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One day, returning late to Hotel San Francisco from galivanting across the region we learned that this fellow and his wife had awaited us in the parking lot for hours, but had given up. He came back the next morning and -- not speaking a word of English --- communicated to Aunt Teresa that he had heard some American Imbrognos were in town, and that he was an Imbrogno, too. At one point, he got in my face, waving a finger at my nose, gesturing to my beard. I asked Teresa to translate. "He says he is a retired barber. And that the next time you come to Rende and you not tell him you are in town, he will sneak into your hotel room at night while you're sleeping and cut off your beard!"

Alas, I did not quite get the first name of this newfound relative, yet asked him to stand for a portrait. I love the pose he chose.

 

 

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