A Margin of Terror
By Dave MeurerI took my wife, Dale, to Europe last fall to celebrate 25 years of wedded bliss, but by the time we were in the thick of Roman traffic I was wishing we had gone someplace safer, like Chernobyl. Sure, the radiation might fry your internal organs into little fast-food chicken nuggets and your hair could fall out in clumps the size of poodles, but at least you won't be run over by a Vespa that is taking a shortcut through your hotel lobby.
Our absolute worst transportation-related episode occurred when, in an ill-advised attempt to avoid a $50 cab fare, I talked my wife into taking a municipal bus on a sightseeing jaunt to the top of the Island of Capri.
"The bus is practically empty," I whispered to Dale. "It will be almost like a limo ride, only cheaper."
She frowned.
"Well, maybe a limo with hard seats and no air conditioning and vast quantities of gum stuck on the floor," she replied.
"Think of it as cultural ambiance, my love," I said.
Regrettably, I did not realize on that particular island the concept of scheduled bus stops had not quite made it into the transportation planning process. Any time any person anywhere waved down the bus driver, he let them on. This seemed quaint and even charming until about the 15th stop, when it became alarmingly clear that the driver felt a moral obligation to leave no Italian behind.
There were at least 40 passengers crammed into a bus designed for 20, and still the driver kept stopping to allow yet another batch of people to mash themselves into the groaning crowd. We could not have been any closer if we were Siamese twins. When we reached the top of the hill, Dale and I did our best to enjoy the breathtaking views and scenic charm of the little town, but in the back of my mind I kept wondering how we could possibly endure the return trip back down the hill. But it was far too long to walk.
"Maybe if we tuck ourselves into balls and roll, we can make pretty good time," I mused.
Alas, Dale was not in an acrobatic mood. So we stood in line back at the bus stop and watched as the driver invited the numeric equivalent of downtown Manhattan into his van. To visualize the trip back down the mountain, imagine yourself on a single-lane road bordered by a sheer rock wall on one side and a cliff that drops almost vertically to the sea on the other. And although it is a single-lane road, it is used by two-way traffic.
As another van approached ours, our driver slowed to a sloth's pace, pulled in his mirrors, sucked in his breath, made the sign of the cross, closed his eyes and invoked the aid of angels as the two vehicles passed with about three hydrogen molecules of space between them. He seemed genuinely surprised when he opened his eyes and found that we were still alive.
When we got back home to Cali-fornia I had a new appreciation for the substantial safety margins built into our roads and highways. But the whole experience did more than make me grateful for the transportation guidelines of home. It got me thinking about margins, not just on the road, but in our lives as well.
Guys, we need a safety margin. We need it for our dating life, our married life and our thought life.
So build it in.
If I can use an Italian metaphor here—you don't want the Vespa of your heart caught between the passing vans of temptation, thereby smashing you into the thinly rolled spaghetti of regret. Simply put, it's better to have a margin of safety than a margin of terror. Capeesh? NM
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