Signorina in Sheffield

Then you grow up and you apply it to real life.

I woke up this morning after a four-hour sleep and I am running a temperature of 39.

I am running a temperature of 39 and I am leaving in two days for New York City.

I am running a temperature of 39, I am leaving in two days for New York City and my passport needs an extra stamp in order to leave. 

I am running a temperature of 39, I am leaving in two days for New York City, my passport needs an extra stamp in order to leave and therefore I have to go all the way to Manchester to get it.

I was ready to go. Then I remembered that in Italy we have an extra tax for the passport, something we have to pay every year in order to make it valid.

We have a super-valid passport this way, in your face, Britons! And of course, I had not paid it over the last year.

If I were in Italy, I would have simply gone to a tabaccheria to buy the stamp to glue to the passport.

But I am in England and I leave in two days, where can I find it?

I arrive at Piccadilly station and run at 111 Piccadilly Square, the address of the consulate according to google.

It is a consulate, but a big sign and a big red and white flag recite: Polish Consulate.

I try to check out the other buildings in the square but nothing; there are at least 4 pizzerias though, which giving the situation I found quite annoying.

Eventually I ask for information at a conference hall reception.

They tell me the consulate is two blocks away, on the corner with Portland Street. I run there. It’s the Portuguese consulate.

I ask to the Portuguese receptionist and he sends me in the direction I came from, in front of the Polish Consulate.

I go back to the first address. In front of the building there is the most stereotypical English pub I have ever seen. Hardly the Italian consulate.

Determined not to cry over bureaucracy, I step into the Polish building.

Maybe I’m still on time to get a Polish passport, I think.

In a world where Sarah Palin ran for vice President, anything is possible.

I enter the door under the big “Polish Consulate” sign and I look at the list of the floors.

Actually, on the 10^th floor, near a Tesco Express accountant office, here it is: il Consolato Italiano! Finalmente!

I go to the reception and ask to go upstairs.

The doorman hands me over a card on which I have to write my name.

No documents, no signature. Just my name. I could be Bin Laden complaining for a corked Barbera and no one would ever notice.

Anyway, I make my way to the 10^th floor and ask for the stamp.

The employ hardly speaks any Italian: he is from Rome.

Half an hour and a long explanation later, I am free to run for the station cash machine - because they don’t accept credit card… but I can pay my tax and get my stamp!

They even homage me with a free copy of the Italian Constitution.

And so with my stamp, my Visa, my electronic passport, my credit card checking and my declaration forms I am ready for the land of freedom.

Unless someone at the customs think I have swine flu, of course...