[WARNING: rough road long, rambling post ahead. It’s a rough cut from a mind with some sleep deficit — but I wanted to get it down before I forget…]

That’s right, today was Judgement Day. I can’t blame last night’s sleeplessness merely on the heat. As loyal readers may recall, last month I passed my driving theory test. I recently entered the next phase, after returning from a trip to Canada (where I used my Quebec licence for the last time). Over these last two weeks, I’ve had three practical driving sessions (prácticas), in a car and with the instructor from my autoescuela (driving school).

Josep, my instructor, is not an easy man to understand. Even the other students, who speak perfect Spanish and Catalan, say this. He speaks very quickly, in Spanish (for me) with a strong Catalan accent. He enjoys playing with my surname, trying out variations on how he thinks it ought to be pronounced. Since I know how to drive, the main idea was to acclimatize me to Barcelona driving, get used to possible test locations, and work out the kinks (or manias, as the school receptionist calls them). So for our first session, he had me drive around Montjuïc. This is Barcelona’s “mountain”, full of parks, a castle fortress, giant cemetery and many of the 1992 Olympic installations. It’s also where they tend to do the driving tests. The streets of Montjuïc are notable for two things: tour buses and driving school cars. You can’t miss those hundreds of practice cars, with their distinctive panels on top and blue “L” signs in the back window. (I’ve been assured this does not stand for “Loser”.) Unfortunately (for my pocketbook), mine had to be 90-minute practice sessions, since driving or returning from the Montjuïc area takes about a half-hour from where my school is located. (Word to the frugal: choose a driving school close to the Montjuïc/Poble Sec area!)

Josep was quite happy with my driving, enjoyed chatting with/at me, although he couldn’t help his driving instructor ways, sometimes telling me when to shift gears, shouting ¡tranquila! or no corras if he thought I was going a bit too zippily in the 40km/h zones. But he said he liked the way I drove, that my driving was very suave. In spite of this, he likes to shout. Really took me back, around 20 years ago, to my first driving school lessons. Often, as we were returning back along Gran Vía or up Marina past the Sagrada Familia, he fell asleep. He kept lurching awake in the stillness of traffic lights. I asked him what time he got up in the mornings: 5am. And goes to bed (or rather, falls asleep in front of the TV) around 2am. Fortunately he gets some catnaps in during the day, too. At first I wasn’t sure how I felt about paying someone so much money to doze off… on the other hand I can’t imagine a much worse fate than being driven ten times a day (generally by bad drivers) from Guinardó to Poble Sec and back. He’s a “real character”, as they say, but ultimately he’s caring, and a good teacher (all that sleeping and smoking aside).

It’s very unlike learning to drive in North America. You can’t just get a learner’s permit and drive with your parents, for example. And even an expert driver couldn’t do it all in one day — in several weeks, maybe, if you’re lucky. In California, 15 years ago, I did a theory test, eye test, driving test, had my fingerprints and a photo taken, and received a shiny, hologram-bearing licence, still hot from the machine. All in a few hours. I don’t remember how much it cost, but I’m pretty sure it was less than $50.

I think maybe you can learn with your parents (or friends) here, but only if they’ve equipped their car with a full set of duplicate pedals — clutch, brake, gas. But who would do that? Hence the autoescuelas. Pay to install pedals in your friend’s car, or pay a driving school. Once, when we were late (due to heavy traffic), Josep told me ¡corre, corre!: floor it! He groaned when I stopped for an amber light. He said that, although it’s a “little illegal”, he wanted to take full advantage of his short (45 minute) lunch break, in a 9am to 9pm day. As I raced back as fast as I legally could, a few times I’m sure I felt the gas pedal sinking to the floor under my foot, as he pressed it down on his side.

The second session, we drove around the one-way hilly streets of Poble Sec. The third one (just this past Tuesday) involved cambios de sentido, which are U-turns. I asked if I should parallel park, and did one, but we didn’t really practice that (I’m good at it, anyhow). On Montjuïc, there are many roundabouts, strange multi-lane traffic flow structures which you need to be familiar with for the exam. In my exam today, I wasn’t asked to parallel park (the nightmare of most North American first-time drivers), but was asked to “reverse my direction” twice (essentially, find a legal way of doing a U-turn). I also went out on the autopista, headed for the airport. In fact, after all my nerves in the past days/weeks about having to go through this test (and knowing that if I failed for some stupid reason, I’d have to keep forking out money for at least four more practice sessions and wait for another exam until September), I felt quite calm. Maybe waking up at 6h20 helped — I was too sleepy to be stressed out.

There were five of us (from the school) doing the test today. We met at 7am, and Josep elected one student to drive us to the test area. Three of us piled into the cramped back seat, and one other student met us at the test location with her moto. All the others were young and nervous, a couple of them doing the test for a second time, and somehow I found it hard to be anxious with people more nervous than me around. I took on a consoling, reassuring, joking and distracting role.

