Stampa Stampa Stampa
Stampa Stampa Stampa. . . e altri cosi
Please excuse my attempt at an Italian title. This writing is about Italy, and Italian writing, and Italian stamping, and other things. It is the experience of death in Italy, and what it has entailed for me (so far). Stampa Stampa Stampa.
'Stampa Stampa Stampa' was what Fran always said when we had to do anything official, because it always involved going to at least one bureaucrat, waiting for them to pay any attention to us, and then wait while they found the correct stamp(s) to stamp our papers. When our papers were stamped, they were stamped with great authority, and usually more than once. The less important the document, the harder the stamp. The less important the bureaucrat, the more times the document was stamped.
Fran absolutely hated this part of being in Italy. She hated to go to the city offices to register as a resident. She hated to go to the post office to pick up special mail. She hated to have her permesso di soggiorno renewed. She dreaded the idea of trying to get a driver's license. Too many bureaucrats, too many stamps.
For this, I suppose it is better that Fran died first, leaving me to deal with the particular and peculiar bureaucracy involved in death.
Fran died on a Tuesday morning. We had hoped to travel to the states and seek medical treatment there the previous Saturday, however, she was declared medically unfit to travel. Before that, we were going to check her out of the hospital against Dr.'s advice and go home so she could supervise the packing. We were not to be allowed her medical records, which are usually the property of the patient, but we were able to get an 'unofficial copy', i.e. . . one that had not been stamped. As it was, she could not travel, and she waited in the hospital until early the next morning, when she was transferred to the specialty hospital in Palermo. She was accompanied in the ambulance by her medical papers, properly stamped.
After she died, I tried to get things in order so that I could go to America and be with her kids, and her family. I was called back to Palermo before I could leave. The hospital needed me to sign a document. The document said that she had left the hospital due to death. I signed it, and it was taken to a back office, and I waited while a bureaucrat read (his) document, came out to check my passport and make sure it was me who signed the document, then took it back to his office to ......stamp it. Luckily I had a friend with me who explained what was going on.
I then had to go and talk to the people who were handling the cremation. They had another form for me to sign, even though I had already signed two forms for them. The new form had to be stamped over my signature after I signed it.
Then I got news that the crematorium in Palermo was broken. It is the ONLY crematorium in southern Italy. The tecnicos who would fix the crematorium said they would not start work on it until after Christmas, as it was too close to Christmas. They thought it would take a long time to fix. Not a lot of folks get cremated in southern Italy, so there was not a huge line of folks waiting for the crematorium. Fran would be kept in a cold locker while she waited. Again, she would have hated that, because she HATED to be cold.
While I was in the states, I got word that the crematorium was fixed, and a friend would go and witness the cremation, sign the appropriate papers, and watch while they were stamped. Right after Fran was cremated, the crematorium broke again. I find myself wondering what sort of rocket scientist is needed to build an extremely hot oven!
After returning to Sicily, I had to go to Palermo to pick up the cremains. I figured that would be fairly simple. HAH!! I had to go to the guys who arranged for the cremation, and they took me to the crematorium where I had to sign a document, watch them stamp it, and then go to a Provincial Office for the Dead. We had to take a copy of the stamped document, freshly stamped itself, to the office.
At the Provincial office, I had to sign three forms. They made five copies of each form, and compared my signature on each of the originals and each of the copies with my signature on my passport, looking at me each time to also compare the picture with my face. Neither my face, my signature nor the picture changed during this process. Not even in the copy machine. Then each of the five copies of the three documents, plus the three originals, had to be stamped by three different stamps. Stampa Stampa Stampa . . . Stampa. Then the guy from the funeral agency had to run out and buy two postage type tax stamps for the original and each copy of one of the forms, tax stamps, that were affixed to the documents, and then the documents were stamped by yet another stamp over the tax stamps.
One of the forms, it turns out, had to have my car license plate on it. I was asked what my plate number was, and I could not remember, and I had taken a bus into Palermo, but they said they needed one, so I made it up. That was fine with them. I needed the form in case the Carabinieri stopped me and thought I might be illegally transporting the ashes of a dead person. Fortunately for all concerned, the bus was not stopped, so we got away with transporting ashes on a bus that was not given special permission to transport the ashes. I can not imagine how many stamps would have been needed if we had been stopped for that.
We also had to wait for Agrigento Province to give permission for me to transport the ashes from Palermo Province to Agrigento Province, in which Sciacca is located. We sent a stamped form by fax to Agrigento, which they finally stamped and sent back, and then Palermo restamped it.
Then we were off to the crematorium again, where they would fax the appropriately stamped documents to the crematorium giving us permission to take possession of the ashes. Of course the secretary at the crematorium was using the fax phone to discuss pranzo arrangements with her boy friend, so we had to wait for a while for the fax to come in. Once it came it, I had to sign it, she had to stamp it, her boss had to read it, check my signature and face against those on my passport, make a copy of a document for us, stamp it, and give it to us and send us off to the storage area for completed cremations.
When we got there, someone had called ahead. They did not look at any of our paperwork, just handed us the urn of ashes through the window of the car, and off we were.
Fran would have hated it. I was not too pleased. But that is a part of life here.
Please do not read this document unless it has been properly stamped.
