Learning to drive (again)

I love driving. I've always loved driving. I learnt on the flat back roads of North Lincolnshire (practicing hill starts every few yards of the only local hill). Over the past twenty years, I've driven big cars and little cars, vans of all shapes and sizes, pick-up trucks, mini-buses and campervans. I've driven in Germany (very fast but very carefully), in France (not quite so fast, not quite so carefully), and in Holland (just carefully). I've driven on beautifully maintained but unsignposted roads and woodland tracks in Finland, intermittent patches of tarmac with forests of road signs in Spain, and I've reversed down a winding single track tunnel in Madeira with an ambulance edging towards me with its blue lights flashing. I like driving.

When we first arrived in Massachusetts, Nathan's company gave us a hire car for three weeks. It was red and fast. Very fast. The girls loved it and sat in the back seat shrieking, 'Go faster, mummy.' But the thing is that, with my two girls in the back seat and the wisdom of a few years on my shoulders, I have become a careful driver: I obey the speed limit, I'm attentive to other road users, I'm careful to keep one eye on my mirrors and the other eye on what is going on several vehicles ahead of me. I keep generous stopping distances and don't jump traffic  lights. I am no boy racer: I just like driving and I think I'm pretty good at it (note: the majority of people think that they are better drivers than the average person. So do I. Even when the statistics of that statement are so obviously flawed).

Upon becoming resident in Massachusetts, one needs to take a driving test if one wants to drive legally. Bring it on, I thought - this will be one bit of the cultural process which I'll be able to do! Hindsight is a marvelous thing.

To be able to attain a learner permit, one needs to officially exist. It has taken me three months to satisfy the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles (RMV) that I do exist. I have dutifully collected bits of paper with my name and address, my name and a photograph, my name and a notified signature from someone official whom I don't know but who will sign such things for a smallish fee. It has felt like a treasure hunt, but 6 weeks ago I had finally gathered sufficient paperwork to apply for my learner permit. Following the detailed instructions from the website, I traveled to the RMV headquarters, took a numbered ticket, and joined the hundreds of other people who were sitting on benches around the room. After waiting for three and a half hours, a black woman with an amazing smile waved me over to her desk. We smiled at one another - her smile was very amazing - and I unearthed all my bits of paperwork from my backpack.
'Do I,' she asked, 'have proof that I have been refused a visa?'
'I haven't been refused a visa. I am here on my husband's visa.'
'You need to have a letter from the Social Security office officially declining your visa application.'
'But I haven't applied.'
'You don't need to apply. You just need to be declined and to provide written evidence of that.'
She is still smiling but my cheeks have started to ache. She takes sympathy on me and draws a map of the Social Security offices. I don't need an appointment. I must just turn up to receive my refusal. It takes me a while to fit all my papers back into my bag. She smiles at me and tells me to come back to her window when they have rejected me.

I arrive at the Social Security offices, take a numbered ticket and go through the necessary processes until I receive a printed letter saying that I have been refused a visa. It does not say that I have not applied for a visa and I'm not sure that I like this. However, I do love driving and I am still able, at this point, to convince myself that this makes it all worthwhile.

The woman with the amazing smile has forgotten that she told me to come back and, for a while, I stand close to her window and try to catch her eye. While she doesn't see me, the people who have been sitting on benches for several hours do notice my attempts at queue-jumping. I am about to take another numbered ticket when she suddenly looks up, remembers me, and invites me over (later, when I leave the offices, I watch my back. Not everyone likes me that day). We admire my new piece of paper together and she approves my application and takes my photograph. I sit the online test which is required to be awarded a learner permit. Of the 25 questions, 5 relate to legal restrictions upon drivers who are under 21 and 2 relate to alcohol. I do not drink and drive. I am not under 21. My guesses are lucky and, when I return to the woman's desk, she high-fives me and gives me a brand new slip of paper and a telephone number. I am now able to apply to take my driving test. I telephone them and join their 6 week waiting list.

In the meantime, I decide to book a driving lesson. I am always keen to learn new things. This morning an old man in an old red car pulls up outside my house and indicates that I should get into the driving seat. We fill out lots of pieces of paper and I write him a check. The engine has been left running - he tells me not to switch this off.

Eventually, we are ready to begin our lesson. I reach to adjust the rear view mirror, which is angled towards him, and he tells me that I am not allowed to use my mirrors.
"But how can I see what's behind me if I don't have a mirror?"
"You only look behind you if you are reversing."
"But surely..." I begin. He interrupts me.
"You are in America now, you must drive the American way. You need to look where you are going. When you are driving forwards you look through the windscreen. When you are reversing, you look through the back window. No mirrors."
"No mirrors?" I echo, alarmed.
"No mirrors."
This becomes his mantra for the first part of our lesson.
I prepare to pull away from the curb - mirror, signal, maneuver.
"No mirrors. You signal, look over your shoulder and go."
We approach an amber traffic light and I glance in my mirror.
"No mirrors. You must look where you are going."
We do a three-point turn and I check my mirrors before beginning the maneuver.
"No mirrors." He is no longer talking in a nice tone of voice. Neither of us are smiling any longer. He tells me that I will fail my test. This becomes his new mantra for the rest of the lesson.
I see a person pulling out in front of me from a side street and I slow down.
"You will fail your test."
I wait for a person to reach the sidewalk before moving forwards onto the crossing.
"You will fail your test."
I give way to a bus which is indicating to come out in front of me.
"You will fail your test."

I have always been a confident driver but by the end of the hour, I am almost in tears. I no longer consider myself to be a better-average-driver. In fact, I think that I might fail. On the positive side, I've always preferred to be in a minority.