Month: August 2004

There are few things in life as difficult or intimidating as getting a Spanish driver’s license. It is a process akin to trying to solve Fermat’s last theorem while sitting on death row in a Texas prison. If you don’t believe me, just ask anyone who has been through it.

For purposes of comparison, let me describe the process by which I obtained my driver’s license in the US. I sauntered into the Pennsylvania Department of Motor Vehicles facility two days after my sixteenth birthday. I took a short multiple choice exam in which a perfect score was guaranteed by simply choosing the most conservative answer to each question. I then proceeded to the behind-the-wheel exam, which entailed a ten minute drive through an empty “driving course” (i.e., a parking lot with lines painted to simulate a real street) and concluded with the ever-difficult maneuver of pulling up to a curb. A hearty handshake and quick photograph later, I walked out with a warm driver’s license tucked into my wallet; secure in the knowledge that the State government deemed me fit to propel a 3,000 pound hunk of mechanized metal wherever and whenever I pleased. The entire process took forty-five minutes and cost me $30.

With this benchmark in mind, let’s turn out attention to the finer points of obtaining a driver’s license in Spain; a process that I naively assumed could be completed within the four month grace period that Spanish authorities allowed me to continue driving on my US license.

THE DRIVING SCHOOL:
First, you must join a driving school. This is required whether you are a first time driver or, like me, had been driving in another country for nearly twenty years. The reason is that you’ll need their car. Spanish authorities require that examinees take the behind-the-wheel portion of the driving exam in a car that has a second brake, accelerator and clutch on the passenger side. I don’t know about you, but there’s no vehicle fitting this description parked in my garage. Fortunately, for a fee of multiple hundreds of Euros, any driving school will be pleased to lend you its car…and will toss in a study guide and some lessons (both theoretical and practical) to boot.

THE MEDICAL EXAM:
Once you’ve enrolled in a driving school, you must then get a medical and eye exam. There’s a cottage industry in Spain for doctors – some of whom may have even received their medical degrees from non-Caribbean countries – who specialize in medical exams for prospective drivers. They advertise as much on their front doors. With regard to my own exam, the doctor certified me as fit because I was able to open the door to his office, and as having good eyesight because I was able to grasp the doorknob without first feeling around for it with my fingertips.

THE WRITTEN EXAM:
Now begins the really fun part. The written portion of the Spanish driving exam consists of forty multiple choice questions; at least thirty-six of which must be answered correctly in order to pass. The scope of its questions goes well beyond the standard rules of the road. Questions pertaining to automobile mechanics, first aid, and technical specifications for vehicles ranging from scooters to quads to automobiles to delivery trucks are not only fair game, but are fairly common. Little wonder that the study guide I received from the driving school was over two hundred pages long, and densely packed with facts, definitions, formulae and statistics; all of which had to be memorized…and memorized well!

And to make matters worse, each multiple choice question has at least two possible answers that you would swear – on your grandmother’s life – must be correct. Having taken both the State of Illinois Bar exam and the Spanish written driver’s exam, I can say with certainty that I walked out of the former feeling much more confident that I had passed. But don’t take my word for it. Here are some authentic exam questions taken from http://www.todotest.com/ and translated into English for your infotainment:

Do you see what I mean? The term “hair-splitting” comes immediately to mind, doesn’t it? Imagine answering forty questions like these while seated at an uncomfortable, government-issued desk.

With this background in mind, perhaps you won’t laugh quite so heartily when I tell you that I – after four months (FOUR MONTHS!) of diligent study and memorization – nonetheless failed the damn thing on my first try. I did, however, squeak by with a passing score on the second try. Countless others have not been so fortunate.

THE BEHIND-THE-WHEEL EXAM:
Once the written is exam is passed, a prospective driver’s period of relaxation and self-satisfaction is short-lived. That’s because the final hurdle to be cleared is arguably the most unnerving.

The behind-the-wheel exam is, quite frankly, terrifying to most examinees. The friendly, familiar figure of your driving school instructor is seated reassuringly in the passenger seat. But lurking in the bowels of the backseat, with jaundiced eyes and wolf-like fangs, is the brooding, seething specter of the government examiner; his venomous pen poised to record every tiny error on his evaluation form. He is an intimidating figure that utters no sounds, except to bark two- and three-word orders which must be followed with exacting precision.

The exam lasts for thirty minutes and takes place in live traffic. Drivers can expect to face such delights as city streets, winding alleys, roundabouts, construction zones, hills, and the universally-despised parallel parking maneuver. If you’re unlucky (and many are), the latter two will be co-mingled.

The expectations of all parties are clear. Passing the exam hinges on the driver’s ability to demonstrate – for the first, and most likely the last, time in his life – a half hour of flawless, law-abiding driving. Many drivers crack under the pressure and flee from the car in tears. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and spoken with others who’ve seen it as well.

