The Jaguar had a broad snout, just the way I liked it. A Jaguar F-Type. The look of a bullfighter. Lunging, dashing, charging forth. Not a classic Riviera White or Amalfi Red, but Midnight Blue, with jangling brakes that keep the brute force of this jungle cat on the road. We didn’t know any blue Jaguar movies we could imagine ourselves in, so we had to be our own movie. Driving this car along this coast was like teaching foreplay to a newly sexually mature bull. They were the most beautiful roads in the world, but like everything beautiful, complicated. Spaghetti thrown into the landscape. A mountain on the left, the stone wall on the right, then cliffs, sea and death. Side mirrors clipped each other in passing, but the Jaguar made room. Some cars crept around the bend, others had dark windshields, if you met the bus, you had to back up, all the way to the next village, but the villages themselves clung to the slopes with all their might. The cafes came so close to the road we could take people’s drinks from their tables. You aren’t allowed to drive drunk, but you need a drink after every drive. They were inaccessible places, with nowhere to park. We asked the Italians if they made the little things in life more dramatic on purpose, and they said yes. They said if we didn’t like it, we should keep going south. We would have to stop in places that you really only drive through. Villages that no one knows the names of. They warned us to take breaks along the way, because each destination would only be the gateway to the next.