The four of us pile into the tiny car. Though I’m small, I am also lanky and twisting myself into a position to enter the car requires some of my most complicated yoga background. We speed off, race-car style, though we’re not in a hurry. And even if we were, no one would care, considering that we’re now on Italian-Time. Then, I notice I’m the only one wearing a seatbelt. The three of them enter off into a loud and animated conversation. As I stare off into the darkness of the Italian countryside, I notice that the lack of seat belts signals the cars dinging, alarming us. But then I realize it’s only alarming me, as no one else seems to notice. I spend the next 40 minutes white-knuckling my seat, and daydreaming about my funeral, which seems like an inevitable result of this car ride. I jestingly bring up the fact that Luca’s brother, Marco, seems to be paying no mind to the lanes. He replies,
“We’re all artists in Italy. We make our own way.”
Great. And when this car flies off the road they will probably fly gracefully into the air, land gently on their feet, dust off their impeccable outfits and go grab an espresso. While I will be strapped ridiculously to this tiny car, and the police will regretfully find out that my underwear don’t match my bra.