“April is the cruellest month, breeding lilacs out of dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain” – said T.S. Eliot in the opening lines of his philosophical poem ‘The Waste Land’.
Last month, I found myself agreeing with him. And that is because, after driving quite competently in various countries of the world for 30 odd years, the Institute of Mobility and Transport (IMT) in Portugal sent me a missive stating that in order to exchange my driving licence for a Portuguese one, I needed to go for a road test. The date and time of the exam was clearly stated too.
My first reaction was of dismay, because the last practical exam I sat for was so far back in the past that I could not remember anything about it, other than the fact that I did not like examiners. The only people who have been examining me lately have been doctors, and I don’t necessarily like them too. Also, I am not good with following orders. The sole reason I have managed to successfully avoid getting into accidents so far is by totally ignoring the loud directives issued from the passenger seat by my spouse.
Meanwhile, I had to take a minimum of eight practice lessons before the exam, but what could they possibly teach me that I did not already know?
It turned out that I had a lot to learn because the commands, on the day of the exam, were going to be in Portuguese, I was informed. Which came as an additional shock, making this particular month of April seem crueller than ever before. Not only did I have to go through the charade of re-acquiring a skill that I already possessed, but now, I had to demonstrate it in a foreign language.
My fluency in Portuguese was beneficial merely for bragging purposes, you see, which meant that I could impress all the non-Portuguese speaking people with the alien sounding words, but when it came to ‘conversa rápida’, I found myself on shaky ground, so to speak.
The young man, who was my instructor in Lisbon, looked very nervous on the day of my first lesson. Women drivers made him apprehensive, he confided. Conversely, after observing my driving abilities, he relaxed and decided to chat with me while reclining in his seat. We discussed the countries I had lived in, and what was a good time to visit them, and so on.
The ‘estacionamento perpendicular’ and ‘estacionamento paralelo’ were explained to me subsequently and I was told to memorise them. The rest, he felt, I was capable of handling on my own.
On the day of the exam, he drove me to my destination. The minute he met my stern-looking lady examiner, he decided that he did not like her. ‘Drive slowly, she won’t take you to the highway’, was his last whispered advice to me. However, the minute I pulled out of the driving school, my examiner directed me towards the national highway.
One hour later, we were back at the IMT parking lot.
“How many years have you been driving for?” she asked.
“Trinta anos”, I replied in Portuguese.
“Thirty years? I am only 29 years old!” she exclaimed involuntarily.
“Mas eu passei?” I questioned in perfect Portuguese.
“What do you think?” she countered, looking unblinkingly at me.
“Maybe, yes?”, I suggested.
Her face lost all expression.
“Certainly, not no”, she deadpanned.
By Nickunj Malik
|| features@portugalresident.com
Nickunj Malik’s journalistic career began when she walked into the office of Khaleej Times newspaper in Dubai thirty-one years ago and got the job. Since then, her articles have appeared in various newspapers all over the world. She now resides in Portugal and is married to a banker who loves numbers more than words.
