It's taken me a while to finish the tale of bureaucratic headache that started up a few months ago. It was mostly resolved (fingers crossed!) back in June but it has taken me a few months for the shame to die down enough for me to be able to write about it.
Things you should know about opening a bank account in Italy
1) You need an identity card.
2) To get an identity card you need residency.
3) To get residency you need a job with a proper contract and an application process that lasts over six months.
4) You need a piece of paper stamped by your previous bank to prove your identity if you have never opened an account before. (Illogical? Very! And my previous bank wouldn't help me out either).
5) To get the identity card or residency you need to get to the registry office.
6) To get to the registry office you need to use the metro.
7) To use the metro I needed my metro pass to accept my top up.
It wouldn't. It was starting to feel like a "for want of a horse-shoe nail" moment, but fortunately it wasn't, as I was able to get both my identity card and a new metro pass within one week. The unexpected speed of over coming these difficulties probably went to my head because I approached the last hurdle, hurdle number 4, with an uncharacteristic can-do confidence.
I took the metro with my lovely new responsive and modern looking metro pass up to the city centre and quickly found the road and the bank. I went inside.
Odd. Very odd. There was no reception, nobody around. I wondered down a few corridors but saw no workers except a couple of people in suits on telephones. Eventually a found a nice lady who helped me "I need to finish opening my bank account," I told her, "I started it on line, but I couldn't prove my identity, can you help me?"
"Sorry madam, this is the bank for businesses. You need to go to the branch for private banking."
Oops! (or Opps! as they say here) She told me where to go and I very nearly complained that they had the wrong address on their website but it was all a bit awkward so I didn't, because most fools would have spotted that they were in the wrong place before wandering around all the corridors. My morale was still quite high though.
I went around the corner to another square and there sure enough was the bank: big new offices, prime real estate and very orange decor. I was directed to a ticket machine so I took my number and waited my turn.
It was mega slow. The manager kept shouting to get things moving but it was at least 40 minutes I waited in line. First impressions were not good. I started to seep morale.
Finally my turn came and I sat down and handed my documents over and explained the situation again. She dutifully typed my details into the computer but nothing came up. She looked bewildered and I started to bleed morale more quickly.
We tried different combinations but nothing worked. Morale was gushing out of me like a waterfall. I couldn't bear the idea of starting all over again. She turned over my papers.
"Ahhhhhh," she said, "but this isn't THAT bank. We are THIS bank."
Long and awkward pause.
I appologised and started to feel myself go a bit red for rubbing my not wanting to open a bank account with them in their faces so wantonly.
"Don't worry," she smiled, "it happens all the time."
"It doesn't though, does it?" I hastily tried to stuff my papers that had exploded all over her desk into my handbag.
"No, it doesn't." She admitted cheerfully.
I got out of there quickly and fifteen minutes later I had a bank account. I went back to the first road and looked right instead of left and saw that there was another very orange bank. They were extremely friendly and efficient and I haven't been back since.
Long may it stay that way.