For weeks I attempted to compensate for that lost tripod bolt. The one sucked into the vacuum just before my departure. There was the prolonged search for a replacement bolt beginning in Ghent. There was some hope in Bologna. At least the sales clerk knew what was needed and sent me to the better equipped partner store. Alas, bolts fit only for Italian makes. I am now dealing with that French/Italian thing again. I’m in Italy, the tripod is French and the French do things differently. Even, apparently, to the point of threading their bolts in a different gauge. Who would have thought?

Meanwhile, a fellow photographer has joined me eager to do a little night shooting. My accommodating exchanger has offered his tripod. Of course, my nifty grip head doesn’t fit so I am dealing with a totally foreign tripod but I make do for the evening. Sadly, nothing spectacular, only modest success from the experience, but the effort was made.

The following weekend entails a return trip to wonderful little Ceppato and another sagra sotto le stelle and a visit with Piero. If anyone can find a bolt, he is the one. The search almost becomes an obsession. Still, there is not an Italian bolt on earth that will fit that tripod. Finally, I am finished with the search. Enough is enough. Any night scenes will be blurred or I will just fix them in my memory. Not a bad thing.

In the final days of my summer adventure, Zurich is scheduled. The night photographer friend lives in Zurich. She has found a place where we are certain to find the perfect bolt. A successful search is no longer important to me. There is little time left and I am, frankly, bored with the search. Reluctantly, I agree to try. Just one more time.

Success! She’s right. The bolt is longish but the threads seem to work. Ah, Switzerland, that neutral country that tries to accommodate all.

Home with the new bolt. It goes through the disk. It fits into the head. Now for the tripod. The bolt won’t screw into the hole. It isn’t deep enough. The bolt is too long. Or is it? No, there is something in the hole. A bolt. The missing bolt. In the tripod hole. Not in the vacuum. With me all the time. Who thought to look down into the hole? How did it get down there? How do we get it out? Two types of tweezers and needle nose pliers will not extract the bolt. Unscrewing the top only lengthens the center pole. It’s stuck. Until I finally realize that one has to continue twisting and the very top eventually comes off and the bolt is dumped out onto the table. It appears to be laughing.

One last evening, tripod in hand, bolt properly placed, we document both the use of the tripod and night in Zurich. Mission accomplished.

So what was that kerthunk? What was swooped into the vacuum? A coin? A different, less important bolt? It is a great relief to know that I won’t have to search through the filth of my vacuum for the bolt and I’m not curious enough about other possibilities to delve into the muck. But I now know that a logical assumption is not necessarily a logical answer. Two and two do not always end up being a bolt.