Blue: Sulmona, part IV

Whoa! Thought I had posted this a long time ago, but it was in my ‘drafts’ folder. Let me just finish this up and get it out there for you. Sorry about that.

All right, everyone. We’re now near the end of this tale. I don’t know if this is going to be the last part, or if I can stretch it out for another post, or what. In any event, though, this is exciting stuff, here.

When last we saw our hero, he had secured the assistance of about half of Old Sulmona in his quest for Vico Mozzo, and had at last found a set of directions that showed great promise. We now find him and his invaluable (albeit disappointingly named) guide, Mike, sauntering boldly the pavement (all right, cobblestones) — focussed, determined. His only enemy? That destroyer, Time. The 20h10 departure, inarguable and unforgiving, looms, determining his gait and infiltrating his thoughts.
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As it turns out, my initial suspicions of the nosehair cop were well-founded. He had pointed me in just about the opposite direction of where I needed to go. Then again, he had also inadvertently led me to Mike, who was now making my search a lot more fun. So I can’t be too mad. Plus he’s got all those nose hairs, so I feel bad about that. It’s not all bad for him, though, I’m sure. He probably is well-protected from airborne diseases by his many cilia. That’s got to count for something.

It was about 19h20 when we got the directions from the policemen in the car, which gave me 50 minutes until I had to be on the train — or, more precisely, 50 minutes until the train would depart. I figured I ought to give myself five minutes of leeway and aim for a 20h05 arrival at the station. Mike had mentioned, when I told him what time my train was, that he would drive me to the station, and I hoped he was intending to make good on that promise. That would give me time, I thought to stop quickly at a deli (or whatever they call them in Italy, “delicatessen” being a Jewish word, of course) and get some fixins for a couple of nice sandwiches on the way back. I could treat Mike to some provolone, to thank him for all his help.

We headed down Piazza Garibaldi, behind the old church and into the heart of old Sulmona. This was classic small-town Italy, as I had hoped it would be: thin, thin cobblestoned streets, flowers on every terrace. The only people in sight were stooped old ladies, clutching each other as they walked, or, if you looked up, men with proud bellies, in tank-top undershirts or nothing, surveying their block — tiny, but theirs. We (all right, Mike) asked a pair of women about Vico Mozzo. I’m not actually exactly sure what they said. I think they just kind of waved in the direction we were going. Maybe they said it was one of the small streets of this one. Or off of a street that was off of this one. Or maybe they didn’t know where it was, and in fact hadn’t ever heard of it. When I tell this story to other people, I’ll hace to decide what they did. Their not knowing the street would maybe heighten the tension, but it might be a little repetitive adter so many people answered me that way. Although that part of the story was a while ago. Perhaps the reader will be ready for more setbacks. [note: if that last bit was a little too meta for you, I apologize. I told you I was going to give you  deep insights into my thoughts, and so there you have it.]

We turned the corner and began to search the streets for Vico Mozzo. This was it. We had enlisted the help of the finest minds Sulmona had to offer (along with some of the lesser-developed minds), and this was where we stood. We had about a half an hour to find the house, see what was good with the current owners (no time for the welcome-to-your-hometown-long-lost-great-great-grand-nephew dinner I had been secretly hoping for all day. Maybe they would give me some prosciutto to take home. And cheese. Maybe there would be cheese as well), and get to the car (assuming ten minutes of travel time, which was generous, that would get me there exactly on time). We turned up the first small street, no bigger than an alley (I wish I’d remembered the names of the other streets, purely for storytelling purposes. [Maybe I can look them up on Google maps! No. That would compromise the integrity of the story.]. At the end of this street was an unmarked street that really could not be called a street. I would hesitate even to call it an alley, it was so small. If you consider the alley-sized streets to be actual streets, this “street” was like an alley to those. I hope that makes sense.

Anyway, this tiny, tiny, tiny street seemed to be where Mike’s instructions (or, rather, the instructions given to Mike) were leading us. He looked at me like he thought it was the one, but then he checked and it was not, in fact, Vico Mozzo. Et another setback. But we had only just begun to explore this new part of town, and the information seemed to come from a reliable source (a policeman on his mobile phone!). Meanwhile, though, I was still awfully hungry (actually, I’m really hungry now. It’s 10h45 and the last thing I ate was half a sandwich about 13 hours ago. Got two apples in a bag up above but they’re so loud to eat. Plus what do I do with the cores? I’ll look for a plastic bag. Ah, that’s right, they came in one. Nice. [note: that little internal dialogue took place while I was finishing writing the Sulmona story on the train from Paris to Madrid on 7 September 2009. It is in fact 02h00 on 21 October 2009 right now, and, interestingly enough, I am pretty hungry.]) and I was starting to resign myself to the fact that I might have to settle for butter and jam on a roll to tide me over on the three-hour ride home.

[A moment of thought. So far, we have seen our hero find great adventure in Sulmona, though only partial success. How would we define his journey if it were to end here, falling short of his final goal? Was the search reward enough for his troubles? Meeting new people, engaging the townsfolk, admiring premature nosehair growth… is this enough? Or must he also find the elusive Vico Mozzo in order to feel true fulfillment? What if you were in his position? Would you be satisfied knowing that you gave it your best shot, even if you didn’t complete the mission? I wonder.]

We continued down the street just behind the church, searching the smaller side streets for signs of Vico Mozzo. We came across an old woman (where are the youth of this town?! (besides old Partybeer. Old Partybeer. Old sport.)) who took an interest in our quest, taking us back a couple blocks (I’m using the term “block” to mean “space between two parallel streets.” In New York City, that’s about a twentieth of a mile. In Sulmona, it was maybe twenty feet.) to a small, unmarked street where she began speaking to a man who was standing on his second-floor terrace. I noticed the house across from his was number seven. I hoped he knew what was good.

He did.

Mike nodded at the house I was looking at, number seven. That’s it?, I asked. It was. This was Vico Mozzo, 7, Sulmona, where my grandfather’s father, whose name my father now carries, was born. The search was over. We had succeeded. And it was 19h45, so there was still plenty of time for me to make my train. And maybe grab some grub, too.

But the mission was not yet complete. We had to talk (a couple of train employees just came around giving out jelly beans. They tasted great. I’m still really, really hungry. Probably even more so, now. [note: I’m still really hungry over here in real time, too.]) to the current occupants. The man on the terrace said that the woman who lived in the house was at church (of course she was), so after taking some pictures we headed down via Fiume (even further from the train station ) to find some Letteris.

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