Who said it would be easy?
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Now, you knew it couldn’t be simple, right? I mean, picking up cat food is a “thing” now, so our deciding to go to Spello and use that as our travel base for a year, rather than trying to make a year-around-the-world happen, was obviously not going to be as easy as hitting up American Airlines to rebook our cancelled flight.
Even with a pandemic, though, I didn’t think it was going to be this hard. I guess I didn’t factor in how poorly the United States would work with the few solid things we know about the virus, namely how it spreads. To me, and maybe this is a radical opinion, but this doesn’t even feel that tricky. All you really have to do is look at countries that have gotten the virus under control and those that haven’t and see who is “winning” to borrow a term (hint: it’s not us). It’s called, learning from others. Sheesh. Sometimes American exceptionalism just really gets my goat.
In any case, rumors started rippling through the travel world that when the EU opened their doors on July 1st, the United States may well not be on the list of approved countries. Arg! And at the same time…I get that. I’m not sure I’d want us either. United States of Hot Zones.
Scanning Facebook one morning, I noticed that an American friend of mine posted a photo from Spello. I sat up straight with my mouth hanging open. How had she gotten in? Susan happily walked me through the process, which was different because she got an elective residency visa back when consulates were still open, so she had the necessary paperwork to prove she had a right to be there. She told me she has heard stories of Americans being refused entrance, though she really didn’t believe that would happen to me, as the wife of an Italian citizen.
I trotted out that factoid to Keith and it must have been before his spritz because he made a sound like a furnace turning off and said, “I’m not risking my wife being sent back on the back of an opinion.”
But I’m the one at risk! I’m willing to risk it! Me! Who runs anxious pretty much full time!
The state of our porch, lest you think I’m kidding.
He was not to be moved. Then again, it must be said that though the demands of getting the house ready for rental are more manageable this time around than eight years ago, there is still a heaping ton of work to do—rebuild the porch that had apparently been resting on a rusty nail, refinish the stairwell, etc etc. Then the air conditioner chose this convenient time to cut out. So my husband who does all the things himself has been finding himself with a lot on his shoulders. It would make one unwilling to entertain notions that end with a member of the family being sent packing. I’m sure he had all sorts of images of me, forlorn and looking over my shoulder as an agent roughly turned me away from the border, to call goodbye to my family that had swanned through the EU passport holders line.
I heard from several of you that actually, families with different passports are expected to stay together, so I’d be with them in the EU line and that relaxed his shoulders a little. Sensing my moment, I leaped in with, “You know the EU, it’s different than here. They believe in families sticking together. They won’t let you in and kick me out.”
Keith grumbled and hitched up his tool belt. But something I said must have sank in, or maybe the concrete pouring went well, because later that day when I flopped dramatically across a chair and said, “I just want one windfall moment. One stroke of luck. My French citizenship coming through, winning the lottery, you know…” I gestured to the living room where our 21-year-old son Nicolas sipped a negroni while playing gin rummy with his girlfriend.
Keith knew what I meant. Nicolas has been looking for a job in NYC for over a month now (the pandemic threw a monkey wrench into the end of his college senior year and the job hunting that goes with it) and it’s really hard to imagine leaving him with no job and no apartment. Particularly since he’ll be in charge of the family cat. She is not much taken with the notion of being homeless and turns up her nose at packaged ramen (joking a bit on that last one, since we’ll be covering all expenses for the cat, and it’s fairly certain that Nicolas and his girlfriend will have found an apartment by August…but he does need a job to pay for said apartment.). A job offer, that would be a windfall. Better than the lottery.
Keith turned to say, “Well, I’m not sure this counts as a windfall, but I do have good news…” He fanned a handful of papers from the printer and told me that he’d read the actual decree and gotten some hard information. Creative problem solving! You love to see it! Did not even occur to me, with all my combing depressing and sensationalist articles, to go to the source.
And that source said, definitively, that EU citizens and their families could enter Italy. He added that the first Italian decree, set up when Italy shut down as the pandemic was gnashing its teeth over the country, said that Italian citizens and their families could only enter Italy to return home (which would be difficult for us to prove, even if we have a lease and it feels like home in our heart), but the later one specified not just Italians and not just coming home.
