Swimming with the fishes

20 March, 14

Susan and I just took our written driving tests. If we pass, we take the practical test next. Spain has the reputation for the hardest exam and the worst drivers in Europe. I can vouch for both.

In a delicious irony, we drove our own car to the exam, taking two other students with us. The owner of the autoescuela drove three other students in his car. Evidently he just recently retired as a Formula One driver. We broke every single law that we had been so diligently studying for the past several weeks. He drove like a moonshiner with a Texas bubble gum machine hot on his tail. We darted in and out traffic, ran red lights, skirted around buses and basically gave the bird to Spanish law. By the time we got to the test site, we didn't care a wit about the exam. We just wanted to take a knee and give thanks for God's provision in letting us survive.

I have decided that driving in Spain is more akin to a school of fish. The scooters are like anchovies. They dart in and out with reckless abandon, with no obvious recognition of the other fish in the area. Cars are groupers or mullet, plodding along, keeping a wary eye out for barracuda.

The buses are whales that suck up huge loads of plankton at every stop. Now that I have this image in my mind, it doesn't bother me as much when a little anchovy goes darting by. There is a not-so-small piece of my heart, though, that is secretly waiting for a shark to come along and gobble up one of them. It's awful, I know, but that's the way of the sea.

The exam is 30 questions, out of a pool of about 4,000. That is not an exaggeration. We have memorized the whole freaking book, all 16 chapters. I can tell you about every road sign, light ordinance and right of way in Spain. I know where cattle should walk, alone or in groups. I know the difference between ciclomotores and motociclistas. I have a complete understanding for what constitutes a motorized vehicle and what is a non-motorized vehicle. Scooters and trains are non-motorized vehicles. Go figure that one out.

We have digested this great body of knowledge with 8-10 other students, all gathered around our teacher, Mercedes, who does not have a driver's license. She is passionate about her work and a good teacher. When she speaks, it sounds like a machine gun. Even the natives have trouble understanding her sometimes. By her own admission, she is also dyslexic, so she has to maintain a steady focus on what she is doing, or she gets lost.

Our fellow students are mostly young, 18-25 years old. When we started school, they all appeared to me to be a bunch of snotty-nosed brats, who would rather cut up or hook up than listen to the teacher. We slowly grew, however, into a family. Dani gave me a big bear hug after the exam. He was so amped up, he could barely walk. Before the test, the girls all had expressions of fear and doubt, so we tried to soothe their worried minds.

Susan is stick-a-fork-in-me done with the whole thing. Going to school has wrung her dry, because she doesn't have an opportunity to decompress. We literally go from language school to lunch to autoescuela. It is a grueling day. What makes it harder is that she can't go to her art classes, which have been such a nice getaway for Susan. This is the last week of class, however, so she should be able to get some peace.

The positive side is that we have a deeper understanding for what our girls face everyday.  This whole immersion learning thing is a bear. I am so proud of what Elizabeth and Katherine have accomplished so far. They can both speak and read a fair amount of Spanish.

One day, all of this will come together-living in Spain, learning a new language, experiencing different cultures, getting a driver's license. It better make sense, or I'm going to ask for my money back.

Who Needs Autoescuela, Anyway?

17 February, 14

Who needs autoescuela, anyway?

The short answer is anybody that wants a Spanish driver's license. Duh.

I don't remember many of my birthday parties. It's more like a composite sketch or montage.

• A gathering at the upstairs kids' classroom at Wesley United Methodist Church on College Avenue. 
• Chuckie Douglas playing with my brother's really cool ladder style fire engine that squirted water out of the fire hose.

Okay. That was a really short film. I think I am going to go sit in a corner right now and suck my thumb.

The birthday that I do remember the most vividly is September 17, 1985. No birthday bash or celebration awaited me. This predates Facebook's birthday reminder service, so no posts from people you can't remember. It was a Tuesday. This birthday was special for only one reason:

FREEDOM!

I got my learner's permit to drive. 

Well almost freedom. Another six months of careful adult supervision, and then freedom, but it was close enough for me. 

My driving school education started at age 13. Becky, my sister, surprised the hell out of me one day and offered to let me drive. We took the family Chevette out to Woodlawn Cemetery, which had a nice big oval driving path. She shrewdly calculated that the danger of killing anybody at a cemetery was relatively low. 

My next lesson came at age 14, when Grandaddy let me drive his pickup truck all the way from Hartsville to downtown Florence, figuring that if I didn't learn how to drive, nobody on his crew of 8 or 10 drunks and homeless people would be able to get anywhere. I ran over an already dead dog, lying in the middle of Highway 52.  I was too scared to change lanes. He assured me that it was already dead. 

