From 1992 to 1997, my address was 39 Via Piante, Aviano, Italy. Via Piante was a narrow street with houses lining both sides, in a very rural area of northern Italy, the Friuli region, a place filled with vineyards that produced the most wonderful tasting wines. Like most streets in Italy, the houses along Via Piante were two stories high and sat right on the edge of each side of the street, no curbs, no sidewalks, just houses and street. Number 39 was no different.
From the outside, number 39 was, like the neighboring houses, not much to look at. The outside walls were white stucco, though no longer white having withstood years of damaging weather and exhaust from passing vehicles. The windows were adorned with well worn, three-inch thick wood shutters that actually closed and latched, undoubtedly designed for providing security against an attack from the Huns to the North. There was not a door into the house from the street, rather two large wood barn doors that stood each ten feet in height, five feet in length, and like the shutters, three inches thick. The rustic doors opened into a vast courtyard with a very old, majestic tree standing in the corner, providing ample shade in the daytime. The walls of the house were made of stone, expertly placed by skilled artisans who had learned their trade from their fathers, who learned it from their fathers before them. The large stones were held together with mortar, placed just so as to make a wall three feet thick, keeping the place cool in the hot summer months and frigid in the freezing winter months.
Number 39 Via Piante was well over a hundred years old.
Just inside the entrance door of the house was a small foyer from which a vine grew out of a hole cut in the floor and through the thick outside wall back out into the courtyard wrapping itself around a wire run for just that purpose. The vine produced beautiful wide, green leaves in the spring and large bunches of deep purple grapes that were picked each summer and made into a delicious red fragola wine ready for drinking by late fall.
Number 39 Via Piante was tucked away at the base of the Dolomite Mountains in the sleepy little town of Aviano.
I recall the first time I met him; I was in my little kitchen throwing together the ingredients for my Sunday supper when I heard a knock on the street side window. Apprehensively I approached the window and pushed open the wood shutters to find an older, dark skinned gentleman, with thick black eyebrows and a thick black mustache, seemingly of Arabic descent, dressed in his Sunday best, though they seemed to be a little worn and tattered, standing tall and dignified.
“Bon giorno,” he said. “May I speak with the lady of the house Sir (translated from Italian)?”
Being the polite American that I was, I replied, “Bon giorno, I’m afraid that there is not a woman of the house (these were my pre-lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook days), only me. Can I help you (again translated from my version of Italian)?”
Hesitating momentarily, he pulled a large, bulky duffel bag from his shoulder and began emptying the contents, laying several items on my kitchen window sill.
“Do you need a kitchen towel, a table cloth, a dust mop, a genuine Moroccan trinket?” he offered.
Realizing that this older gentleman was a traveling salesman, living in Italy and probably trying to make enough money to send home to family, undoubtedly working for a “boss man,” I decided to go ahead and buy a kitchen towel for twice the asking price and certainly five times the worth.
That was the first Sunday of many that I found myself spending a few minutes at my kitchen window exchanging pleasantries with my own personal traveling salesman from Morocco. I never quite understood his name, he called himself what sounded like “brujang,” so I resigned to calling him “Mr. Bo Jangles.” After amassing dozens of dish towels, I stopped buying the over priced items and started just slipping him a few bucks, figuring he could still sell the merchandise elsewhere.
We’d usually talk for several minutes, our mastery of the Italian language each improving over time, and I learned that he was indeed from Morocco where he had left his wife and two children, hoping to make enough money in Italy to return one day financially secure. He seemed to miss his family.
“Hook, you have cigarette?” Mr. Bo Jangles asked one day.
“Yes, would you like one?” I replied.
He accepted a Marlboro and a light and seemed to enjoy his smoke. I always kept a carton of Marlboros in my glove box just in case I was pulled over by Italy’s elite Carabinieri. I found that they were much more pleasant during their interrogations if smoking an American cig, and if I let them keep the pack, well let’s just say that I was not cited once in my five years living in Italy.
“Thank you Hook, this is good cigarette. American?” he asked.
“Yes, would you like to keep the pack Mr. Bo Jangles?” I offered.
He stared at me with a look of unbelievable appreciation and nodded repeatedly thanking me for such an offer. He gave me a free pair of socks and wished many blessings upon me and my family and any children that I might someday have.
I was the only American living on Via Piante, while many of my fellow servicemembers and their families lived in the surrounding community as there was very little housing on the base. At about the same time that I had met Mr. Bo Jangles, there was a rash of break-ins, targeting primarily homes occupied by American military and I remember thinking it somewhat remarkable that I, a single soldier, rarely at home, had not fallen victim to the thieves.
After a couple of years of Sunday afternoons with Mr. Bo Jangles, providing him cigarettes, talking over a glass of beer, and buying the occasional Moroccan trinket, on an October Sunday, he refused my offers.
“No?” I asked curiously.
“No, I cannot have beer or tobacco for Ramadan,” he explained.
I told him that I understood and slipped him a few bucks instead.
He shook my hand and said that he would not return for many months as he was going to make a Hajj to Mecca and hoped to see his family along the way. He explained how he had saved enough money to catch the train south to Sicily, then a boat to Tunisia, and then on to Morrocco by bus before making his pilgrimage to Mecca.
“Good for you Mr. Bo Jangles,” I said sincerely while shaking his hand, “have a safe trip.”
“Thank you Hook, thank you for all, you make my Hajj possible with your many generosities,” he struggled to say, squeezing my hand tightly and tearing up slightly.
I never saw Mr. Bo Jangles again and often wondered how his trip had fared. I did see the occasional Moroccan salesman walk down Via Piante, a large, bulky duffel bag draped across his shoulder, but wondered why not one ever stopped at number 39. I later discovered from a savvy Italian friend of mine, that outside and just below my kitchen window, was a unique, barely discernable mark on the not so white stucco wall, most likely placed there by a traveling salesman. The mark was sort of a code meant to ward off all other salesmen and would be thieves, where other homes might be marked to indicate them to be a good place to rob. Mr. Bo Jangles had long ago marked my house as one to leave alone. I always felt as if I owed him one after learning what he had one, then maybe he felt the same way about me.
If you should happen to run into Mr. Bo Jangles, tell him Hook says “hi,” and “thanks.” Sgt Hook out.
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