Le Dernier Mot: Conduire

Years after moving to France, I realised I had been driving without insurance. I’d had a nagging doubt about my licence, but each time I brought up the subject, my French husband told me not to worry and that my international driving permit would suffice. Then one day we learned that (as a resident of France) should I have an accident, my insurance contract would be void without a French permis de conduire.

“You need to pass the drivers exam immediately!” my husband urged. Now he was the worried one!

The only student in class to drive herself to school, I was careful to take the back roads and to park several blocks from the Auto-École Rivière. After long weeknights attending classes with students half my age, and having finally passed l’épreuve théorique, the next step would be to navigate the city with a driving inspecteur beside me.

On exam day, I shared the test vehicle with a wide-eyed 18-year-old who had just been ordered to pull over.

“Get out! You are a danger to yourself and to others!” the inspecteur shouted. In the back of the car, I tried to understand what my classmate had done wrong, but was jolted when the inspecteur shouted at me.

“Allez-y!” Your turn! I said a prayer, put on the left turn signal, and drove out into the chaotic streets of Draguignan.

“You don’t need to be so obvious!” the inspecteur snapped when I threw my chin left as I put on the left turn signal. Moments ago I’d signalled a right turn and thrown my chin over my right shoulder in the same conspicuous way. (We had been warned in driving school to exaggerate our gestures during testing to show that we were aware of those “angles morts” or blind spots.)