I have entered the Italian driver's licence netherworld. I don't know how I will emerge, or what condition I will be in when I do. If I do.
I was told by my expat friends in Rome that getting an Italian driver's licence is akin to unravelling a Gordian Knot. Everyone has a different story, ranging from the amusing to the horrific. Everyone tries to game the system. I know people who have lived here for a decade or more who have found, or claimed to have found, devious ways to get around the rule that residents, whether foreign or Italian, must have Italian licences.
Being the all-Canadian boy scout, I would play it straight.
My first idea was to swap my Canadian licence for an Italian one. I went to the local driving school – “Scuola Guida” – a storefront that does more than just fling you into a Fiat and nudge you into murderous traffic while your instructor smokes and prays. It also arranges the paperwork for car, motorcycle and boating licences. It has a classroom where driving “theory” is taught. The place is cluttered with car posters and engines, their innards exposed. In Italy, you are expected to have a basic knowledge of how a car moves forward and how to change a tire. Good idea, actually.
I handed Pietro (the name has been changed to protect the guilty) my Ontario driver's licence. Nice try, he said. Canada has provincial licences. You can't trade a lowly provincial licence – mutton dressed as sheep, apparently – for a national licence.
That left me with two options: The full driving course or attempting to swap my entirely valid, empire pink, U.K. licence for an Italian one. The former filled me with dread. I would have to attend night theory classes. I would have to write exams and take driving lessons.
My mother, who was born in Italy, went through this in Rome some 35 years ago. I am not making this up: She got yelled at when she had the audacity to stop at a red light when no other cars were around. The whole process would take a couple of months and drain €500 from my pocket. Plus I would probably fail the test. My friends say foreigners routinely flunk first time around. I opted for the U.K. licence swap.
Pietro said the U.K. swap should work and told me I needed three photos and a medical certificate. No problem, I said; I needed to see my doctor anyway. No, said Pietro, you have to use our doctor. Come back on Tuesday night.
That was last night. After filling out several forms, and watching Pietro stamp this and that for about 15 minutes, I was ushered in to see the “doctor,” who looked suspiciously like a driving instructor. He asked how I was feeling. Fine, I said. He checked off a bunch of boxes on the medical form. That was it. Next came the eye test. He told me to remove my glasses and read the chart. I couldn't make out anything but the biggest letter. Well you can't drive, he said. But I wear glasses, I explained. So try with your glasses, he replied. That worked a charm. He urged me never to drive without my glasses. I told him that wouldn't be a problem.
Home free? Not quite. More paperwork was to come. I gave Pietro my U.K. licence. He looked like he was handed a dead fish. The licence says I was born in Canada. The Italian application form demands the city or town of birth as well as the country. Vancouver is where I was born, I said. But Vancouver doesn't appear on the U.K. licence, he said; you have to send it back and tell the Brits to stamp “Vancouver” on it. I said all U.K. licences are the same – none shows the city of birth, just the country. The omission baffled him. He would send off the forms but could not guarantee they would pass muster at the big office.
You have to realize that none of this was confrontational. Losing your temper with Italian bureaucracy is futile at best, fatal at worst. I in fact was quite enjoying the cultural experience and the thrill of not knowing when I would hit the next regulatory tripwire. Pietro seemed amused too. He wanted to practice his English.
At that point I realized he liked me. When I paid the hefty €140 fee, he handed me back a few euros. That wasn't the change. He just felt like giving me a break on the price. There was no receipt, of course. I should find out within a couple of weeks whether the swap works. I am trying to psych myself up for driving school. I am terrified.

