The First 90 Days in Italy: A Survival Guide for the Newly Arrived (a.k.a. How Not to Lose Your Mind or Get Deported)
- Caesar Sedek
- Sep 1
- 4 min read
Picture this: your plane wheels screech against the tarmac at Malpensa. The flight attendants are still yelling at everyone to sit the hell down, but half the plane is already on its feet, rummaging for bags like a rugby scrum. You’ve got your entire life compressed into two suitcases, a half-sedated dog in cargo, and the sinking realization that the hard part wasn’t the visa, wasn’t the packing, wasn’t even telling your in-laws you’re moving to Italy.
The hard part starts now.
Because while Instagram will tell you the first 90 days in Italy are a blur of spritzes at sunset and charming strolls through cobbled alleys, reality has a different plan. Your first three months are bureaucratic dodgeball, paperwork marathons, and trying not to melt down in front of a Questura clerk who insists you’re missing photocopy #47 of your passport.
This post is your unvarnished, brutally clear, week-by-week guide to surviving those first 90 days. Share it with every wide-eyed dreamer who thinks moving to Italy is just renting a Tuscan villa and sipping Chianti. This is the real shit.
Week 1: Welcome to Dante’s 10th Circle
Step 1: File for your Permesso di Soggiorno.
You have eight working days to start this process. That’s not a guideline. That’s the law. You’ll head to the local post office, where you’ll stand in a line that moves slower than continental drift. Ask for the kit giallo (the yellow packet). Fill it out. Carefully. Attach copies of everything— passport, visa, lease, insurance, proof you’re not destitute, blood type, firstborn child—ok, maybe not the last two, but it feels like it. If you were paying attention - you will have all of this from your Consulate appointment packet. I told you before - make copies before you land. Looking for Kinko's in Italy isn't as easy as you may think! Pay the fee, get a receipt, guard that receipt like it’s the One Ring. That receipt is you proof of legality until you get your Permesso.
Step 2: Get a SIM card.
Italian WiFi will betray you. You need data on your phone immediately. TIM, Vodafone, Iliad— they all work, just pick one and get connected. Otherwise, you’ll be the idiot standing outside a Questura with no way to download your appointment confirmation.
Step 3: Grocery stores and the colpo d’aria.
Buy groceries, discover cashiers don’t bag them for you, and learn quickly about colpo d’aria, the Italian belief that a draft will kill you. Don’t laugh — your landlord will tape-shut your windows before bed.
Weeks 2–4: The Paper Chase
Questura Biometrics Appointment.
They’ll summon you. You’ll bring your entire paper life. They’ll scan your fingerprints. They’ll look at you like you just crawled out of a swamp. You’ll walk out wondering if you passed some invisible test.
Register Residenza at the Comune.
With your permesso receipt in hand, go to the Comune to register where you live. Show lease, ID, proof of permesso. Then—plot twist—someone will actually come to your house to check if you live there. If you've ever had cable in the U.S. - you know the drill. They'll come sometime between 12-noon and 45 days from now. Yes, a city official or local police will ring your doorbell like a nosy neighbor to make sure you aren’t squatting in a gelateria. If they miss you - they won't tell you. You'll just have to ask them to come again.
Utilities and banking.
This is where the Italian concept of “mañana” or "piano piano" (except slower) comes into play. Bank accounts require Codice Fiscale + permesso receipt. Utilities? Prepare for Kafka. The guy who turns on your gas may or may not show up. Keep your lease and Codice Fiscale handy for every conversation.
Months 2–3: Settling In (Sort Of)
Permesso approval (fingers crossed).
If the Questura gods smile on you, your permesso will be ready. If not, you wait. And wait. And maybe wait some more.
Apply for Carta d’Identità.
Once your residenza is confirmed, you can get your Italian ID card. Congratulations—you exist. This is your golden ticket to everything else.
Tessera Sanitaria (health card).
With permesso + residenza, you can finally sign up for healthcare. Get your medico di base (family doctor). Learn that some doctors take only phone calls between 7:00–7:07 AM on Tuesdays. It’s a game. You’ll adapt.
Caesar’s Survival Tips
Photocopy everything. Then photocopy the photocopy. Italians love paper like Americans love Costco.
Charm offensive. A smile, a “Buongiorno,” and a few phrases in Italian will grease wheels faster than any bribe. If you've managed to make your own tomato sauce, jam or better yet, limoncello, bringing it to the Questura will not hurt.
Don’t argue about drafts. Just nod and close the damn window.
Receipts are sacred. Never, ever throw away an official-looking slip of paper. Guard it with you life - take a picture of it and cherish it like it's your grandson's 1st grade drawing.
The Bottom Line
Your first 90 days in Italy aren’t about “living la dolce vita.” They’re about surviving bureaucracy, adapting to rhythms, and getting yourself legit on paper so you can actually enjoy the spritzes and piazzas.
But here’s the payoff: once you’ve made it through this bureaucratic hazing ritual, the country opens up. Suddenly, you’re not just a tourist with a visa. You’re part of the fabric. You can walk into your local bar, order a caffè, and know you belong.
And if you’re staring at this thinking, “Jesus, that’s a lot,”—you’re right. It is. But you don’t have to figure it out blind. This is the kind of detail I walk people through in coaching sessions and scouting trip planning. If you want me in your corner (instead of just an angry Questura clerk), set up a consult through my services page.
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