The Adjusted Normal, 32. A Driving Edge.

Finally, after battling on and off for the past five years, our daughter passed her driving test. 

She had the appointment yesterday morning at eight o'clock. She spent the night at a friend's apartment, rather than get up at an ungodly hour to catch the earliest bus available. 

The examiner in Spain sits kitty corner to the driver, while the driving school instructor sits in the front passenger seat. My daughter was nervous, and when she was told to set off, the car stalled. She had taken the foot off the clutch too soon. But she got underway, and followed the instructions. She took a curve in third gear instead of second, and then started off on the left side of a lane in a parking lot instead of the right. But it was a short drive that she was made to do, and she passed.

Not the kid who took his test after her, though. His nose almost got shaved off by a truck when he was incorporating onto a road. The instructor had to grab the wheel, and the examiner made him return to take off, where the kid was told he had failed. 

But my daughter was just told she had passed, and that was it. Later, when she got to thinking about it, she called the driving school and asked if she should have some type of receipt that said she had a driver's license. But the secretary she spoke to told her that the appropriate department within Tráfico of the Guardia Civil would send her by mail that receipt, and that it would take ten days. The actual license would follow later. And during the time she had to wait, she could not drive a car. That is absolutely weird. My husband got that receipt in hand when he passed his driving test, years ago. Perhaps it's a result of the devil virus, and that everything is backed up. I have no idea.

So, she has to wait at least ten days to be able to drive anywhere. Those ten days are vital to consolidating practice, but she has to wait. I suppose at some point, her father or I might take her to back lanes, and let her practice there, a bit. Tráfico doesn't usually go sniffing out offenders through the middle of villages, unless they are going directly after a particular one. 

Her odyssey of obtaining a license mirrors mine to some extent. I attended driver's ed classes after school in my sophomore year, when I was fifteen. My school had an agreement with a local driving school. First were the classes, to prepare us for the written exam. It was pretty easy to study, as most of it was simply logical. The exam itself was ten questions. To pass, I think you needed to get seven right. I got ten. That gave us a learner's permit, with which we could drive the driving school's cars, as well as any other car, just as long as there was an adult driver next to us whose license was at least five years old, and that it wasn't between midnight and six in the morning. 

I don't remember my very first driving lesson when I was sixteen, but I do have memories of biting back panic as the instructor made me go along streets that had been narrowed by construction. Inside, I was screaming, "It's too narrow! It's too narrow!" But I never scraped the paint off the car. The regular driving lessons I had after the ones paid for at the driving school, were with my father next to me in our car. They were hell. My father didn't have much patience. "Look out! You're too close to that car! Turn, turn, damn it! How can you be so stupid?"

The first problem I encountered in my odyssey, was that my first driving exam was denied me because I was a minor and one of my parents had forgotten to sign the paper I had to give the examiner. I let my driver's permit of a year expire.

A couple of years later, already a legal adult, I tried again. On exam day I was parked on the left side of a one way street. I edged the car just a touch to the right, without actually leaving the space, to be able to see better if anyone was coming. At that precise moment, a car drove past me. The examiner told me to park the car correctly and told me I had just failed. That afternoon when I got home, I tore up the driver's ed book and forswore ever getting a license.

But then my father got sick, and was operated on for stomach cancer. I realized I really did need a driver's license. So, I returned, and it became a priority when, upon my father's recuperation and my mother's upcoming retirement, my parents decided to sell the house and move back to Spain. 

But in late spring, everyone wants their license to enjoy the summer. There was no exam slot until the twenty-fifth of July, just five days before our flight to Spain. I took it, and did a couple of driving classes with a local school. 

The day of the exam, in the Brighton neighborhood of Boston, I was nervous and extra careful. Too careful. I waited to complete a three point turn in a quiet street to let a car that was way in the distance go by. Then, upon returning to the local Registry of Motor Vehicles, the examiner told me to park in a spot right in front. There was a fire hydrant, which I pointed out. The examiner insisted. I did so. He started to write up a form, looked up, and said in a cross voice, "You passed." By the skin of your teeth, he seemed to want to continue. I didn't care. I had my license! The instructor later told me that examiner had the nickname, Flunk 'em Freddie. I didn't doubt it.

With a paper the examiner gave me, the instructor and I drove to the main office of the Registry of Motor Vehicles, which then was on Charles Street; I don't know if it's still there now. There, unlike my daughter yesterday, I had my photo taken, signed the form that had been printed out, waited for it to be laminated, and then carried it home with me like a trophy. I still have it, and though the colors have faded, the silly grin on my face, redolent with glee that I had finally obtained my license, tells the triumphant story of that day.  

At least, our daughter has now put this rite of passage behind her, and hopefully, will become more adept at driving, and will drive well and safely for many, many years. 

Life continues.