LEARNING to drive is all very well when you’re 18 and more confident than Michael Schumacher in a go cart; in your thirties, it’s a different game. And with my 31st birthday fast approaching, I’d decided it was now or never.
First, I had to find an instructor. All my friends, being roughly the same age as I am, could no longer remember who had taught them. A younger friend did bandy around Christos’ number, but when asked if he was any good as instructors go, replied definitively in the negative. I binned Christos and resorted to the Yellow Pages.
Three unanswered calls, one answer phone and one furniture store – wrong number – later, I would have accepted any driving school who could answer the phone: “Give me your best Korean rice husker and a tractor!” I was ready to cry.
Luckily, call number five was to the Halkos Driving School. Koulla answered, switched from Greek to fluent English and had booked me a lesson before I could say ‘basmati to go’.
The next morning at exactly 11am, Michael pulled up in an unthreatening Toyota Starlet. I had been anticipating a beer-bellied, Greek-speaking chain-smoker. What I got was an immaculately dressed young perfectionist. My nervousness began to subside.
A friend had related the story of his first driving lesson to me the previous evening. Suffice to say it involved Makarios Avenue, the rush hour and a panic attack. Michael had a better idea: a deserted housing estate and a thorough grounding before I was even allowed to start the car. His words of wisdom have stayed with me over the months: “It’s not what you do, or even what the other drivers do. It’s what the other drivers might be about to do that you must be aware of.” A thousand random door-openers have proved him right – those imbeciles who park in the middle of the road and open their car doors into the oncoming traffic.
Thus began a series of lessons that must, literally, have driven Michael to distraction – like the day he saved both our lives when I was determined to turn the wrong way into a dual carriageway, or my inability to distinguish between the pedals before 9 in the morning. For someone who appeared so laid back, Michael was certainly on the ball. In a crisis, his reactions proved faster than Mr Incredible. And as time passed, I discovered a sense of humour that was drier than a good martini.
Sometimes we’d collect another student towards the end of the lesson. Wednesdays were my favourite, because with Marios the optometrist in the back seat, the wit took on an added dimension. It was Marios who pointed out the existence of the Magic Halkos Instruction booklet – a life-saving publication for learners. “It’s so good they’re going to publish it in Braille,” was his deadpan comment, as Michael saved us from death by roundabout yet again.
Being in the education business myself, I was pleased to discover that Michael bore the hallmark of a true teacher: patience. Not even my frenzied need for caffeine before every lesson and nicotine after every reverse turn seemed to throw him: “I once taught a girl who insisted on crossing her legs under the steering wheel every time we stopped, I can cope with you.” Apparently boys are easier to teach. “But then again, ten per cent of boys think they know it all – and they’re the worst. Much more difficult than you, because at least you listen. They try to set a test date after the first lesson.”
“And do you let them?” I asked in awe of such arrogance in a learner.
“Never,” replied Michael. “We never let anyone take the test until we’re sure they will pass.”
This was good news to me – my test date was booked. I was sure I would fail. With every botched parking attempt, neglected stop sign and near miss I was sure I was on my way to joining the ranks of two-timers: those who had had to take their test more than once. Michael remained quietly confident: “Pay attention, check your mirrors, DON’T PANIC and you’ll pass,” was his constant refrain.
As my test loomed, I could have written a horror story entitled: Driving in Hell.
“I was shaking so badly I kept hitting the clutch,” said one acquaintance. “I hit a pedestrian,” said another, breaking out in a sweat. “No, it’s the roundabouts that get you,” said a third, and I gave in and sobbed on her shoulder. The only positive comment was from a male friend who suggested that a short skirt would do the trick.
But I didn’t take his advice to heart, not wanting to be the only learner who’s ever been failed for excessive cellulite.
By the day of the test I had no nails left. Michael remained calm, talking me through what to expect while I asked God quietly to remove all roundabouts from the face of the earth.
In the event, the examiner asked me to negotiate five – count them: five – roundabouts. The only manoeuvre I was sure of – the three-point turn – didn’t come up. I spent the entire 30 minute test knowing I had failed. It was more nerve-wracking than teaching practice.
And here’s the thing: the examiner doesn’t tell you if you’ve failed. Not even when you’ve parked the car. Oh no. “Turn off the engine and come into my office,” was all he said, and I had to do the walk of shame past all the loitering instructors WITHOUT KNOWING.
It was all too much. I made it to the office, grabbed the examiner by his lapels and hissed: “Have I, or have I not, passed? TELL ME!”
He removed my hands fro his person. “But of course you’ve passed,” he said. “Of course.”
Michael said later that my screams could be heard in the car park. I hugged every single examiner – and some who were no doubt married – and did a dance of joy all the way down the corridor. At last, I could drive!
Two weeks later, car hunting with an indecently low budget had tempered my high. Re-enter Michael. He’d found exactly the car I was after, in the colour I wanted, and had negotiated me a discount. He even took me for a test drive and checked out the engine himself, before leaving me in the capable hands of Mr Tassos Stassis of the Auto Trust dealership.
A full service, complimentary CD player and most welcome driving lesson later, Tassos let me loose on the roads.
It’s been a month now, and I’m beginning to settle into being a driver. Even roundabouts have lost their horror. And the teaching seems to have stuck. Thanks to Halkos, I will always be the girl who stops at the stop signs, knows how to use the yellow box and is aware of the door-openers on the road of life.
