I know,” I said. “But this is how I eat it in America.” “I have no words. I’m never going to understand your cooking.” He shakes his head and smiles.

I’m not asking you to, buddy. I know I’m no chef like yourself, but plain pasta and chicken nuggets make me happy. Let me eat in peace. Except that I realized the tiny things of what I thought was butter that I bought in the grocery store turned out to be some funky brown substance with the consistency of Play-Doh. And it smelled TERRIBLE. Good thing I only spent 0.25 Euros on it. No butter for my pasta, I guess.

After dinner, I was getting ready to go out with my friend Davide to get a croissant and just hang out. Greta wanted to go dancing again, but I felt like being a party pooper. Plus, after 2 days of running in a row, I wasn’t sure how much more my legs could take. Dancing in 4 inch high heels until 3 A.M. was out of the question.

It was incredibly windy that night, like a tornado could be coming. Although, they don’t have tornadoes in Italy. Just earthquakes. Are tornadoes just a U.S. thing? Regardless, you could hear the strength of the wind…and if we had the doors to the balconies open, Romeo and I swore we could feel the building swaying. I was about to head out and turn off when my light just shuts off.

So it randomly turns on that afternoon and now randomly turns off? What the heck…

I thought maybe the power had gone off, because the lights had been flickering on and off throughout the evening due to the wind. But the hallway light was still on, so my room was the only one affected.

Just my luck. Have I said that Italy is going to drive me crazy?

I was headed out the door, so I yelled at Romeo about what happened and left my phantom light to enjoy the evening by itself.

When I returned that night, Romeo tried to fix my light. He replaced the bulb. Nothing. It must be something with the electrical wiring. So I stayed on Facebook for 2 hours in complete darkness. I am positive that my bright computer screen in all that darkness took about 5 years off the life of my eyes. Hopefully by that point I can just get replacement corneas. I’m sure they will have the technology by then…

But what was I going to do for the next who-knows-how-many days before we could get someone to come fix my light? Avoid my room at night? I don’t think so. So I decided to buy a light bulb myself and try fixing the light. This afternoon, I come back to my room and screw the bulb in…and EUREKA! LIGHT! I carefully replaced the glass ball that surrounds the bulb, and it starts to flicker. Fantastic. Obviously something is wrong with the connection.

So being a regular Bob the Builder, I turn off the light, remove the glass ball, and look at the connection. It had just come loose, so I screw it a little tighter hoping that was all that was wrong. I cross my fingers and flip my now-backwards switch. And it worked. Dang, I’m awesome.

And up until this point I have had flawless illumination in my tiny Italian room. Okay, Italy, you are back on my good side.