Have I told you the story about how I thought I was going to die in a Roman taxi?
If yes, I apologize but I’m going to tell it again anyway. It’s a good story that bears repeating. And it even has a point, in a manner of speaking.
It begins a few years ago, when Eric and I celebrated our fifteenth wedding anniversary by going to Italy without the children. I love to travel, but I wasn’t prepared for how un-America Italy was going to be. While the trip was beautiful and delicious and wonderful, we also spent the week driving around lost, looking for an appropriate bathroom, and trying to find a parking place that wouldn’t get us fined or towed.
So it was wonderful, but a wee bit stressful in the transportation department. When the week was almost over and it was time to turn in the rental car, I was a wreck. It wasn’t quite time to go home, though. We still had one night in Rome, but to get from the car rental office to the city we had to take a taxi.
Listen. I grew up in the sticks. There are no taxis where I’m from. There are barely buses. And my husband grew up in a small farming community that literally considered a tractor a viable transportation method when one needed to get to school.
So we were unprepared for Ricardo and his taxi.
Or, as we shall now refer to him– Reeecaaaaaaahhrrrdoooo. That’s how he said his own name all fifty times he answered his cell phones as he hurtled through traffic.
Did you catch that? Cell phoneS? As in the man had more than one phone?
Yes, yes he did. He had three of them, and two of them he answered over and over again while making notes on a clip board.
I was quite sure I was going straight to the bosom of Jesus from a Roman taxi, as this fool of an Italian man barely kept his hands on the wheel as he attended to his office duties from the front seat of a hunk of metal that must have been traveling about seventy miles an hour.
I wasn’t sure how my orphaned children were going to keep a straight face explaining my death in a flaming taxi/office with Reeecaaaaaaahhrrrdoooo at the helm. That was going to be awkward for them.
We didn’t die. You’ve probably assumed as much, but we made it just fine. Not even a little accident. The gentleman drove us to exactly the right spot and politely took our money and left us wobbly-legged on the sidewalk across from the location where Christians used to get eaten by lions.
All this added one more layer of glue to our marriage. Years later, all I have to say is “Reeecaaaaaaahhrrrdoooo” and Eric grins at me. The whole week was like that. We saw beautiful things, ate delicious meals, and walked on ancient streets. And somehow, our marriage was strengthened by the experience.
I don’t understand it, but apparently this is nothing new. It’s part of the concept of Steve Arterburn’s new book, The Mediterranean Love Plan (affiliate link). I joined the launch team for this book, and I’ve been stopping Eric for days to read bits and pieces out loud. The book’s basic premise is this– if you want a passionate, joyful marriage, you need to be two passionate, joyful people. No sitting silently on the sofa in beige sweatsuits while the blue boob tube flickers in your living room.
“If both of you are not proactive about passion, I can guarantee that one day you’ll be pulling up your Depends and wondering, ‘Where did we go wrong?'” ~The Mediterranean Love Plan
Encouraging the reader (hopefully that will be you!) to tune into their mate and then tune into the joy and beauty of the world, Arterburn has a better plan than growing old and boring in a beige, sexless marriage.
Eric and I are in! Are you? The book releases April 4, but you can preorder it and have it in your hot little hands as soon as it’s ready. I’ll be doing a few more blog posts on it, just because I have other dumb stories to tell and I think marriage is important enough for us to focus on for a while.
Until next week– Ciao, baby!