I just remembered that I have some swell pictures for you from Sulmona. Perhaps I should have included them in the original posts. Perhaps not. Perhaps we should all be thankful for what we have.

Here’s a little view of a small part of Piazza Garibaldi. Note the Roman aqueduct.

Further aqueduct glory

The Piazza Garibaldi, and the mountains.

A couple.

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.

What do we have today? A nice selection from Valencia, plus a bonus photo of an extraordinary stack of pancakes that I made. You’ll enjoy all of it, I’m sure.

You must understand that this is a beach. People swim here, you see. It’s still 33 degrees Centigrade here, you see.

I designed these buildings last year. Nice to see my work come to fruition.

A boardwalk in October.

More of my architectural genius. This photo shall also serve as an introduction to my dude Obi.

It’s hard for me to even look at this photo. Pancakes are such beautiful things. Heartbreaking.

Know that the current cheese count is at 16 different types. And that’s after I had to throw out the requesón, on which had grown a bit too much mold for my comfort. I went into Poncelet (I know I’ve been lax in my Web logging because I have yet to mention Poncelet, the magnificent quesería which I have visited thrice in the past eight days.) today and bought two cheeses without even trying them first, because I was in a big old hurry. It’s called an addiction. A full cheese rundown is to come — patience, friends. I also have more pictures to share with all of you! You know what, here are a couple now, as a quick token of my appreciation.

The one with the pots is from the place we stopped on the way to Valencia

The one with the little guy is from Valencia itself.

A brownie that I made

This one’s a photo of a bunch of IES kids walking toward the castle we stopped at for desayuno on the way to Valencia. It’s called “The Loathsome Horde.”

A building

This could also be called a building, I suppose

On the Danish-cookies front, I finished my tin and am now seriously regretting not having bought another one the other day. This is the last time my room shall be without Danish butter cookies. Of this I am certain. I’m also running low on Nutella, but that situation is not yet urgent. Fortunately, I am in possession of a 500g emergency supply of 74% cacao dark chocolate. This is called a security blanket.

Glad you asked. I’m going to go ahead and give you my original recipe, just because I feel sporting this evening, and I don’t want to do my homework.

Macarrones de moda

Ingredients:
Pasta (I used penne)
Bacon (obviously)
Asparagus, chopped
Olive Oil
Onion, chopped finely
Green pepper, chopped somewhat less finely
Pear tomato (not sure if that’s the English translation, but it’s a little tomato, a bit larger than a plum) — get rid of the seeds and the gross stuff on the inside. Ugh.
Garlic, chopped finely
Requesón cheese (or ricotta, I guess)
Blue cheese (or Gorgonzola, if you want)
Heavy cream
Milk
Spices (I used a secret blend that I’ll never tell you, and also salt and pepper)

First you’ve gotta put some water in a pot — but not too much! Only put just enough to cover the amount of pasta you’re making. This is important, as you will later learn. Put a buncha salt in the water and get it to boiling.

Put some bacon in a room-temperature pan and then cook at really low heat until it’s done. Don’t undercook the bacon. Burning the bacon is also not recommended. Put it on some paper towels, obviously — what, have you never made bacon before?

Put the asparagus in the pan, and use the bacon fat to cook them up a little bit. That’s the ticket.

Did you forget about the pasta or what? The water’s probably boiling by now, I expect. Go ahead and cook the pasta, hey.

So now you’ve got the asparagus going. It’ll probably be done soon. It is? Okay, put it with the bacon, I guess. There shouldn’t be any bacon fat left, so put some more olive oil in the pan. C’mon, a little more. Oh, now that’s way too much. Put some in another skillet for later. All right.

When the oil’s hot, put in the onions. Cook them, but not all the way, duh. Put in the peppers. Do you need more oil? Well, that’s what the extra oil in the other skillet is for, so don’t be shy.

You should probably throw in the tomatoes, too. Heck, put the garlic in, too. There it is.

Careful with that pasta, now. If you overcook it, I’ll never forgive you.

What about the requesón? Glad you asked. You can do this at any point (I usually do it while the bacon is cooking, actually), so don’t sweat it. Put some requesón and bleu cheese in a bowl with a little bit of heavy cream and maybe a splash of milk, and smoosh it all together until everything is evenly distributed. Put in some spices, now. And mix it all again!

