This “offspring” is the cab we caught home Friday night. When we reached our street I hopped out to take a couple pictures while Nacho paid. I should have taken some shots of the inside too because it was like a time machine trip back to last weekend. The doors automatically (and loudly) lock when the car stops. There is that annoying beeping when the turn signals are on. There are two backwards facing seats. The only difference was that the driver was on the “right” side. And of course the white paint job with the tell-tale red stripe.
The black cabs of the UK are such a novelty that whenever we’ve visited the isles, we’ve enjoyed the simple experience of taking them (even if they aren’t all black anymore); and we loved seeing one in Madrid, too.
“One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn’t belong…”
What’s next? A yellow school bus??
Occasionally, as I go about my daily life, I am suddenly struck by the thought of all the twists and turns my life has taken to get me to that moment in time, that specific spot, this life. Yesterday morning was one such moment.
There I was, heading north through Castilla y Leon en route to a construction site awaiting my watchful presence, when over the horizon rose a giant set of black horns. Then came the head and the hulking body of an enormous black bull. Anyone who has spent much time on the Spanish highways will not be surprised by such an occurrence, but this was my first bull. Not the first I’d seen, but the first I, myself, had driven towards. And for some reason it spoke to me like no other such bull had.
In the few seconds it took for the bull to fully appear on the hillside, the events in the past few years that conspired to bring me to that place – to Spain, to Madrid, to the A-1 freeway north of Madrid, to a solo business trip to a construction site hidden away in the folds of southern Pais Vasco – flashed through my mind. And it overwhelmed me.
The wonderful part is that it thrilled me. I was not struck by a bout of homesickness, nor was I not flooded with nostalgia for Alligator Alley. I was instead exhilarated by the sight of something so Spanish and the thought of how perfectly it fits into the life that I can call mine.
As promised, what follows is a no-holds-barred rundown of this morning’s practical driving exam.
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Are you ready?
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Sure??
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Ok, here goes. It wasn’t that bad. Seriously. It was amazingly similar to the driving test I took 13 ½ years ago on my 16th birthday. Change the diesel-powered, stick shift Seat Ibiza from this morning to the gasoline-chugging, automatic Buick LeSabre from 1995, add in a couple of roundabouts, and the test was literally the same. And, when you come to think about it, why should it even be any different? Barring, perhaps the idiosyncrasies of driving in the UK, in general, driving is driving, isn’t it? Turn signals, yielding to oncoming traffic, and parallel parking are the same the world over. The language is not even really an impediment.
Why then, the night-and-day difference between DMV of the States and the DGT of Spain?
Why was I, an experienced driver, shaking like a leaf as I climbed into the driver’s seat this morning??
It all comes down to perception. The Spanish DGT has set the price – both financial and mental - of getting your driver’s license at an exorbitantly high level. All in all I’ve probably spent 400€ getting my license. And that was doing everything the first time around, in the shortest period of time possible, and with 13 years of driving experience. One of the girls who also took the exam today told me she’s spent nearly 3,000€ getting to the same point. 3,000€. Mind you, that’s roughly 3 times the average monthly salary in Madrid. In setting such a high price for the license, people’s nerves get the best of them. They expect something infinitely more difficult than the reality, and in doing so, subject themselves to dozens of driving classes at 30€ a pop. When they finally get up the nerves to take the exam, they think of the hundreds of Euros already invested in that moment and the horror stories they’ve heard up until then and how on earth they are going to ask their boss for aNOTHer day off work. So many people take the exam expecting to fail. So they do. And then repeat the whole cycle again.
The drivers in the States are no less prepared. They are, in general, simply less freaked out. It’s $15 after all. You fail? You go back the next day and retest for another $15. And in most cases, you have learned the great bulk of your driving skills either through the Drivers’ Ed classes in high school or from your parents by way of a learner’s permit, not by pumping hundreds of dollars into private classes. Simply put, the Spanish DGT and its spawn, the driving schools, are a money-making machine that simply does not have an equal in the States. Their mere existence and the sheer way they go about carrying out their business is what makes their way-of-life possible. It is, indeed, a cycle that is not likely to change ever. Like so many things in Spain, it is done this way because it is done this way. A fresh crop of drivers comes through. They complain about the mafia-like mentality of the test-givers and the unfair, subjective, ranking scale used to pass the exams. But when they finally pass they are so happy to be through with it all that they push it out of their heads and move on instead of continuing to protest against such a system.
And mind you, it’s one thing if the perpetual test-taker is saying such things. I, however, passed.
I just had a crash course (no pun intended) on Spanish culture.
Yesterday I took the written portion of the driver’s license exam. And I passed. My American friends are unimpressed. My Spanish husband is taking me to dinner to celebrate.
