The English love to follow rules. Being Greek, I find this counter intuitive. My instinct to cut the queue and find the fastest route to a particular goal or destination is strong. I am learning that in England there is a different queue for everything, and unless you are in the right one, you will be diverted so far off the original path it becomes hard to remember what the goal was in the first place.
Getting a driving license here, for example, is a total nightmare. For starters, it's expensive. You need to take lessons. You need to download the right study apps and buy the highway code. You need to learn how to drive all over again, the English way. This is not so easy considering I have had about 30 years to develop my own driving habits. Driving on the left isn't the hard part. Learning which lane to take through a roundabout, especially a roundabout on an unknown road, is the puzzle. Further to that, everything looks the same. Indistinguishable roads are connected by a series of indistinguishable roundabouts which lead to indistinguishable lanes on motorways with a confusing set of numbers and letters that all seem the same even though they are different.
As a result, I have been living in England for more than 5 years, but am only now just getting around to getting a license. Of course this is much to the chagrin of my father in law, who doesn't understand my genetic distaste for bureaucracy. He was quick to point out that driving as I have been on my American license is against the law. He also pointed out that I was uninsured to drive any of his cars and that I really must get an English license.
Unfortunately, he was right. Without an English license I can't do half the things I want to do, most importantly, getting from one place to another. An already difficult task considering I cannot understand which lane to follow.
And so I set out to get my license a few months ago. First I had to get a provisional license which requires sending a passport and some photographs to an agency in Swansea. Two weeks later, my passport and provisional license were returned by the Royal Mail. Then I had to take a lesson and study for the theory test. Apparently it is one of the hardest in the world. My driving instructor is my neighbor's dad. His name is Malcolm and he drives a Harley when he isn't in his driving school Vauxhall. I got a neighborly discount, which was well deserved considering what a lesson involves.
I like Malcolm, but he is a tough instructor. Barreling down country roads at 50 mph apparently isn't fast enough. The speed limit is 60 mph, which is way too fast if you ask me. Navigating the roundabouts with a fat Englishman making jokes and berating you with instructions while relearning how to drive stick the English way is frightening and made me want to eat 50 cookies to make me feel better. After an hour of instruction, I wasn't sure I would ever drive again. I still hear Malcolm in my ear correcting me when I shift after 2000 rpms and roll to a stop instead of reaching it in gear.
After the one lesson I decided I would study for the theory test instead. Not much easier, really, especially if you leave it until the day before the test, which I did. I studied furiously, read the code and did one practice test after another until I could pass them consistently which I managed to do the morning of the test. Mr. Cooke took a practice test and failed. Apparently the test he took 20 years ago was much easier and there was no theory, much less a hazard perception test which is now required and involves spotting hazards like in a video game.
Mr. Cooke drove me to the test, I thought it bad karma to drive myself illegally to the test centre (as we are in England I will spell center the English way). When I arrived a friendly lady asked me for my documents and if I had taken the test before. I was then offered locker number 7, which I thought was auspicious, where I had to leave my things including any tissues. My husband was told he had to leave. I was then asked to empty my pockets, though I had none, and push up my sleeves. I had to put my hair up and show the lady I had nothing hidden behind my ears or under my bracelet. Finally I was allowed into the test cubicle number 1, also a good sign.
I took a few deep breaths and started the test. I answered 50 multiple choice questions, four of which I was unsure about, and did 14 hazard perception clips, all while trying to calm my nerves. Three quarters of the way through the test I felt I might have passed. As I walked out of the test looking down on all those poor pockmarked English teens trying to pass their tests for the second and third time, I pushed my nose up in the air and brushed my hair off my face. To Swansea with them all I thought, I have an American license. I don't need any stupid English health and safety rules and regulations.
I got my jacket and bag out of the locker. As I returned the key I was slipped a folded sheet of paper. I read the first line, it said Congratulations!...I tried to contain my excitement, a la the English. The thought of having to tell my father in law I had failed, aged 38, was too much to bear. But now I didn't have to tell another lie. I hoped he would be pleased that I was only a few more weeks away from driving legally. Actually, my driving test is in two months so until then I shall relish my status as an illegal and hope I don't get caught in the wrong lane between now and November 7th at 9:07am, another auspicious date. Malcom says I will lose a lot if I do. I doubt him though, I will just tell the police I have only been living in the provinces for a month. Anytime I spent in London before becoming Mrs. Cooke doesn't count. At least not according to Greek law.
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