We left off in this little story with me finally obtaining the certificate for the theory exam. This part picks up with hands-on training so that I could pass the practical exam.
You would think that this part would be easy. Again, I had been driving in The Netherlands for more than two years and knew all of the tricks for getting around safely. I signed up for an accelerated set of instructions totaling 6 hours behind the wheel with an instructor.
My instructor was Jan Willam, and when I first saw him I thought that he seemed like a pretty normal guy - a bit on the short side for a Dutchman, but otherwise normal.
But from the minute that I pulled away from the curb (or tried to pull away from the curb), I knew that I was dealing with a…what shall I say…a unique individual.
I put the car into gear, checked the rearview and side mirror, then turned the wheels toward the street, getting ready to depress the accelerator.
First came a pretentious snort, then Jan Willem just shook his head.
“We don’t do that here,” he said.
“What?” I asked. “Do what? I haven’t even moved yet.”
“We don’t turn the wheels unless the car is moving.”
“Really?” I asked, thinking it was a joke.
His stern response was all the answer that I needed.
“Yes, really. Don’t turn the wheels unless the car is moving. The car was parked properly, (implying that was because he was the one who had parked it), and you shouldn’t have had to turn the wheel anyhow. We have a lot to learn Daniel.”
Daniel. It kind of gave me the creeps the way that he said my name, so I tried to joke with him and tell him that the only one who calls me “Daniel” is my mother and that is only when I’m in trouble.
“It’s such a nice name though,” he protested. “Daniel. I really like it. It sounds so pure.”
Needless to say, he continued to call me “Daniel” and he used it every chance that he got.
“We gaan hier linksaf Daniel” he would say or “Doe maar een bokkie Daniel”. With every simple instruction came my name. And it always came out in a sleazy, sensual way that wouldn’t have turned me on even if it was Michelle Pfeifer sitting beside me saying it, let alone this short little bald Dutch guy with a big nose and glasses.
But I needed to pass this exam, so I played along and never mentioned it to him again.
The minutes turned into hours. The hours turned into days. And before I knew it we had built up an uneasy rapport. By the day of the exam we were laughing together as he gave me some last minute tips while we drank a cup of coffee waiting to be called into the room with the examiners.
“You always do that wrong Daniel,” he said bobbing his head like a chicken. “You have to remember that you are putting on a show for the examiner. Move your head more when you look into your mirrors. He needs to see you do it. You can’t just move your eyes.”
A buzzer went off at the front desk and all of the instructors and their respective students got up and filed into the room with the examiners. I quickly scanned the room. Each instructor was standing behind a desk ready to greet the student that they would be testing.
One of the instructors was a younger guy, kind of hip looking. He smiled as we walked by.
Another instructor that we passed was a gorgeous 40 something woman, with long silky hair and rich, soft skin. She had perky…er, I mean that she was also smiling.
And the instructor that we headed for? Well, he was the only one with “crotchety weird old fart” tattooed on his forehead. Not really, but it might as well have been. It started with his toupee. The contrast between the natural graying hair at his temples and the polyester shade of gold of that thing perched on top of his head was astonishing. My eyes kept wandering up there, trying to catch a hint of movement….maybe it was still alive. Pudgy, soft pale skin protruded from his two-sizes-too-small shirt which was buttoned relentlessly up to his chin where it met with a psychedelic plaid bow tie. Am I exaggerating? Only I and my “friendly” little instructor will ever know. Suffice it to say that given the choice, I’d have gone for one of the other instructors…the one with the perky…er, nice smile.
I shook his clammy soft hand and sat down at the desk. He noticed my passport was American and immediately asked if I would prefer to take the test in English.
Wow! Lucky break. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. I had prepared to take the exam in Dutch, but I jumped on the chance for English just to eliminate any problems or misunderstandings.
After a few formalities, we all paraded to the car, kicked the tires (seriously), and climbed in. I was driving, the examiner sat beside me, and my “friendly” instructor sat behind me.
