So. After a good bit of time living without it, I decided last week to get my act together and finally go apply for my tessera sanitaria (healthcare card). Before I was always too intimidated/lazy about plowing through the mountain of Italian bureaucracy that I knew was waiting for me. Figuring out which district and thus which office I needed to report to was difficult enough on its own, much less knowing exactly what paperwork I needed, because God forbid the website provide concise, clear information, the office hours, what color pen to use when filling out said paperwork. Ok, maybe that last one is a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much people. Not by much.
Attempt number one. I admit, I was totally foolish in my first efforts. I showed up last Thursday morning around 9:30 and found about 150 short-tempered, impatient patients ahead of me. As low tech as most of these operations are, there was a surprisingly high tech computerized system dispersing numbers. Mine? 151. And what number were they currently serving? 37. Oh and they opened at 8:00. Not looking so great, but I decided to stick around, because who knew? Maybe a lot of people would drop out...Let me also mention that they had 2, count 'em, 2!! windows open. Now, don't think that I am just the impatient foreigner, not yet accustomed to the Italian way of doing things. Oh no, everyone, especially the more senior members in the waiting room, was going freaking bananas. In fact one lady started a petition that essentially said "We the undersigned are severely pissed off for the lack of service here" for everyone to sign that she went to present to the administration office. After an hour and a half of waiting I decided to call it a day and try again the next morning. My plan? Get there before the office even opens. Aren't I clever? Clearly no one else would ever think to do the same.
Friday morning. 7:00am. I am hurting. An hour and a half less sleep than I normally get. But I pull myself out of bed, manage to find parking and reach the building before it opens. Of course there is a crowd already gathered. I see familiar faces from yesterday. The doors open, but rather than piling in in typical Italian fashion, there is a man there handing out a number to each person as they pass through the door. I take my number and head up to the proper office where there is already another crowd forming around the machine that is supposed to give us our official number. However, said machine is not feeling as high-techy as it was yesterday and won't turn on. The crowd continues to grow, tempers mount, opinions are expressed. Suddenly the 75+ crowd deems themselves techsperts, "Push this button." "It's making noises" Jab at machine. Young guy is totally clueless. Finally someone says, "Why can't we just use the numbers we already have?" Crowd, "Yeah! Why not?? Yeah!" Everyone agrees that that is our best option.
We pile into our waiting room and chaos ensues. Shame that the roll of numbers didn't begin at 1, which would have at least simplified things in part. Rather they started at 85, so everyone was in a panic over who was to go first and would the next person then be cut in line and how would we know because the official numbers are tied to a computerized system, but without that there is no possible way for us humans to self-manage the situation. Finally same young guy from before freaks out "SIT DOWN! SIT DOWN! IF YOU DO NOT SIT DOWN WE CANNOT PROCEED!!" Keep in mind this isn't him losing it to a group of teenagers, this is like Mr. Rogers and his buddies, me and a couple of new mommies.
Things seem to calm down. The first two lucky ducks head up to the two open windows. And then they stay there. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes. Babies are starting to cry. People are pacing. And then the announcement. All of the computers are down.
I wait. And debate skipping out to the cafe right across the street for some breakfast. Cause let's be honest here. If the computers miraculously came back to life, I am like 20 numbers in, so I still have a hefty wait ahead of me. Plus the level of agitation in the room is palatable. Time to get away.
While I'm standing at the bar with my cappuccino and brioche a short little man, part of the Mr. Rogers crowd asks, "What number do you have?" "107," I respond, "You?" "87." "Aren't you worried they'll call your number while you're down here?" "Nah, the computers aren't working." How right he is. I finish my breakfast and decide a little quick stroll through the market wouldn't hurt anything. Nothing note worthy could possibly happen in the 10 minutes I've been gone. Find cute pair of sandals that cost 3 Euro. Feeling good about things.
But as I enter the waiting room and hear young man from earlier, "115. 115? 116. 117. 117?" my heart drops. Are you freaking kidding me???? High-tech number dispensing machine is working now and so the sensible thing as it appeared to the staff that day would be to change the number system an hour and a half into the morning. They were exchanging our previous numbers with new ones and of course had already blown past my 107. English expletives flow. I. am. freaking. out. "107!!!?" I say. Young guy looks at me, "I've already passed 107. Where were you??" "I went to have breakfast." (Please don't notice shoe bag in hand.) He notices that I am turning very red and possibly purple. Sighs. Gives me a new number that isn't awful awful, but certainly behind where I was. I slug off. My friend from the cafe rushes up to me, "Where were you?? I looked for you but you weren't here. You should have come right back!" Yeah. I know. Foolish me.