When the exam ends, the examiner will scribble something on his pad, hand the sheet to the driving instructor, and leave without a word. The instructor will hold the sheet tightly to his vest until the examiner is safely out of sight. Spanish rules mandate that drivers be informed whether they passed or failed only after the examiner has left the scene. Apparently, not all examinees have been gracious losers in the past.

With this background in mind, perhaps you won’t laugh quite so heartily when I tell you that I – after eighteen years (EIGHTEEN YEARS!) of driving experience – nonetheless failed the damn thing on my first try. It had something to do with me passing a bus, although to this day I contend that the bus was begging to be passed. I did, however, squeak by with a passing score on the second try. Countless others have not been so fortunate.

EPILOGUE:
Having jumped through these expensive and time-consuming hoops, I am now the proud owner of a 23 centimeter long piece of tri-folded, non-laminated, pink cardboard with my photo stapled onto it. I am expected to carry this in my pocket at all times.

You would think that Spain, having implemented a screening process as arduous as the one described above, would be rewarded with a peerless population of safe, competent drivers. Not so. I’ve seen drivers here park their cars in intersections, pass three cars in a row in no passing zones, and – most unbelievable of all – drive in reverse around a roundabout.

Just think about that last example for a minute. Why on earth would someone drive in reverse around a roundabout? If he missed his turn-off, all he’d need to do is make another lap. That’s why they are called ROUNDabouts.

I don’t recall these kinds of things happening in Pennsylvania. Then again, Pennsylvania doesn’t have roundabouts.

Jesús is my next door neighbour. No, not THAT Jesús; although I would suspect that many people in Tennessee have made such a claim. The Jesús I’m talking about really does live in the house next to mine, and he doesn’t have a beard.

Jesús is fifty, a mechanic and lives with his wife and two college-age children. He single-handedly built his house, including all of the plumbing and electrical work. He did a good job, too. Jesús hunts, drinks, barbeques, rides motorcycles, watches every Formula 1 race and entertains frequently. He built a special room in his basement for entertaining during the cold-weather months. It has a brick bar, bar stools, fireplace, medieval-style iron light fixtures – all of which he made himself – and a boar skin hanging on one of the walls. It’s a room that makes you want to don a fur cape, gulp down a flagon of ale, and then chop off Anne Boleyn’s head.

Jesús is the type of friendly, mild-tempered neighbour that everyone would have if neighbours were ordered from a catalog, and such catalog did not offer an “Underwear Model on a Trampoline” option. And he is valuable to me in many ways.

For one, he (mercifully) doesn’t speak English. This is important. Part of the reason my Spanish is so bad after living here for five years is that I converse with María and my co-workers purely in English. The last thing I needed, therefore, was a next door neighbour who wants to practice his English. No such problems with Jesús. We chat nearly every day, and he is remarkably patient with my “introverted second grader” level of Spanish. Oddly, however, our conversations rarely take place face-to-face or at eye level. Rather, they typically adhere to one of two formats: the “confession box,” or the “Romeo & Juliet.”

Our “confession box” conversations usually occur during early evenings while we are watering our respective lawns (and believe me, lawns in Castilla-LaMancha require a lot of watering). Our yards are separated by a chain-link fence that we’ve covered with “brezo.” Brezo is an ecologically-friendly curtain made of sticks and brush bound with wire. They are very popular in Spain for covering ugly things (like chain-link fences) or gaining additional privacy from neighbours and nosy pedestrians. Our watering-hour conversations take place through the brezo-covered fence. We can’t actually see other; only our silhouettes. In this regard, it’s a bit like being in a confession box; albeit without the associated guilt or the necessity of divulging my most impure thoughts to a man who pretends to have never had any himself.

Our “Romeo & Juliet” conversations occur during non-watering hours. Jesús’s house has a second floor terrace where he often sits and ponders life’s mysteries over a bottle of beer. My house has a ground floor terrace where I do the same, except with a glass of wine. Given that his terrace overlooks mine, it’s inevitable that we should ponder life’s mysteries together. In retrospect, I suppose this isn’t so unusual. After all, don’t most people look skyward when speaking to Jesús? Sorry…couldn’t resist that one.

In addition to the linguistic advantages of having Jesús as a neighbour, he is also a valuable source of technical advice. For example, I recently asked him for guidance on installing a particularly complex electrical component in my home. Jesús expertly suggested that if I twist the bulb in a clockwise direction until the point of tension, it would not only remain locked in its receptacle but would also emit light. Then he offered to do it for me if I should continue having problems.

In light of the neighbours we’ve had in the past – such as the fat guy in Oak Park who walked his puppy at 4am…or the Czech woman in Barcelona who was shocked that we didn’t hear the burglar robbing a Walkman from her condo TWO floors above us…or the stubborn Catalan who insisted on drying his underwear on the rooftop terrace where the building’s tenants sunbathed – we indeed consider ourselves lucky.

A different, more famous Jesús once said, “Love thy neighbour.” Our Jesús is a neighbour who’s easy to love.