Learning How To Drive

This took many cries

Last month I passed my driving test. I really did !!! It took me five years. And the whole process was simply too humiliating not to share. So, If you need a bit of consolation, an ego boost, or reassurance that good things take time, I invite you to have a read.

Before we make fun of me and my irrational fear of cars coming from the opposite direction, allow me explain the process of getting your driving licence in France for my friends abroad:

1st step: Pass the theoretical exam with a minimum score of 35/40.

2nd step: Drive for at least 20 hours with an instructor.

Optional third step: Purchase more lessons or drive with a family member or friend while you wait for your exam date.

Third and final step: Pass you 30-min driving test with an examiner with a minimum score of 21/30 without committing any eliminatory mistake (not stopping at a stop sign or going beyond the speed limit are a few examples).

The whole thing (without the extra hours) is close to a grand. Triple that, add some more. There you go. That’s how much I spent. Probably spent. I obviously didn’t keep track. The process was already overwhelming enough.

In December of 2018 I passed the first test. 35/40. Phew. I had just scraped through. But who cared ? I sure didn’t. I was leaving for Michigan for the first time and wouldn’t be able to drive there anyways. I didn’t think about it much until I had to fly back home for summer.

My very first lesson was unforgettable to say the least. My instructor was a 30-something skinny brunette with a nicotine addiction. After awkwardly getting settled in the driver’s seat I took a looong look at the dashboard not having a single clue what I was looking at: hieroglyphs, red, orange, peculiar white symbols. The look on that man’s face when he realized that I didn’t even know how to adjust my seat or start the car was simply priceless.

“Hasn’t someone shown you this before? I mean, I don’t know, student don’t usually show up clueless like that.”

Right there, bam. First hit for my ego.

All I had to do was the control the wheel, which turned out to be incredibly stressful. We made a stop on the parking lot of a public swimming pool so he could get a mediocre coffee from a machine. I waited outside for 15 minutes, it was hot and I felt like shit. I already hated this.

My second lesson was with a different guy, the owner of the driving school. Picture this: short dude in his fifties, pretty big, bald, overgrown grey beard, wearing a huge Harley Davidson short sleeve shirt and Timberland boots. In August. He was carrying a pack of Marloboro Black. My eyes would cry everytime he’s light up a cigarette in the car which he did a impressive amount of times in just two hours. I was 18 and didn’t have the courage to say anything. I’d just cough and do my best not to crash.

The cars coming from the opposite direction would always frighten leading me to drive dangerously close to the ditch.

“Move to the right.”

“To the RIGHT.”

“MOVE. TO. THE. RIGHT.”

“Not THAT much.”

Spiky bushes from the right side of the road scratched his whole arm that was resting on the open window. Looking back, I think I did that on purpose.

I gave up after a few hours and had to head back to Michigan for the school anyway. The following summer was my first summer at home since moving to the states so naturally that was a good enough excuse to plan trips accross Europe and focus on family. Which left, sadly, no time to schedule any driving lesson. The summer after that one, I remained on campus for an awfully depressing research program where I had to count pollen grains under a microscope. 16,000 pollen grains later, I went back to school, feeling increasingly lame for not knowing how to drive. Asking for a ride to Walmart is humiliating enough. When they realize you neither own a car, nor a licence it gets worse. You seat in the passenger seat and tell them what brought you to the states. Thanks for the ride !

The next year was Covid (that traumatizing time none of us can really recall). I stayed home and did my best to pass my online summer classes. I highly suggest you do not sign up for an accounting and theology course, unless you want to have a miserable summer. Like I did. I also got broken up with at that time and my anxious-attachment style was NOT happy. I’d check the U.S. government website more often than my Instagram feed to know if I would be allowed to fly back. In my free time I worked at a bakery where the owner and his coworker would shower me with inappropriate sexist comments. “When Flore wears a skirt, it’s always a good day”. Yay !!!

Despite a very unpromising environment I was felling pretty hopeful. I was determined to get this over with. Plus I had a new instructor: a woman. Girl power, right ? I was convinced she would save me.

She, did not, fill that expectation. She was as boring and depressing as one can get. She was very adamant about knowing all the theory. An important element I will admit, but not one of my strongest suits. Every time I would ask her questions about the road signs she’d cross her arm and say: « This is in the Driver’s Manual. You’re supposed to know about this. » And we would stay in the middle of the road, her foot in the brake pedal, rage-filled tears rolling down my cheeks. I didn’t know any of the rules since I had passed the theoretical exam years ago and couldn’t think on the spot due to my road anxiety. The lessons were always scheduled around noon so I’d melt like in a fucking crockpot for 2 hours straight.

“It’s normal to cry. Let it all out and read your Driver’s Manual when you get home”.

“YOU ARE SO SAD AND MAD THAT YOU ARE LIVING SUCH A AND PATHETIC MEANINGLESS LIFE THAT YOU POUR ALL THAT FRUSTRATION ONTO ME. I HATE YOU.”

Just kidding, it went more like: yeah, I think it’s just the stress and my fatigue. Thanks, see you next week.

And then I’d usually sweat and sweat at the bus stop and get home feeling like an absolute unaccomplished piece of crap. The bus would never show up on time because bus drivers act like they’re self-employed where I’m from. I also failed to read the schedule properly several times. Again, not one of my strongest suits.

A few weeks of this torture went by with me making tiny progress. I would cry after most lessons, walk to the bakery and stuff myself with a whole bag of pastries in an attempt to comfort myself and silence my deep, deep frustration.