I wait. And wait. The computers start working and slowly but surely we are making progress. As my number approaches I am feeling more and more anxious. What if I don't have all the paperwork I need to have? I brought what the website told me to, but, well, that could easily be old or erroneous info. Finally at 11:00 my number comes up. I bounce up to the window, announce why I am there and shove my papers through the tiny hole to the attendant. Ok. She needs my Permit of Stay. Got it! And my tax code. Look through wallet, don't have it, but shouldn't be a problem because it's written on my Permit of Stay. She continues to ask for it and I continue to point to the number on my Permit of Stay. This exchange happens 4 times before she says, "No. You need the piece of paper you received when you registered for the tax code." Me, "Um, yes, but don't you see? There is the code printed on my Permit of Stay." "Yes but we need to have the actual piece of paper." "OK, but why? There is the code there and it's all of the same information you find on my Permit of Stay - my name, citizenship and date of birth." Finally the blow. "Lady I cannot process your request without that piece of paper." I think I start slightly shaking. "Can you get it and be back here by noon?" I nod. "OK, then come right back to my window without getting a new number."
I am hauling it. Race through midday traffic, find a parking spot and run, yes run, past the ever-growing mess of construction on the sinkhole in front of my apartment. Elvis is overjoyed when I bust through the front door. "Oh YAY! She is already home!!" "hielivs!sorrywecan'tgooutgottafindthispieceofpaperohmygodohmygodohmygodfoundit!bysweetieseeyoutonightbegood!"
I make it back to the office at 11:40. It is smelly and completely unpleasant. Try to subtly saunter up to my original window and wait for the lady ahead of me to finish. Do not make eye contact with anyone who is waiting behind me. Meanwhile at the other window, a woman who was there with me earlier in the morning is pulling a similar no-ticket move. Voices behind us declare, "Who do you think you are cutting everyone without a ticket???!!" Woman at window explodes. "EXCUSE ME!!! I GOT HERE AT 7 THIS MORNING WHILE YOUR ASS WAS STILL IN BED SLEEPING!!!!" Verbal war ensues. Thinking to myself, "Do not turn around Jenn. Do not turn around. Look straight ahead." Feeling awful for explosive woman's 11 year old daughter standing by her side.
And then the window clears and I rush up before the attendant can hit the button to call up the next number. She processes me. I pick a doctor from a list she hands me, based on his address and proximity to my home. I did it. Feeling good. I can get sick now. I'm covered.
Attempt number one. I admit, I was totally foolish in my first efforts. I showed up last Thursday morning around 9:30 and found about 150 short-tempered, impatient patients ahead of me. As low tech as most of these operations are, there was a surprisingly high tech computerized system dispersing numbers. Mine? 151. And what number were they currently serving? 37. Oh and they opened at 8:00. Not looking so great, but I decided to stick around, because who knew? Maybe a lot of people would drop out...Let me also mention that they had 2, count 'em, 2!! windows open. Now, don't think that I am just the impatient foreigner, not yet accustomed to the Italian way of doing things. Oh no, everyone, especially the more senior members in the waiting room, was going freaking bananas. In fact one lady started a petition that essentially said "We the undersigned are severely pissed off for the lack of service here" for everyone to sign that she went to present to the administration office. After an hour and a half of waiting I decided to call it a day and try again the next morning. My plan? Get there before the office even opens. Aren't I clever? Clearly no one else would ever think to do the same.
Friday morning. 7:00am. I am hurting. An hour and a half less sleep than I normally get. But I pull myself out of bed, manage to find parking and reach the building before it opens. Of course there is a crowd already gathered. I see familiar faces from yesterday. The doors open, but rather than piling in in typical Italian fashion, there is a man there handing out a number to each person as they pass through the door. I take my number and head up to the proper office where there is already another crowd forming around the machine that is supposed to give us our official number. However, said machine is not feeling as high-techy as it was yesterday and won't turn on. The crowd continues to grow, tempers mount, opinions are expressed. Suddenly the 75+ crowd deems themselves techsperts, "Push this button." "It's making noises" Jab at machine. Young guy is totally clueless. Finally someone says, "Why can't we just use the numbers we already have?" Crowd, "Yeah! Why not?? Yeah!" Everyone agrees that that is our best option.
