I am in a taxi being driven by a man with a deathwish. We are doing 75 mph on a treacherous beach cliff. The driver keeps glancing at my wife and me in the rear view mirror, smiling, speaking semi automatic-fire Italian.
We have no idea what he’s saying, but he keeps giving us the “okay” sign.
We don’t know how to respond, and we don’t want to be rude, so we flash him “okay” signs in return. Which is a mistake, we discover. Because “okay” signs only make him drive faster.
Currently, we are motoring along on the island of Capri, which is nestled in the Gulf of Napoli, about nine nautical miles from the Middle of The Entire Ocean. All four horizons are nothing but gulf. We are a long way from civilization.
Below our cab is the Tyrrhenian Sea. Above us, limestone crags called “sea stacks” which all look like mountains growing out of the water.
The streets on Capri are impossibly narrow. Barely big enough for a single
car. And yet these single-lane highways are crowded with homicidal taxi drivers and transfer trucks who refuse to share the road.
Whenever buses come barreling down the mountain at us, our driver plays a game of chicken with each oncoming vehicle while keeping one finger on the wheel and hurling insults out the window about the motorist’s mother.
Meantime, we in the backseat close our eyes, grip the overhead safety bars, and swear like commercial equipment operators.
Our car has already sideswiped two vehicles and four guardrails. We just grazed another tour bus with a loud crunch as I am writing this. My wife and I are immediately tossed around in the backseat like marbles in a Folgers can. Our backpacks go flying. Our phones are airborne.
The driver flashes us the “okay” sign.
And because we descend from polite, soft spoken American fundamentalists who do not know…