The examiner was a woman, and I think we got lucky because she was very friendly. Josep had told me, when I mentioned my nerves the other day, that the examiners are “obliged” to be well educated and to be in a good mood. I wasn’t sure I believed that — I’ve heard plenty of horror stories to the contrary, but today it sure was true. The three other students went first, and young (19-year-old) Carlos and I were in the last set. He was delighted when I offered to go ahead of him; he wanted a chance to see how it plays out, how the examiner acts. She sits in the back seat, while the instructor (who cannot give any tips or instruction, obviously) sits in the passenger seat — I suppose to work the pedals, should something go wrong?

The first guy was told he’d passed, and the second two girls seemed happy when they got back, so I assumed they’d passed too. How embarrassing, I wondered, would it be to be this guy with years of driving experience…and the only one to fail? But the thought quickly passed, and thankfully I was not debilitatingly nervous at the actual moment (can’t say the same for some moments, lying in bed last night).

As far as having your driving scrutinized goes, it was almost a nice experience. The examiner was soft-spoken, spoke clearly in Spanish for me (although in Catalan with everyone else, and happily jabbering away with Josep during my exam). I assumed Josep had told her, but she didn’t realize I already had a licence until part-way through. We had merged onto the highway (very smoothly) and she made a comment about how I look over my shoulder a lot. It reminded her of a Canadian she tested two years ago (good memory!), who did the same thing. Apparently (she said), in Canada “they’re obligated” to do this. I told her that’s right, shoulder-checking was one of the most important things I remember from driving school. I had worried about this being an issue (people here don’t do it), but she just warned me to make sure they’re quick checks, if I was going to keep doing it. It all made sense (to her) when she finally realized that I am a Canadian-trained driver. Some examiners might have failed me for less, if you believe those horror stories (though I’m not sure I do, any more).

During the test, I figured I was doing fine, because the examiner kept saying “muy bien” whenever I made a lane change or manoeuvre. I was reassured when I saw how others in our group drove — though they’re careful and law-abiding, they’re still a little “rough” with the clutch, brake, gas. It does take time to make it instinctive — I sure remember! By the end of the test, we were even chatting away as she asked me things about driving in Canada. Still, it was a huge relief when she asked me to pull over (just a quick double-parked stop) and hand the reins to Carlos.

At the end of the exam, the examiner asked for my Quebec licence. You’re only allowed to have a licence in one place, so they’ll swap it for a Spanish one (I was planning to mail it back to the SAAQ in Quebec anyhow). The examiner hadn’t said anything, but the fact that she was asking for my current licence gave away (if there had been any doubt) that I’d passed. I couldn’t celebrate, though, because poor Carlos still had to have his turn. He did fine, and (just barely) caught a tricky red stop light about 5 metres after turning at a green light. I (or any jittery examinee) could easily have missed it and thereby failed. But, he spotted it at the last moment and lurched us to a stop in time. Yay Carlos! I felt proud of him.

When we returned to the exam starting point (where the three others were waiting), I asked the woman if I could avoid putting an “L” sign in the car window for the first year, and having the 80km/h limitation put on me. Luckily, I had enough foresight to ask for a letter from Quebec’s SAAQ (motor vehicles department) that shows how many years of driving experience I have, along with my accident/demerit record. I will submit this to the department here, and she has assured me I should be able to have those limitations lifted.

And then, with much paperwork in tow, she was off to another school’s car, and Josep was left to give us the scoop. We were shocked to hear that we hadn’t all passed. The two girls, who went in the second “batch” and had felt they’d passed, both failed (ellas han suspendido). I don’t know why they weren’t told right away. They were quite upset (one of them, who was really nervous, was on her second exam). So the three of us guys had to limit our celebrations to nonchalant handshakes and pats on the back. (around us, other groups of drivers were seen bursting into relieved, ecstatic tears upon hearing they’d passed)

Two of our group disappeared on motos, and Carlos drove the rest of us back “home”. He seemed more nervous and error-prone on the drive back than he’d been during the exam! Ah, well, that’s new drivers for you…

As for me, all I can say is, with a smile of relief so enormous you can’t imagine: ¡He aprobado! I passed!

Was my number up? Well, I did disappear for a while, I guess about a month… Was traveling (my first trip back to Canada post-immigration to Spain), visited with friends and family, met and spent some quality time with my wonderful, gorgeous, brand-new (okay, 10-week-old but new to me) niece…

Am now back home, in Barcelona. Had a busy week of driving practice sessions, also wrote my PER (Patrón de Embarcaciones de Recreo, aka “boating”) exam. (The Catalan acronym is the awkward “PEE” — Patró d’Embarcacions d’Esbarjo.) This one was longer and more complicated, but at the same time more forgiving than the driving theory test, since you were allowed up to 17 wrong out of 65…but I got only two wrong. It involved a wide range of of new concepts, and so I’m pretty “chuffed” to have done so well, including 100% on all the critical regulation questions, buoys, coastal navigation solutions (which are not just multiple choice; your drawn/written solution must also be right).