You know what’s the worse part about not knowing how to drive is ? It’s telling people you don’t know how to drive. Because for some reason EVERYONE loves to get involved. “Yeah you really can’t forget about turning on your lights”, “See the trick to parallel park is to …” - just leave me alone.

As a way to manifest my driving licence I’d go on Amazong and fill my cart with tacky, shiny, pink car decor. Or I’d sometimes close my eyes and picture myself driving a big fancy jeep.

A few weeks before my flight back to college I finally got the news that I had gotten scheduled for a driving exam on August 4th. One day, after a lesson with the Timberland boots guy he gave me this pep talk that not even dementia could make me forget:

“You know when you first showed up to our school you were an unpleasant young woman and we didn’t like you . Now you have improved your driving, we appreciate you a little more. Although you don’t have the right level to pass the exam you can still try to train as much as you can until the 4th.” Someone give this man a TedTalk !

August came but we had planed months ago a vacation with my grandparents. I wasn’t able to travel back to my hometown on time. What a shame … what a gigantic relief !

This succession of failures left me hopeless. The focus was now to finish college on time and apply to graduate schools…

After graduation I went home and ultimately had to get back on track. At the end of the summer I showed up to the driving school which happened to be closing, ha! There was my excuse, which laster a couple of months. Fast forward to October of last year I signed up at a new school, this one was online and you could schedule your lessons 7 days a week on your phone. That’s a little better.

My first instructor (yes, I said first, so you can sort of imagine what direction this is headed) was Mohamed. He was incredibly pedagogic, kind and encouraging. He would always offer me coffee during our breaks. I only really began to learn with him. He put my name on the waitlist for an exam date and we kept driving together. It’s about €40 an hour, so you can imagine what I was doing with my pathetic tiny paycheck at the time.

I waited. November. December. January.

No, stop. That’s it I thought. I had been planning this trip to Asia for the longest time and I just needed to leave. I harassed their customer service and they kept telling me that the dates were assigned to students by a local government entity and that they couldn’t interfere. Classic French response to some administrative issue. I turned into a Karen in my emails and phone calls. Nothing was moving. Screw this I thought.

I flew to Asia, enjoyed the waterfalls, the rice fields, and spent days on the toilet after contracting a parasitic infection.

A couple months later I was back, got a job and was ready to tackled this again.

Mohamed who initially was my hero, became a big problemo. I had reached a plateau and was still making the same mistakes. My mom was appalled by my lack of confidence on the road whenever we would drive together. “WHAT is that Mohamed guy even teaching you ? What do you mean you only know how to parallel park on the right ? Okay so you’re telling me he only taught you on one side ?”. Every single ride ended up in a fight. If you ask my mom why she would tell you that I am sensitive and need to be able to accept an advice without interpreting it like a personal attack. If you ask me, I will tell you that it was because she wasn’t pedagogic enough.

The problem with Mohamed is that we would only go on the same itineraries. If you were asking me to drive to a new road I would be as competent as someone who had never touched a wheel in their life.

Summer came and so did Mohamed’s yearly trip overseas. Which was too bad because they had assigned me an exam date over the summer but he had to cancel. Are. You. Kidding. Me.

I found an other instructor on the app, his name was Xavier.

And that guy turned out to be the real savior. He actually made me study my Driver’s Manual, and equipped me with real skills. It was hard though. There was one particular lesson where I hit rock bottom before bouncing back up.

“I am telling you now, you don’t know the rules on the road and you are not ready.” I had been practicing with my mom like crazy and though I was doing so great. For ten minutes he went in depth about my incompetence and lack of knowledge on crucial topics. “But this doesn’t mean you can’t pass, we are going to get you as ready as we can for that test”. I began to cry with my head facing the window and my knees leaning against the car door. I got out of the car while dramatically shaking my head.

“No Flore, come one, this wasn’t the goal. I just need you to know what you need to work on. But you really can do this.” We stood in a random parking lot, just him and I, and my big meltdown. So dramatic.

Xavier taught me for 10 hours over four days for free. We drove everywhere and he kept challenging me. I finally felt somewhat ready.

During the 24 hours leading up to my driving test I did three anti-anxiety breath works and dreamt about what my examiner might look like.

August 20th: the big day. The examiner was not the scary lady Xavier had warned me about but a nice man who had just returned from his vacation in Morocco. We drove, and I did alright. Afterwards Xavier lectured me for not paying enough attention. “You were in your bubble too much !” Xavier, when am I not ?

I binged-watched the last season of Emily In Paris (2/10) in 24 hours while I waited for the results to be posted online. The next morning I checked the website and saw confettis at the top of the page before scrolling down: I had made it. I ran to my grandma who was still in bed and jumped into her arms. My mom cried (obviously: sun in Pisces).

I can drive ?? It still feels so unreal. I drove around so much the following days. So much so that I gave my mom’s car a tiny scratch. Let’s call it a birthmark. When I want a bit of a boost I open my desk drawer and look at my licence card to make sure it’s still there and admire it for a bit.

In conclusion: it really feels impossible until it’s done and contrary to popular belief you don’t always have to believe in yourself at 100% to accomplish something. You might just get lucky.

If you don’t have your licence yet: learning is going to be though and you might hate yourself here and there but I know you’ll manage. It’s simple really, all you really have to keep in mind is to have a look at the back of the road when you’re parking in - just kidding. I would never be one of them. I’ll rant with you and if you’re feeling brave I will take you on a ride.

Hugs for this new fall season ahead,

Flore Xx

Ps: I can drive !!!