The single-lane highway weaves between the crevices of the green mountain, bringing us further  and further towards its base. My cousin, at the wheel, never lets the car dip below 120 km/h, even on roads that could send us flying off the mountainside with one unfortunately placed rock. Steering with only one hand, he puts on a pair of sunglasses and runs his fingers through the curls on his head, letting out a sigh. We haven’t spoken much since I arrived. 

“So you, ah… you like Italy, yes?” He pauses to think between each word. 

“Yes, I like a lot,” I respond clumsily, in Italian. “But I see only small city. I do not see big city yet.” 

“Ah, so you haven’t been to Rome yet?” he asks. 

“I see Rome when I leave the airplane, but then I get on another airplane and I come here.” 

My cousin’s town is at the top of the mountain, hidden away from the rest of the world. Leaving it, if only for a couple hours, feels like a tethered spacewalk. 

“Toronto is a big city,” I state. “I really like the big city.” 

“Yeah, me too. I’ll come visit America eventually.” 

“It is not America, it is Canada!” I mime punching his arm. He smiles and pushes his sunglasses higher on the bridge of nose. 

He tries to speak my language again. “I like de music in English, you know?”

“Oh, nice! What kinda music d’you like?” 

“Ah, rap,” he says, rolling the R and punctuating the P. 

He brings a hand to his phone, which is clipped onto the vent. His eyes flick between the device and the road stretching out before us, now a flatter terrain. The sun’s rays glint off the windows. 

He taps his phone, and I hear a faint bassline from the car speakers. He cranks a knob on the radio, and the beat grows. 

Barely missing a beat, my cousin raps along with the artist. I catch words here and there, like brothers, keys, remember, and game, but it’s in Italian and I can’t make out the rest. I’m impressed nonetheless. 

The song finishes, and he sings along to the next one too. I bounce with the bass as I watch the wall of trees thin out to reveal green hills. 

He takes a deep breath and swipes his hand across his brow with a flourish as the song finishes. I offer a round of applause. 

“Very good, yes!” 

He thinks for a moment. “What, ah, music you like?” 

“I like all the music! All the things!” I smile, putting both of my hands in the air and waving them about. “I really like all the music that is more fast and strong.” 

“You like rap?” he asks.

“Yes! A small bit of rap is good. I find one for you?” 

“Yeah, go for it!” 

We take turns rapping to songs in our languages. Luckily, because of the language barrier, he doesn’t notice my many stutters and stumbles. 

The song finishes, and the phone plays the next song in the queue. It isn’t rap: rather, it’s a more familiar English pop tune. I laugh. 

My cousin glances at me for a moment. “You know this one?” 

“Yes, I know this!” I start singing along. After looking at me incredulously for a moment, disregarding the road, he starts singing too. I snap my fingers in time and he taps his fingers on the wheel, both hands engaged in the dance and the drive. 

We speed further and further down the mountainside, singing song after song. The lush green land gives way to a sandy coast. Little houses and buildings dot the sand. The ocean shimmers below us, joining the cloudless sky.