In Spain there is an entire industry built around the driver’s licenses. Driving schools are expensive and obligatory. Written tests are ridiculously difficult, almost ensuring that the average person will take at least two trips to the exam room. There are official policies about what to do if you surpass the 3 allowed attempts. In short, it’s the perfect picture of Spanish bureaucracy – expensive? Check. Time consuming? Check. Maddeningly complicated? Check.
I had some idea that the exam itself would be tough. I was prepared for that. I was not prepared for the literally hundreds of people taking all manner of tests – written, practical, cars, motorcycles, trucks. A madhouse. As we pulled in I was instantly blown away by the sea of orange. Why do all of the driving schools use orange as their color? And the building? Ah, the building… There is an adjective in Spanish - tercermundista or third-worldish - that most adequately describes the building. Nacho told me that he also went there for his driving exams. 15 years ago. Clearly the building has not been remodeled since then. And it’s not for the lack of funds. With three monitors and 150 test-takers, the government is most certainly making the licensing a lucrative business.
Perhaps for that very reason, and in all fairness, compared to other Spanish paperwork procedures, this one was well-organized. Albeit way behind schedule. The test was supposed to start at 12:30. At about 12:35 they started calling each of the 150 or so test-takers one by one. We started the exam around 1. It’s literally a check-the-box test. Surely corrected by hand. Results were out this morning around noon. And they were available online. A major step for Spanish bureaucracy.
I’ve heard that the actual driving portion of the exam is even more overwhelming. And that even non-smokers will have the urge to puff a couple while waiting hours for their turn to be called. I’ll let you know how it goes. Thanks to eleconomista for the picture. No cameras allowed in the high-tech testing area.
Taking a cab as a blond-haired, blue-eyed joven speaking with an accent-laced Spanish is not always a walk in the park. Taxistas have tried to overcharge me. They’ve tried to drop me off at a destination other than what I’ve asked for. They’ve started to drive away with my suitcase. They’ve insulted my nationality. They’ve hit on me; one even claimed that taxi drivers in Spain are like doctors and lawyers elsewhere – every girl’s dream guy. But what happened today was a first for me.
I was in a cab on my way back from an appointment this afternoon when my taxista missed his turn. I wasn’t even paying much attention. He immediately apologized, saying, “I should have turned there. I’ll turn off the meter until I get us back on track.” Huh? What? I was left speechless. I didn’t even have to complain. It came from the goodness and the decency in him. Or perhaps from the fear of getting yelled at – Spanish women tend to have a bit of a temper (and I mean that as a compliment). Regardless, he took the next exit, got us back on track and told me when he turned the meter back on.
Is it worth noting that my taxista was not Spanish? I’m not sure if that had an impact on the whole exchange or not. My accent is noticeable, for sure, but could it have gone unnoticed on the ears of another foreigner? Or was he just a decent guy? Or both? Thanks to ADN for the foto.
When I got back into St. Louis this week I took out one of the cars for a little shopping expedition. Driving a car is, I guess, like riding a bicycle - you don't really ever forget how to do it. However, I look at my return to Spain with a certain trepidation as one of the items at the top of my to-do list for my return to Spain is to sign-up for classes at an autoescuela - I need to get my Spanish driver's license. I've been driving for 12 years and (luckily) have spent most of that time driving a manual transmission; getting behind the wheel of the car is second nature. But I have a feeling things will be slightly different in Madrid.
When I was living in South Florida a report was published about the drivers in various American cities. South Florida placed first on the list in terms of speeding and aggressive driving. St. Louis placed first on the opposite list in recognition of its conscientious and polite drivers. Even so, even after almost 4 years of South Florida driving, the thought of driving in Madrid scares me a little. It seems like a silly fear - after all most of the time you can't go much over 35 miles (km) per hour and little fender benders, scratches, and bumps seem a part of daily life. But cruising down the wide lanes basking in the stark absence of mopeds, I'm reminded of how frenetic Madrid driving can be.
People already know that I'm not Spanish by my accent (although I'm working on that); I wonder if the same will be true with my driving. Will the blink of my turn signal tell the world that a guiri is at the wheel?
P.S. The title of the post is in honor of the Foghat song playing on the radio as I drove back home this afternoon - quite appropriate.
This “offspring” is the cab we caught home Friday night. When we reached our street I hopped out to take a couple pictures while Nacho paid. I should have taken some shots of the inside too because it was like a time machine trip back to last weekend. The doors automatically (and loudly) lock when the car stops. There is that annoying beeping when the turn signals are on. There are two backwards facing seats. The only difference was that the driver was on the “right” side. And of course the white paint job with the tell-tale red stripe.
