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 how to express personal preference, we smile and flash “okay” signs back. We could be bleeding and dying in the ditch and we would still be gesturing “A-Okay” to the Italian EMTs.

Truthfully, I did not expect to die after only my fourth day in Italy, because we’ve had a nice time here thus far.

You can tell we’ve had a fun time, because even though we have been walking upwards of eight miles every day, I have somehow gained approximately 23 pounds. Namely, because everywhere you go in Italy, including the DMV, they give you a bottle of wine.

Giving complimentary wine is a long-standing tradition with Italians. They cannot greet you without shoving a bottle at you or feeding you mass amounts of carbohydrates. And you, as a kindhearted American, who never missed a day of Sunday school, who knows all the verses to “Blessed Assurance,” who always gives to PBS fundraising drives, must accept.

Yesterday for example, after a big lunch, consisting of pasta with a side of pasta, I was walking past crowds of street vendors when I decided to sit on a bench and rest. No sooner had I sat down than an elderly woman approached me, sat beside me and started offering me chocolate.

“No, grazie,” I kept saying. “I just ate lunch.”

“Chocolate,” she said.

“No, grazie.”

She touched her lips. “Chocolate.”

She kept insisting. I kept refusing. Whereupon the woman began placing the chocolates directly into my mouth.

And I had no choice but to eat them, one by one. After which, she led me by the hand into a nearby store where we exchanged intimate credit card information. And for a brief moment, I think I understand how Adam felt.

But that’s all in the past now. Because this cab driver is trying to kill us. I have accepted it as part of my fate to die in the land of the Romans. I would be worried about it. But frankly I’ve had too much wine to care.