If all the stuff in the pan is done cooking, put the cheese mixture in there and mix it thoroughly, warming the cheese.

All right, that pasta is definitely done by now. Drain it, and make sure to retain the pasta water. Toss the pasta back in the pot, then throw in the cheese mixture, the asparagus, and the bacon (you should rip the bacon into smallish pieces before you put it in the pasta.

So know you’ve got a nice little pasta game going on — but wait, there’s an additional step (that phrase could use some improvement)! Remember that pasta water? Yeaaaah. Now you’ve got it. It’s awfully strong, this pasta water. Because you only used a little bit of water for all that pasta! Pour some of that starchy goodness into the pasta bowl, until the sauce becomes nice and creamy, just the way you like it. Then grate a bunch of Parmigiano-Reggiano and/or Pecorino Romano and enjoy with some nice crusty bread, a glass of wine, and the satisfaction of having put aside, if only for a little while, the crushing despair of your miserable loneliness.

I hope you didn’t forget to turn off the burners on the stove.

At the conclusion of the previous chapter, our hero found himself in a most disheartening position: only an hour to go, and an older gentleman who at first appeared to be a potentially excellent guide has been stumped by the mysterious Vico Mozzo. Let us know see what becomes of this man, and what becomes of our hero.
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My hopes were dashed. If I wanted to have even a chance of making the 20h10 train, I had about 45 minutes of walking around aimlessly in search of Vico Mozzo. And with old nosehair’s directions proving false again, I didn’t even have a neighborhood in which to focus my efforts.

But this man wasn’t the type to disappoint a needy tourist on a noble mission. His interest was piqued by the baffling Vico Mozzo, and he walked with me to speak with the women who had sent me his way. They reached the general consensus that this was a great mystery of old Sulmona. We weren’t about to leave it at that, though, and we set off walking. As it turned out, this guy’s cousin was a Letteri, and he thought she might be able to help us out. Conveniently enough, she lived right down the street.

He rang the buzzer and then looked at the terrace. Sulmona is that kind of town, where women come out to their well-flowered terrace to see who’s at the door. But not this time; no one was home. She’s probably at church, my new guide told me. Sulmona is also that kind of town, where every woman over 70 years of age is in church at ten past seven on a Wednesday evening.

And here’s where things started to get a little surreal. We ran into a young man and woman about my age, maybe a bit younger. And this guy had a tee shirt on with just about the most bizarre English phrases printed on it. “Partybeer.” “Fucking Power.” “Get Away From Me.” “Sleep With Me Tonight.” I wish I could remember them all exactly. Of course the two youngsters didn’t know anything about any Vico Mozzo; I didn’t expect much from a guy whose shirt read “Partybeer” (one word).

So we headed into town and I finally asked my companion (who was by now at least as determined as I to find this antique alley) what his name was. His answer deepened my conviction that I had entered another world, one where young policemen had nose hair to rival (and even best!) my 75-year-old barber, and the phrase “Partybeer” was an acceptable, even trendy, thing to have displayed on your chest and not one person in the whole goddamn town could tell me with any sort of accuracy where Vico Mozzo was. Yes, my new best friend’s name was… Mike. My Italian guide, maker of artisanal instruments, known throughout Sulmona, greeting and being greeted by everyone we met, was named Mike, just like at least a tenth of the people I know at Fordham (and I’m including females in the percentage, here). What a letdown. As it happened, Mike wasn’t as Sulmona-to-the-core as I’d expected. He was born there, yes, but he had lived in Venezuela for about a decade and Detroit for twice that. Detroit! How unexpected. No matter, though, because he was doing his damndest to help me, and he spoke English, to boot. We set off on the main road back toward Piazza Garibaldi, and as we passed the clothing store I had stopped in earlier, I had an idea. Mike could translate the nosehair cop’s directions for me! Old bushy schnozz seemed to know what he was talking about, so with his help we’d be sure to find the house. I asked Mike to hold on a second while I tried to find the woman who had helped me before.

