Drive Me Crazy

The French driving exam process was a humbling experience for me. But now that I have my driving permit firmly in my pocket, because my hands are glued to the 10-o'clock and 2-o'clock position, I can say it is an achievement that I am fairly proud of.
The first of several steps was to apply for a grant, because the whole process costs an arm and a leg. Next I actually signed up at a local driving school. This includes having to participate in classroom sessions with varying numbers of eighteen-year-old French young people, and afterward having my pitiful score relayed to everyone after each practice test, followed by whispers and snickers. I was given a book full of every rule, regulation, historical fact regarding French drivers and their statistics, potential infraction of the driving code,and resulting fine, as well as every part of the automobile. Needless to say, my French vocabulary study list swelled to tome-like proportions. And I literally could have gone bald from pulling my hair out while trying to keep straight what is embrayage, demarrage, and embouteillage. (That's clutch, drive off and traffic jam, in case you were wondering).
Two plus months of studying my guts out resulted in me failing the first written exam. This was like an experience of a root-canal, leg-hair waxing, and my wife's favorite ab-crunch torture video all rolled into one. At the conclusion of the exam, each hopeful driving debutant must shuffle to the front like at a internment camp roll-call, to a desk where the monitor informs you of your result, with a congratulatory nod or smirk-adorned shake of the head while every eye is focused on your reaction. I then got a glimpse of what it might be like when we get up to the great-exam-room-in-the-sky, and God separates the goats from the sheepish. More studying, more trips to the driving school video room, more hair-pulling. But second time is a charm and I got the nod from Monsieur Monitor.
This then gave me the privilege to go back to the driving school again. And this time my burden to bear was: Anthony. Half swagger, half smooth, and 100% irritating, my 20-something driving instructor was the worst cross to bear yet. I was old enough to be his dad and probably had about 20 years driving experience on him. Still, he loved to question my every move and throw in there the familiar "tu" form of address. Kind of the equivalent of a college kid calling me "tiger", or "sport", as in, "Whoa, that's not how the French do things here, tiger." But what are you going to do, you can't purposely expose his side to a broadside collision. At least not and get your license. So I willed myself to the driving school, to what was mercifully only ten lessons in the car with Anthony, biting my lip, swallowing my pride and forgiving his stomping on the break pedal on his side as a reminder of who's the boss. Yes, it is a relief that he is now permanently in my blind spot, and no longer hovering in my peripheral.
I didn't have a lot of hope going into the actual driving exam, since I had talked to several French people who actually speak the language instead of some form of it like I do, and they had failed their exam. Some of them multiple times. So I tried to butter up my examiner, saying I really admired Alain Prost, the only famous F1 driver of note that I know of. (Okay, I had to Google it). I don't think he bought it. But in spite of my asking him to repeat his instructions a few times, he actually passed me. Probably to not have to see me in his car another time. But hey, I am not too proud to accept a handout.
I have now been awarded with a driving permit and the scarlet letter. For the next two years, French law requires that I post a very big red letter "A" emblazened on a circular white background on the rear of my car, to let people know I am a "learner". I prefer to think the "A" identifies me as "American". I also have to drive ten kilometers slower than the speed limit for that period. The way I figure it, from now on I will have a legitimate reason for being late.