The test began. And it began poorly.
You have to understand that the city of Haarlem driving instruction center is located in one of the worst places possible for drivers. Upon exiting the center, you have two choices. Choice one is a simple right hand turn. You only have to cross one bike lane then proceed about a hundred yards to a signed intersection.
Choice two is a seriously complicated left hand turn where you must first cross a bike lane, then a lane of traffic, then you have about 2 meters to merge into other lane of traffic which has just been released from a red light (thus hard to judge speed), before encountering yet another quasi-bike crossing 15 meters further on which in turn is just 10 meters before a busy railroad crossing. Only a complete moron would attempt this. If you really, really had to go in that direction then it would be much easier to turn right and pull a U-turn at the signed intersection. But remember, this is me we’re talking about. The story of my life…
“Turn left”, instructed the examiner.
After sitting there waiting for about 7 minutes, I gunned it in front of a little old lady on a bike going one direction, a snotty little teenager on a moped going the other and a snotty old man in a red Volvo SUV hell bent on making a green-light at the next intersection.
Thinking that I would be admonished for taking such a chance, I was a bit shocked when my examiner said “You could have made that turn a lot sooner. There were ample opportunities.”
“What the #$%&!” I thought, but said, “I just wanted to be able to judge the speeds, that’s all.”
It gets better.
The second admonishment came at a very simple intersection. The only problem here was an overgrown hedge. I approached the intersection with caution, looking both ways, then slowing a bit more to check the bike path beyond the hedge.
“It’s a yield, not stop!” he said loudly.
“I know, but I just wanted to be sure that there were no bikes coming.”
“You already checked that. They don’t fall out of the sky you know.”
Whoa. This was going really bad. I started to think that I wasn’t going to pass. But I stuck to the rules and didn’t let him get under my skin.
The third incident was the worst. It had just started to rain – hard, and my instructor asked me to pull over and do a “bokkie”. Weird term, I know. But the Dutch find it very important to go backwards around a corner. I guess this is because of the narrow streets and double-parkers – you never know when you’ll have to back out of a situation. Not to worry though. My little instructor had taught me well.
I signaled, pulled over toward the curb with windshield wipers going furiously and brought the car to a stop. I checked my mirrors. I checked my windows. Everything was clear so I put the car in reverse and started moving before turning the wheel. But this corner had no light posts or other signs so there was no reference point on where corner actually was. I ended up a bit in the middle of the other street. A car pulled into the street in front of me, but my instructor had always taught me to keep going until I was in the right position.
The rain was coming in torrents now, pelting the car.
“Beeeeeeep!!!”
“What the…?”. I thrashed my head around, looking for the source of the horn. There was a car behind me with no lights on. I had almost backed into it.
I pushed hard on the brakes, depressed the clutch and thrust the car into first gear. I started to pull forward and toward the curb, but the car in front of me had pulled to close. I threw on my turn signal.
“You are confusing the traffic!” bellowed the examiner. “That is the worst thing that you can do!”
I felt a kick under my seat and looked into the rearview. The friendly little instructor caught my eye and motioned for me to keep moving straight ahead.
I recomposed myself and slowly pulled forward and out of the turn. It was over. I knew in my heart that it was over. After more than 20 years of driving, I was going to fail this test. So what are you going to do now?
I pulled calmly into the next intersection, signaled properly, and made a very nice turn.
“So, where did you learn such good English?” I asked as if nothing had happened.
I think that my composure caught him by surprise and twenty minutes later with the car finally parked back at the driving center, I knew the examiners complete history as an air traffic controller in Chicago.
As all three of us walked back into the exam center, it was a real crap-shoot. I could see that my instructor was worried…very worried. But at that point I didn’t really care. I walked into the examiner’s office smiling.
When we reached the examiners desk, he didn’t even sit down. He had reached his decision.
“Congratulations,” he said extending his hand. “You have passed the test.”
Look at that happy camper! (No teeth...it's the law!)