I found a woman, at least. She was dressed just like the one I’d spoken with, and they were both very tan with dark, straight hair. I knew this was a different woman, but I asked for her help, anyway. Though I’m sure she understood almost nothing of what I said, she did recognize me (‘course she did!) and realized that I was looking for the woman who had helped me before. She went and got her from a nearby store.
After talking with Mike for a minute, she realized that the Constable of the Hirsute Nostrils hadn’t had a clue what he was talking about, and decided to seek counsel of a higher authority. Luckily, there was a car going past just then with some officials. It stopped for us — or, more accurately, for the helpful saleswoman, who was something of a looker, if a bit past her prime (just giving you the whole truth, here). And there I was, the instigator of a search expedition that had snowballed from one man’s lonely journey to an entire town’s (Wow, there’s some hyperbole for you. Free hyperbole! Who needs hyperbole! Free hyperbole kittens! We’re giving ‘em away!) determined pursuit. The cop in the passenger seat pulled out a mobile phone. Radioing for backup! Well, not really. That wouldn’t even have been necessary. But he wa (with the car smack in the middle of the street and people starting to stare) calling someone for help, and after a brief conversation…
“English boy!” he said to me in an exaggerated British accent. He also asked me ¿entiende español? after someone (I think it was the saleswoman; I had managed to communicate that to her when we were going to see the hairy-nosed cop) mentioned that I was going to be studying in Madrid, but he didn’t take it any further after I said Sí. He explained his findings to Mie and it seemed that a new course had been set, drawn from greater authority and with greater accuracy than the previous one. The crowd dispersed and the policemen drove on, leaving Mike and me once more to our quest.

Well, it wasn’t quite just Mike and me. A dog had been following us, I realized, since at least when we’d spoken to the “Partybeer” guy. We made an odd, but strangely fitting, team as we headed south of Piazza Garibaldi – far from where we had been searching earlier.

I walked from Via Corfinio back towards Piazza Garibaldi and headed toward the area previously indicated by the policeman as the home of Vico Mozzo. After the success I had had asking the jeweler for directions. I decided to pull the same routine again. Surely someone working in the area would know where to find Vico Mozzo. It was getting too late for me to have time for a proper dinner, so I began to scout out delis and panetterias. They seemed to be everywhere, and the beautiful hanging hams provided additional incentive for me to finish my quest.

I decided to stop in a clothing store to ask for directions. I chose a clothing store for several reasons. One, I figured someone in there would probably know English, since they were a younger staff than many of the other stores (not that youth necessarily indicates Anglophonic capabilities, as the nose-hair-heavy policeman proved), and with a fairly high-end collection of merchandise (well, I noticed Lacoste, at least) I imagined they might cater to such tourists as there may be in Sulmona. The second reason was that clothing stores are always well air-conditioned, and it was awfully hot. After climbing all around the hils of Sulmona, cantering up and down every five-foot-wide, cobblestoned street, with a backpack on over my undershirt and long-sleeved shirt (the old trusty white linen shirt, freshly laundered that morning (finally!)[note: more on the white linen shirt in later posts]), I was hoping for a quick cooldown in the deep a.c., listening intently to the detailed instructions precisely dictated to me by a beautiful saleswoman in an infinitely alluring Italian accent. Which brings me to the last reason I chose a clothing store: women work there. And women love me. Imagine a swarthy American with beautiful brown locks and a hardened determination in his eye (not to mention a classic white linen shirt!) came into your shop on a slow Wednesday evening needing your help on a mission, a mission he had come thousands of miles to fulfill. You’d swoon.

Well, the place was nice and cool, and the staff were indeed all women, but unfortunately none of them spoke English (or Spanish, or French; I always made a point to let them know I wasn’t just another monolingual American).

The women at the store were very nice, though, and one of them offered to accompany me on my hunt. I was glad to have a personal guide at last, but disappointed when she saw a police car and headed towards it to ask for directions. It was the same nose-hair champion who had been such little help before. I tried to tell the woman that I’d already spoken to him, but that communication effort was doomed from the start. No doubt the nose hair man was none too pleased to see my mug again, and he repeated many of the same gestures and gesticulations as before. I tried to communicate that I’d already found Via Corfinio, but it was rough going. He seemed to understand, though, that I was now intent on finding Vico Mozzo, and he spoke with the saleswoman for a few moments. Together, they tried to indicate to me where they thought it was. Up the street (back towards the clothing store, so at least I’d been going in the right direction) and to the right.

Okay. Now we’ve got some good, solid (if troublingly vague) directions. I felt good about what was happening. I felt like things were coming together. I felt the power of the community on my side, welcoming the newcomer and working jointly to help him. I felt my stomach rumble and thought of cheese and meat and bread.