Definitely good news, verging on a windfall.
The question was, with the EU set to make a new decree on June 30th, would that change? We knew that Americans were almost certainly going to be exempt from the welcome mat the EU was rolling out to countries with a better COVID track record, but would that translate to this nuance in the language? That is, would EU citizens—or Italian citizens—and their spouses still be welcome?
We held our breath and crossed our fingers. Or I did, anyway, Keith has no time for such superstitious frippery when there are floorboards to lay.
June 30th found us both refreshing websites that would announce the change of regulations. Finally it appeared, and tears leaped into my eyes in relief. American are indeed restricted, with the following exemption: “EU citizens and their family members.”
Hallelujah!
It took only another day or two for the Italian Embassy website to update with the following language:
“From July 1, travel to Italy by the following persons will be allowed:
EU citizens;
foreign nationals residing in an EU Member State;
household members of EU citizens and foreign nationals residing in an EU Member States (household members include spouse, civil or cohabiting partner, dependent children aged below 21 years and other dependent household members);
foreign nationals residing in Algeria, Australia, Canada, Georgia, Japan, Montenegro, Morocco, New Zealand, Rwanda, Serbia, Republic of Korea, Thailand, Tunisia, Uruguay.”
The family with their golden tickets, thank goodness they got them back in 2019!
Anyone else notice how Italy is defining family, here? I mean, talk about your inclusionary language. It’s downright heartwarming.
So, we’re set, right? Easy street and smooth sailing and all that?
Oh, my child.
Would it were so simple.
Because I’m hearing story after story about Americans being turned away at ticket counters, even when their spouses are dual citizens. And even if they make it through, being delayed in Rome because border agents question them for hours. Why would this be? The rules are so clear!
My best guess is that the intricacies that now define entering foreign countries are only understood to many in their broadest brushstrokes. “Americans are not allowed!” That’s what they hear so that’s what they know. I guess not every ticket agent will do the deep dive into the vagaries of the code enough to root out signal from noise.
I sent an email to the airline to ask about their policy and got back a sternly worded form letter that snarked that it was up to passengers to understand the immigration rules in their arrival country.
We’re going to ask the consulate for a letter saying that our situation fits the decree and therefore I’m permitted to enter Italy (which the consulate does know, we’ve been in contact with them and they assured us that getting my residency via Keith’s citizenship will be no problem at all, since they were able to easily locate the fact that our marriage was registered in Spello).
Where once I ran optimistic, that’s been, I hate to say, beaten out of me to some degree, so I’m not convinced we’ll get anything more than a vague email that doesn’t answer our question (or, more likely. no response at all). So we’ll bring copies of the decrees, with relevant language highlighted. And the web address so airline personnel can see it themselves in case they suspect us of forging materials. And we’ll bring some good ol’ American tenacity until we talk to someone who can see that I am, by all accounts, permitted entrance.
Now, if I’m let in, no, let me use intentionally positive language here, when I’m let in, we’ll have to quarantine for two weeks (and we have the paperwork to fill out to that effect, printed and ready). And I’m so so SO glad. If the quarantine was optional, or even if we’d arrived from a country that doesn’t require a two week quarantine on landing, we’d do it. I want to make sure when we see our friends in Spello, they welcome us with open, if socially-distanced, arms. I shiver at the thought of our dear little village viewing us as plague bearers.
Swallows over the Chiona Valley in Spello
But also… the thought of two weeks where we can’t leave the house, where there is no wood to hammer or concrete to pour, where I can sit with Keith and look out at the Chiona valley with smiles playing about our lips as we sip Sagrantino while watching the swallows roam and soar; with no hurdles to imagine and no obstacles to flex for, well…it’s just what the plague doctor ordered.
Quarantine in Spello.
Sounds like bliss.
Now we just need a flight. One that won’t get cancelled. Particularly since we’re considering leaving from New York, allowing us to settle Nicolas and the cat into their hypothetical apartment before leaving them in the big city. A cancelled flight means hanging around New York and exhausting our bank account on the wrong side of the Atlantic.
Sigh.
Enough dreaming.
Back to work.
