Urs and the old man chatted, gestured wildly, and laughed, while David, Gudrun, and I waited quietly on the sidelines. As abruptly as he had arrived, the elderly Italian returned to his car and drove away. David and I looked to Urs for an explanation. We expected him to confirm our Google-aided findings, but it seems our deciphering abilities were as deficient as my pronunciation skills.
As Urs explained, while I was yelling, "THIS IS NOT OUR CAR" in a language that hardly resembled the old guy's native tongue, he was trying to tell me that I reminded him of his wife when he first fell in love with her. While I was screaming, "OUR FRIENDS DROPPED US OFF AND WILL RETURN SOON," he was telling me a story about his German friend who lives up the street and has a pretty wife, but that his friend's wife is not nearly as beautiful as his. Apparently, the old man had also told us a story about his youth, when he and some friends hid three deserting German soldiers in a basement for three months, supplying them with news, food, and water. And when I was pleading our case for making a personal film, the smiling gentleman was speaking of my hair, and how his wife, despite her mature years, still has long, dark locks. While chatting with Urs, the man had added, "and her tits are still up to here," making one of the many wild gestures followed by laughter that I had watched without comprehension.
When Urs finished relating the information, David and I -- two thieves driven to apprehension by our guilt -- exchanged embarrassed glances. We had assumed the man wanted to complain about our actions and shoo us on our shameful way. But in reality, even after he learned we could not understand him, the archaic gent just wanted to borrow the ears of two foreign travelers who happened to catch his eye and regale us with his life's stories.