I walked up the road pointed out by the nose hair champ and, checking out each tiny side street as I went, certain each time that the next one would be Vico Mozzo and the search would at last be done. There seemed to be delis everywhere, advertising salame di casa and other meats, along with endless formaggi. Mozzarella di bufala for €13/kg! I began to debate which meat I ought to choose for my delicious victory sandwich.

Then I reached an intersection that seemed to mark the end of old Sulmona. The streets were now paved, and advertisements replaced handmade signs as the dominant visual presence along the road. There was no way the house my great-grandfather was born in was in this part of town, but I kept walking, checking another two streets in vain. I stopped an older woman and asked for help. She’d never heard of Vico Mozzo, and suggested that it was probably “una via vecchia vecchia.” Of course she was right; I must have missed it on my way. I headed back into Sulmona vecchia.

Since Vico Mozzo wasn’t one of the streets directly off of the main thoroughfare through the old town, I figured it must at least be in the area. I turned left and entered the neighborhood. Time to find an old, knowledgeable person.

The first white hair I saw was under the hat of a short man who was speaking to a middle-aged man wearing sunglasses. Not wanting to interrupt their conversation with a pitiful entreat in my woeful Italian, I continued past, noticing as I did the shop in front of which they were speaking. In it, guitars and mandolins hung, some finished, some not. What a cool shop, I thought, and as I continued walking I noticed that many houses seemed also to be workshops – here beautiful, painted ceramics, there string instruments. I wondered one again how anyone would want to leave this place.

Soon enough, I ran into (not literally!) a couple of young Sulmonans on bicycles. “Como ti chiami?” they asked. I could answer that, but didn’t understand much else. I walked in the direction they were going and came upon several women, two of them older, grandmothers, I’d guess (though still spry, as grandmothers go!), and one who seemed to be in her thirties and was presumably the boys’ mother. I sought their help and they were stumped. As the boys played, the women discussed the mysterious Vico Mozzo in rapid Italian, gesturing as wildly as you would expect Italian women to do, pausing only momentarily (and missing not a beat) to scold the children. They suggested I talk to the man in the hat whom I had seen in front of the instrument shop. “Conosce tutto,” they told me, so I decided I would just have to interrupt his conversation. My time in Sulmona was growing short.

“Perdoname, signore, dove é Vico Mozzo?” I asked, pointing at the document Papa had given me. The other man asked, in Italian, what language I spoke. Inglese, I replied. Then speak to him that way, he said (still in Italian).

Could this short, white-haired man, the quintessential Italian townsperson, be the first I would meet who speaks English? I did as the sunglasses man asked and inquired of the mandolin-maker whether he could tell me where Vico Mozzo was. He looked at the paper and thought about it. And he didn’t know. The man who “conosce tutto” about Sulmona didn’t know the street. My train back to Roma – the last train of the day – was to leave in an hour, and my last great hope in finding Vico Mozzo, number seven – he spoke English, for crying out loud! – seemed to be extinguished in an instant.

Uh, just read that paragraph, and I meant I’ll have to buy the ice cream, not an ice cream maker. I don’t think I was very clear about that.

Also, found a supermarket where Danish butter cookies are only 2.09 euros for a 500g tin. I’m thinking I might want some variety in my next cookie purchase, though. Actually, I’m going to make some chocolate cookies soon, now that I found some kind of fake vanilla extract that’s not even the normal imitation stuff. Nowhere has the real deal.. It’s tragic. I’d make my own, but it takes six months. Made the pizza dough today, but then I went grocery shopping and I just got back and I don’t feel like making a pizza now. I’ll probably just eat cheese and chocolate until I cry. Then go to the discoteca, only to stare mournfully at the bright lights until the metro opens back up, at which point I’ll walk home anyway because I won’t want to spend the one euro for a ticket. Then I’ll make the pizza for breakfast and eat it in my bed, finally falling asleep at around eight a.m. with the lights on and Joni Mitchell’s Blue whispering on repeat from my pathetic laptop speakers. Then I’ll wake up and do it all over again.

Also, I found a place that had croissants that looked good, so I tried one. The taste was not too bad — lots of butter — but the flakiness was so minimal I cried. It was hard for me to take.