As the sidewalk came to an end, my wife and I had a decision to make.

We were climbing a steep, winding road that cut along the Amalfi Coast in Italy, headed to an old Roman villa, perched on a bluff, whose surroundings had been turned into a popular swimming hole. (Subscribe to MR. RIGHT, a weekly newsletter about modern masculinity)

The road was dangerous. It was curvaceous on the turns and narrow in width. It was carved into a hillside, and on one shoulder was a jagged rock-face, and on the other, a crumbling wall over which was a five-story drop to a bottom you could not see. Whining Vespas, speeding Audis, and honking tour buses ripped up and down it, squeezing around tight turns like Formula One drivers.

For half of our journey to the swimming hole, we used the sidewalk. We felt safe and could actually enjoy the hike and its spectacular views.

But, alas, the sidewalk ended as soon as we got comfortable. We stopped before going any further. Should we turn back? Should we get an Uber or a taxi? Is it even worth it?

And here’s the thing about Italian drivers: they’re evil. They have a complete and utter and reckless disregard for pedestrian life, particularly tourist pedestrian life. The lines on the road? The stop signs? The yield signs? Mere . To cross a busy road during rush hour (and yes,  hour does happen in Italy, though not as frequently as in the United States), you have to throw the dice, step in front of a vehicle, and hope they see you. In other words, you have to be aggressive; otherwise, you’ll stand on the side of a road for what seems like an hour, looking like, well, a tourist. Don’t even bother throwing them a courtesy wave when you do cross; they don’t care. (RELATED: One Of America’s Greatest Qualities Is Also Her Most Unappreciated)

So we looked up the road, and back down the road, and then our decision was made for us. We saw a large group of tourists chugging along. At least 7 or 8 people, perhaps Americans like us, come to the end of the sidewalk, hitting the pavement courageously. , we thought, . Famous last words, of course. But for a brief second, I knew that they would inadvertently play a crucial role in our voyage to the Roman villa.

We would be able to handle the psychotic Italian motorists without our beloved safety buffer, after all. For we had a robust meat shield of tourists. A sturdy line of defense. If a car were going to plow into someone driving up the road, it was going to hit the big group first. They would bear the brunt of a Vespa, or, heaven forbid, a bus. Forget the sidewalk; these unassuming tourists were now our safety buffer.

Once we made it to the swimming hole, we stayed for less than an hour. We wore cheap, leaky snorkeling goggles and saw some dull, gray fish. We laid on sharp rocks that were not conducive to human bodies. It was spectacular.

The journey back was no less perilous. For starters, we did not have any meat shields. We had to brave the cars head-on, alone, without the aid of tourists as dumb as ourselves. We also made the incredibly stupid decision to hop up on top of the wall to avoid a sharp turn in the road that cars were taking rather tightly. I peered over the side of the wall, the second mistake, and saw nothing but air and branches all the way down. Great. We made the smart decision to get off the wall ASAP, and hoof it across the road, where the turn for drivers coming down was broader and would give them better visibility of us American tourists.

When we finally stepped foot on the sidewalk, our surging cortisol levels mellowed out. It was the greatest sense of relief we had ever felt. And when we sat down for a drink back in the town center, we felt not just relief but an overwhelming sense of gratitude and accomplishment for both of us having come away from the ordeal with literally just a scratch.