Then I took Driver's Ed at Hartsville High School. Fifteen of us sat in a trailer at the back of the high school and tried to act nonchalant. After a few weeks of the obligatory safe driving tips, we hit the road with the teacher. I think he was an assistant football coach too.

"Surely you have some qualifications to teach right, Coach?"

"Well, no actually I don't. I can't even spell my own name."

"Hmmm. Well today is your lucky day. We just had an opening to teach Driver's Ed. Whaddya think, Coach? We'll even pay you."

"WOW! I get to be a real live teacher?"

"Yes you do! Congratulations, Coach! Here's the keys to the car. Go get 'em!"

So Ol' Ball Coach (OBC) would strap us in the school's Chevette and strap himself into the passenger side. If he had any shred of intelligence, he would have signed a deal with Tum's or Rolaids, because he ate them like candy. He had no steering wheel or brakes. Basically he was just another passenger in the car driven by a nervous, pimply-faced teenager. Evidently he was unable to do ANYTHING else with his life, or he would have been doing it. I cannot imagine a more horrifying experience than escorting clueless teenagers around town, as they missed stop signs, made wrong turns and disregarded yield signs. He later went on to progressively worse positions. I am not sure what he is doing now, but I have no doubt about its futility.

Now we are in Spain, back in the Driver's Ed classroom, re-learning what we already know and trying to forget all the practical training we have acquired over 28 years of driving. Nothing matters, except what the stupid book tells us, and that is written in Spanish, although not a Spanish that the average guy on the street could understand, but a lofty, verbose, erudite form of Spanish. I know every speed limit for every type of highway, toll road, street, back alley and bike path in Spain.

I know what a vehicle is:

Non-motorized

• Pack animals
• Bicycles
• Wheelchairs
• Subway trains
• Crutches
• Trailer

Motorized

• Motorcycles
• Cars
• Things derived from cars (I don't know)
• Bus
• Truck
• Tanks
• Hovercraft
• Imperial Star Destoyer
  

The good news is that after I get my Class B driver's license in Spain, I will be qualified to drive all types of farm equipment, without limits regarding size. I am really stoked about driving a John Deere S690 combine through town. I will not, however, be qualified to ride a motorcycle in excess of 125cc. You could hurt somebody with a motorcycle.

Auto Escuela is Hell, Spelled Backwards

15 February, 14

Driving in Spain is a contact sport. Even the Spaniards say they drive by sense of feel. Car alarms and airbags have to be disabled prior to importing a vehicle into this country. Bumper cars were invented here.

Recently Susan and I purchased a big red beast for €200. It's a 1992 Mercury Villager Van with 27,000 miles. Compared to other vehicles on the road, it looks like a Mack Truck. We needed to get insurance, so of course, our journey began with a local guide. Julio's brother's uncle's best friend, Diego, sells insurance. That's where the fun started.

Susan and I discovered that we have to get Spanish driver's licenses. We were under the mistaken opinion that our US licenses would act as international licenses. This is true if you are a tourist, but we are classified as residents. That can only mean one thing--fees. Oh how they love their fees. And another thing--waiting. We mustn't forget autoescuela, or driving school, as well. Our lives are slowly spiraling downward into the Spanish Vortex, an endless black ink hole of policies and procedures.

Spain has the dual reputation for the hardest driving tests and the most accidents per citizen in the European Union. I have not yet encountered one citizen here that is willing to dispute either of those facts, a sad admission of guilt or complicity. Either way we had no option but to sign up for the school at a cost of €350 each. The irony is that we drive to the school. It's only illegal if you get caught, right?

Our teacher is named Mercedes. You cannot make this stuff up. If Johnny Cash were a Spanish woman, I think she would be Merche (that's the shortened name for Mercedes). She only wears black shirts and black pants and black boots. Her smoky voice belies a lifetime addiction, and the deep creases on her face tell a story of pain and sadness. Mercedes teaches Spanish people how to drive. If you believe in reincarnation, this particular life has to be near the bottom, somewhere close to dung flies.

I was wrong. Evidently dung flies only live about 24 hours. Mercedes is close to eternal. All of my friends are in their mid to late forties, and all of them learned to drive with Merche. She is a shaman, banished by Buddha himself to a life of purposeless servitude. Evidently she ran over his big toe with an oxcart, after making an illegal u-turn in the middle of a curve with low visibility, completely disregarding the prominently displayed road signs. This is why you will only see images of Buddha with his legs crossed and feet tucked in. That's not a smile on his face. It's a grimace. We may very well be her last hope of redemption. If we pass the test, she passes into the afterlife. Eternity hangs in the balance.