At this time of year, the heat of Naples wakes me up around 7. A five kilometre jog takes me over Monte Echia, from where I can see Vesuvius, Capri and the city below me framed in bright blue. After a cool shower, I go to a café for breakfast: a pastry and puddle of strong coffee paid for out of loose change. I spend the day sweating in front of a pizza oven, before strolling home, stopping to pick up some pungent tomatoes and red wine for dinner. Truly, this is a life I dreamt of, so why do I go to bed each night wracked with anxiety?
If life is slow here, it’s out of necessity
La dolce vita, the sweet life, is a term I heard before I even knew Fellini’s 1960 film existed. It was described to me as a slow life, of good food and bright sunshine, of family and male friends you kiss tenderly on the cheeks. Crucially, it is a life that you can only find in Italy. As a teenager, the prospect of endless plates of spag-bol and cheesy garlic bread was enough for me: I knew that one day, I would have to live this life myself.
From my routine you may think that I have found it, but no. As I described in the previous article of this odyssey, I moved to Naples to learn how to make pizza. My three-month tourist visa has been ticking down since then. How do you enjoy paradise on a deadline? This is, of course, the standard holiday paradox. But I always wanted a real Italian stint, un stinto; something to differentiate me from the herds of slow, sock-sandaled tourists I find myself imagining equally slow deaths for.
My research prior to moving suggested that securing a sponsor for a work visa in-person would be a ‘safe bet’. I should have listened to the scores of Italians who advised me otherwise, including my girlfriend. I have now been here for almost three months, and have spent most of it bouncing around government websites, immigration offices and potential employers. In short, moving here has left me a deflated costume of a man.
After the first month I was full of optimism because I had persuaded the owners of Pizzeria Da Michele to sponsor me. It is an institution here, like what Harrods is to London, with an impeccable international reputation. I went with the managing director to the immigration office of Naples only for us to be given a verbal middle finger.
I had misunderstood the simple system: all the work visas become available in March at the same time. If I had been lucky enough to be selected from 600,000 other applicants in a lottery, I would have needed to wait in London for up to three more months while they processed the visa. If, for instance, I had secured my sponsorship and documentation two months after I had settled in a flat in Naples, well that was just tough. Come back next year.
My potential employers were genuinely apologetic, they couldn’t have done more. So with no work visa for me, what options remained? Student? Marriage? Medical test patient? I’ve gone through the motions for all of them; just as I think I am about to cross the finishing line, a ribbon of red tape slingshots me straight back to square one. The deeper I plunge into this maze of bureaucracy, the greater the feeling of hopelessness.
When Marco, a colleague of mine, went to the government offices to register the birth of his newborn son he was told that his wife, only just out of labour, had to be present. Cosimo, an Italian friend living in London, applied for a renewed passport, and only received it six months later.
So if life is slow here, it’s out of necessity. As I have found out the hard way, if you try to accomplish anything through the official channels, ‘procedure’ pumps the brakes. For those already part of the system, then it’s best to avoid the bureaucracy unless you absolutely have to. For those applying for a visa to become a part of the system, there is no such luxury. If you don’t expect anything, you can’t be disappointed.
This detachment is measurable in the reactions, or lack thereof, to the situations I cannot help but find infuriating. If the bus comes 25 minutes late, thank God it came at all. Cutting people off at the traffic lights doesn’t elicit even a rude gesture. If people force their way onto a train before everyone has gotten off, who cares? I do, of course, but no one else seems to. For the important things, there are friends and family in the right places, and for everything else? Che sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.
The importance of family has become obvious since I’ve been here. My girlfriend is related to members of the Carabinieri, as well as having family in the passport office and big business. They have all been petitioned on my behalf, but no-one is quite the right person to help. The advice was typically Italian: ‘Do you know anyone with family in the embassy?’. ‘Have you considered a hairdressing internship? My friend has a barbershop’ and a personal favourite ‘just bring them a coffee’.
In the coming weeks, I will go to the Italian consulate in London. I have prepared reams of documentation to apply for an internship as a pizza-maker, but my worry only grows. All I can think about is bus timetables and government portals. I’m scared that even if I am granted access to La Dolce Vita, I’m going to be too petty, passive-aggressive and downright British to live it.
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