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Sun is searing my face, which is warped in agony. Sweat drops of a size of cranberries are slowly making their way down on my red and white lobster burned skin, as Im grabbing to the cars safety belt. "What about the blinkers? Didn't you see the speed limit? WOW that moped barely passed us.." My thoughts are traveling as fast as the car I am sitting in. Me, a rigid Nordic person, who is raised by the law-abiding, red light stopping and prudish Scandinavian system, is now sitting in a taxi in Naples, Italy. The saying "fish on a dry land" sinks in as heavy as the drivers ankle on the gas pedal, as he zigzags between the traffic. Driver, Giuseppe, has his other hand out of the window, as he is waving it passionately and I am pretty sure it works as an extra part of the car. Almost everyone that I see, also has at least one or two hands sticking and swinging out, as if they are misplaced windshield wipers. Giuseppe's right hand - that one that was holding on to the wheel, releases and starts to move down to his pocket. At this point, my brain starts singing old Viking death accepting chants. This is it - Valhalla, I am ready for you. I close my eyes, as I am now humming and counting the seconds to our crash. Suddenly, I feel the smell of cigar. As I open my eyes carefully, Giuseppe's hand is now back on the wheel and he is laughing so much that his belly is jumping up and down. As he is laughing, our eyes glance at the mirror and he points at me and mimics wiping sweat from his forehead. He thinks it's hilarious, how much I am sweating in the backseat and the sheer horror in my eyes cracks him up more than anything else that day. All I can focus on at this point though, is the intensely wiggling cigar between his lips and how some how he is able to hold it there, while chuckling that much. I guess Valhalla has to wait for a little while longer, since the first time in a long while Giuseppe's foot releases the gas and the car finally stops. My body thinks we are still moving, as if you have been on the treadmill for too long. My shaky, white knuckled hands are searching for the money to give to Giuseppe. He thanks and grins "You like Italy, ehh? Nice ride, ehh?" What else could I, non-confronting, overly polite Nordic citizen say than "Yes. Thank you, it was nice." As Giuseppe hits the pedal again and waves for goodbye, I was sure, that this was just a small preview, of all the crazy and eccentric moments in Italy I am about to experience.