Please excuse my attempt at an Italian title. This writing is about Italy, and Italian writing, and Italian stamping, and other things. It is the experience of death in Italy, and what it has entailed for me (so far). Stampa Stampa Stampa.
'Stampa Stampa Stampa' was what Fran always said when we had to do anything official, because it always involved going to at least one bureaucrat, waiting for them to pay any attention to us, and then wait while they found the correct stamp(s) to stamp our papers. When our papers were stamped, they were stamped with great authority, and usually more than once. The less important the document, the harder the stamp. The less important the bureaucrat, the more times the document was stamped.
Fran absolutely hated this part of being in Italy. She hated to go to the city offices to register as a resident. She hated to go to the post office to pick up special mail. She hated to have her permesso di soggiorno renewed. She dreaded the idea of trying to get a driver's license. Too many bureaucrats, too many stamps.
For this, I suppose it is better that Fran died first, leaving me to deal with the particular and peculiar bureaucracy involved in death.
Fran died on a Tuesday morning. We had hoped to travel to the states and seek medical treatment there the previous Saturday, however, she was declared medically unfit to travel. Before that, we were going to check her out of the hospital against Dr.'s advice and go home so she could supervise the packing. We were not to be allowed her medical records, which are usually the property of the patient, but we were able to get an 'unofficial copy', i.e. . . one that had not been stamped. As it was, she could not travel, and she waited in the hospital until early the next morning, when she was transferred to the specialty hospital in Palermo. She was accompanied in the ambulance by her medical papers, properly stamped.
After she died, I tried to get things in order so that I could go to America and be with her kids, and her family. I was called back to Palermo before I could leave. The hospital needed me to sign a document. The document said that she had left the hospital due to death. I signed it, and it was taken to a back office, and I waited while a bureaucrat read (his) document, came out to check my passport and make sure it was me who signed the document, then took it back to his office to ......stamp it. Luckily I had a friend with me who explained what was going on.
I then had to go and talk to the people who were handling the cremation. They had another form for me to sign, even though I had already signed two forms for them. The new form had to be stamped over my signature after I signed it.
Then I got news that the crematorium in Palermo was broken. It is the ONLY crematorium in southern Italy. The tecnicos who would fix the crematorium said they would not start work on it until after Christmas, as it was too close to Christmas. They thought it would take a long time to fix. Not a lot of folks get cremated in southern Italy, so there was not a huge line of folks waiting for the crematorium. Fran would be kept in a cold locker while she waited. Again, she would have hated that, because she HATED to be cold.
While I was in the states, I got word that the crematorium was fixed, and a friend would go and witness the cremation, sign the appropriate papers, and watch while they were stamped. Right after Fran was cremated, the crematorium broke again. I find myself wondering what sort of rocket scientist is needed to build an extremely hot oven!
After returning to Sicily, I had to go to Palermo to pick up the cremains. I figured that would be fairly simple. HAH!! I had to go to the guys who arranged for the cremation, and they took me to the crematorium where I had to sign a document, watch them stamp it, and then go to a Provincial Office for the Dead. We had to take a copy of the stamped document, freshly stamped itself, to the office.
At the Provincial office, I had to sign three forms. They made five copies of each form, and compared my signature on each of the originals and each of the copies with my signature on my passport, looking at me each time to also compare the picture with my face. Neither my face, my signature nor the picture changed during this process. Not even in the copy machine. Then each of the five copies of the three documents, plus the three originals, had to be stamped by three different stamps. Stampa Stampa Stampa . . . Stampa. Then the guy from the funeral agency had to run out and buy two postage type tax stamps for the original and each copy of one of the forms, tax stamps, that were affixed to the documents, and then the documents were stamped by yet another stamp over the tax stamps.
One of the forms, it turns out, had to have my car license plate on it. I was asked what my plate number was, and I could not remember, and I had taken a bus into Palermo, but they said they needed one, so I made it up. That was fine with them. I needed the form in case the Carabinieri stopped me and thought I might be illegally transporting the ashes of a dead person. Fortunately for all concerned, the bus was not stopped, so we got away with transporting ashes on a bus that was not given special permission to transport the ashes. I can not imagine how many stamps would have been needed if we had been stopped for that.
We also had to wait for Agrigento Province to give permission for me to transport the ashes from Palermo Province to Agrigento Province, in which Sciacca is located. We sent a stamped form by fax to Agrigento, which they finally stamped and sent back, and then Palermo restamped it.
Then we were off to the crematorium again, where they would fax the appropriately stamped documents to the crematorium giving us permission to take possession of the ashes. Of course the secretary at the crematorium was using the fax phone to discuss pranzo arrangements with her boy friend, so we had to wait for a while for the fax to come in. Once it came it, I had to sign it, she had to stamp it, her boss had to read it, check my signature and face against those on my passport, make a copy of a document for us, stamp it, and give it to us and send us off to the storage area for completed cremations.
When we got there, someone had called ahead. They did not look at any of our paperwork, just handed us the urn of ashes through the window of the car, and off we were.
Fran would have hated it. I was not too pleased. But that is a part of life here.
Please do not read this document unless it has been properly stamped.
posted by Steve at 2:49 PM
1 Comments:
Though I only "knew" Fran through this blog, I looked forward to each new entry, story, and insight. Thanks for keeping it going. Your stampa story really resonated my husband, who lived in Liguria for two years. We wish you peace as you negotiate this difficult time.
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