When the sidewalk was finished, my wife and I decided to make a decision.
We were climbing a steep, winding path cut along the Amalfi coast of Italy. (Subscribe to Mr. Right, a weekly newsletter on modern masculinity)
The road was dangerous. It was curved and narrowed in the turn. It was carved on a hillside, with one shoulder with a jagged rock face and the other a collapsed wall that could not fall to the bottom of the five-storey building. I whined, speeded up the Audi, squealed the tour bus and ripped up and down, squeezed around tight turns like a Formula One driver.
We used the sidewalk for half of our trip to the swimming hall. We felt safe and were able to actually enjoy the hike and its spectacular views.
But, alas, the sidewalk was finished as soon as we were comfortable. It stopped before proceeding. Should I turn back? Should I get an Uber or a taxi? Is it even worth it?
And here’s what it’s about Italian drivers: they’re evil. They are completely, completely and recklessly ignoring pedestrian life, especially tourists’ pedestrian life. Lines on the road? Stop sign? Yield label? mere suggestion. Crossing busy roads during rush hour (and yes, Hurry Time occurs in Italy, but not as often as in the US, but you can throw dice, step into the front of the car and hope they meet you. In other words, you have to be aggressive. Otherwise you will stand on the side of the road for what looks like an hour and look like a tourist. Don’t even bother throwing polite waves at them when you cross. They don’t care. (Related: One of America’s biggest qualities is also her least-recognized)
So we looked up the road and walked the road, then our decision was made. We saw a large group of tourists wandering together. At least seven or eight Americans, perhaps us, came at the end of the sidewalk and bravely smacked the pavement. Understoodwe thought, If they’re doing it, that means we can do it. That means we’re okay. Of course, the last famous word. But for a moment I knew they would inadvertently play an important role in their voyage to Roman villas.
After all, we can handle mentally ill Italian drivers without a beloved safety buffer. Because we had a robust meat shield for tourists. A sturdy defense line. If the car was going to plow someone driving the road, it would first hit a large group. They either took the brunt of Vespa, or Heaven forbidden buses. Forget the sidewalk. These modest tourists were our safety buffer.
It took less than an hour to reach the swimming hole. Wearing cheap, leaky snorkeling goggles, I saw the dull gray fish. We lay on a sharp rock that did not promote the human body. It was spectacular.
The trip back was dangerous. First of all, there was no flesh shield. We had to get the courage to the car head on our own, without the help of tourists as stupid as ourselves. I also made the very stupid decision to jump up on the wall to avoid sharp turns on the roads where the car is taking quite firmly. I peered into the second mistake, the side of the wall, looking at the air and the branches all the way. wonderful. We made the wise decision to get off the wall as quickly as possible and cleaned it over the road. There, the turn that the driver comes off is wider, giving better visibility for American tourists.
When we finally stepped into the sidewalk, our surge in cortisol levels became mellow. That was the biggest sense of security we’ve ever felt. And as we returned to the town centre and sat for a drink, we felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude and achievement not just for the relief, but for both of us, who were literally away from the trials with just a wound.