We pile into our waiting room and chaos ensues. Shame that the roll of numbers didn't begin at 1, which would have at least simplified things in part. Rather they started at 85, so everyone was in a panic over who was to go first and would the next person then be cut in line and how would we know because the official numbers are tied to a computerized system, but without that there is no possible way for us humans to self-manage the situation. Finally same young guy from before freaks out "SIT DOWN! SIT DOWN! IF YOU DO NOT SIT DOWN WE CANNOT PROCEED!!" Keep in mind this isn't him losing it to a group of teenagers, this is like Mr. Rogers and his buddies, me and a couple of new mommies.
Things seem to calm down. The first two lucky ducks head up to the two open windows. And then they stay there. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes. Babies are starting to cry. People are pacing. And then the announcement. All of the computers are down.
I wait. And debate skipping out to the cafe right across the street for some breakfast. Cause let's be honest here. If the computers miraculously came back to life, I am like 20 numbers in, so I still have a hefty wait ahead of me. Plus the level of agitation in the room is palatable. Time to get away.
While I'm standing at the bar with my cappuccino and brioche a short little man, part of the Mr. Rogers crowd asks, "What number do you have?" "107," I respond, "You?" "87." "Aren't you worried they'll call your number while you're down here?" "Nah, the computers aren't working." How right he is. I finish my breakfast and decide a little quick stroll through the market wouldn't hurt anything. Nothing note worthy could possibly happen in the 10 minutes I've been gone. Find cute pair of sandals that cost 3 Euro. Feeling good about things.
But as I enter the waiting room and hear young man from earlier, "115. 115? 116. 117. 117?" my heart drops. Are you freaking kidding me???? High-tech number dispensing machine is working now and so the sensible thing as it appeared to the staff that day would be to change the number system an hour and a half into the morning. They were exchanging our previous numbers with new ones and of course had already blown past my 107. English expletives flow. I. am. freaking. out. "107!!!?" I say. Young guy looks at me, "I've already passed 107. Where were you??" "I went to have breakfast." (Please don't notice shoe bag in hand.) He notices that I am turning very red and possibly purple. Sighs. Gives me a new number that isn't awful awful, but certainly behind where I was. I slug off. My friend from the cafe rushes up to me, "Where were you?? I looked for you but you weren't here. You should have come right back!" Yeah. I know. Foolish me.
I wait. And wait. The computers start working and slowly but surely we are making progress. As my number approaches I am feeling more and more anxious. What if I don't have all the paperwork I need to have? I brought what the website told me to, but, well, that could easily be old or erroneous info. Finally at 11:00 my number comes up. I bounce up to the window, announce why I am there and shove my papers through the tiny hole to the attendant. Ok. She needs my Permit of Stay. Got it! And my tax code. Look through wallet, don't have it, but shouldn't be a problem because it's written on my Permit of Stay. She continues to ask for it and I continue to point to the number on my Permit of Stay. This exchange happens 4 times before she says, "No. You need the piece of paper you received when you registered for the tax code." Me, "Um, yes, but don't you see? There is the code printed on my Permit of Stay." "Yes but we need to have the actual piece of paper." "OK, but why? There is the code there and it's all of the same information you find on my Permit of Stay - my name, citizenship and date of birth." Finally the blow. "Lady I cannot process your request without that piece of paper." I think I start slightly shaking. "Can you get it and be back here by noon?" I nod. "OK, then come right back to my window without getting a new number."
I am hauling it. Race through midday traffic, find a parking spot and run, yes run, past the ever-growing mess of construction on the sinkhole in front of my apartment. Elvis is overjoyed when I bust through the front door. "Oh YAY! She is already home!!" "hielivs!sorrywecan'tgooutgottafindthispieceofpaperohmygodohmygodohmygodfoundit!bysweetieseeyoutonightbegood!"
I make it back to the office at 11:40. It is smelly and completely unpleasant. Try to subtly saunter up to my original window and wait for the lady ahead of me to finish. Do not make eye contact with anyone who is waiting behind me. Meanwhile at the other window, a woman who was there with me earlier in the morning is pulling a similar no-ticket move. Voices behind us declare, "Who do you think you are cutting everyone without a ticket???!!" Woman at window explodes. "EXCUSE ME!!! I GOT HERE AT 7 THIS MORNING WHILE YOUR ASS WAS STILL IN BED SLEEPING!!!!" Verbal war ensues. Thinking to myself, "Do not turn around Jenn. Do not turn around. Look straight ahead." Feeling awful for explosive woman's 11 year old daughter standing by her side.
And then the window clears and I rush up before the attendant can hit the button to call up the next number. She processes me. I pick a doctor from a list she hands me, based on his address and proximity to my home. I did it. Feeling good. I can get sick now. I'm covered.
Jenn I LOVE these stories. Too funny. I would like to discuss some options for getting other people to read them. :)
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