What most deserves a mention right now, though, was a play we went to see last night. It was in English, up on Montjuïc at the Teatre Lluire, with Catalan surtitles. [Part of Grec’08.] My favourite playwright/director by far is Quebec’s Robert Lepage. I have seen every of his works I could, include six-hour-plus epics (The Dragons’ Trilogy). This show, “A Disappearing Number” by the troupe Complicité (conceived/directed by Simon McBurney), was brilliant, and reminded me very much of a Lepage-style production. Very technical, lots of video projections, moving/adapting set pieces, innovative leaps through time and space. It was far more captivating than a movie, and the two hours flew by.

It followed several parallel stories in different times, mainly revolving around the life of Indian math genius Srinivasa Ramanujan (1887-1920). Imagine a play all about math, starting out with a whiteboard lecture that was probably above most peoples’ heads, tons of formulae, abstract concepts, string theory…and yet every person there was completely enraptured, I’m convinced. The five curtain calls the actors received at the end were proof of that (I was impressed that the Barcelona audience didn’t give a standing ovation — no “freebies” to troupes performing here, as in some cities that shall remain nameless — even though these folks certainly deserved one).

It was a brilliant piece of work. A true inspiration — the kind of thing that leaves you wishing you’d gotten involved in theatre years ago…

A few weeks back I enrolled in an autoescuela (driving school). It has the unlikely name of “Racing School” (something you’re not likely to be doing on the busy streets around here). Although I got my first driver’s licence 20 years ago, and have no demerits or anything…my Quebec licence is worth, um, nothing, here. Ironically, I can drive with it (and an international licence) for up to three (or six?) months, but after that I need a Spanish licence. And this means going to school — there’s no way around it.

And you can’t just flip through the rulebook (the one I have here is 350 pages!), take a theory exam and then take a driving exam. In California I did that all in one day, for something like $25. There’s no such thing as a learner’s licence here, either. Nope, you’ve got to spend a fortune (300-500 Euros at least in Barcelona) to enroll in a school, take some classes, and then you can do your theory exams. After that it’s into the car for practical sessions, until you’re ready for the practical (in-car) exam.

So tomorrow, I’m off to an intensive classroom session. 10am to 8pm, with two hours for lunch. Same again on Sunday. There goes my weekend (but better than another school, which insisted I spend three months on daily one-hour classes, slowly working through all the material). Hopefully this weekend will cram enough of the subtleties of speed limits for all vehicle types, all road types, the multitude of signs and road markings, the first aid rules, how many demerits you get for various offences, etc, so I can pass the theory exam in a few weeks.

Then I get to hop into a car for the stressful experience of preparing for the driving test. Apparently, in some parts of Spain it’s a breeze, but the various schools have warned me that here in Barcelona they’re especially picky. You have to learn exactly what they watch for (even if they’re things you wouldn’t normally do in “real life”) and learn to do them right. And for the exam, you have at least two other people in the car with you, with the examiner sitting in the back seat giving you directions. In Spanish, and likely with a Catalan accent (which I still find harder to follow). Sounds like fun.

I’m actually impressed with the driving school system (though it’s annoying if you feel you should be “entitled” to drive). What I don’t understand is why, in spite of all this great training, Spain still has such bad accident statistics!

I’ll be glad to eventually be done with all this, and hopefully without spending too much more money… The minimum you could spend, if you pass all tests the first time, would be maybe 300 or 400 Euros (if you find a cheap school). If you were learning “for real” (i.e. had never driven before), you might need 20 or 30 practical sessions in the car, which could easily reach toward 1,000 Euros.

It’s a good reminder that driving is not a right, it’s a privilege. Here, in fact, it really is a luxury.

P.S. After I finally get my licence, I’ll get to slap a big “L” (I call it the “Loser sign”) in the back window of the car, whenever I drive. For a full year. And I won’t be able to go faster than 80km/h, even on the autopistas!

P.P.S. I don’t understand why Spain refuses to accept licences from Canada and the U.S., yet happily converts licences for people from Argentina, Uruguay, Mexico, …(not saying they’re all bad drivers, but…) Obviously, all E.U. licence-holders can also just do a canje (swap) as well. I’ve even heard of people going so far as to get residency in Ireland, swap their North American licence there, then make their move to Spain, swapping the licence again. Just to avoid going back to school and tests. To me, this is a bit too much — sure it’s stressful and no fun(*), but just get on with it!

(*) Actually, it is kind of fun. My teacher (Josep) is a brusque, jovial, loud Catalan man who likes to pound the desk with his fist or a pointer, bellowing at the student who got something wrong. In my earlier years this kind of teaching behaviour would have traumatized me, but now that I’m a “mature student”, I just find it entertaining. Hopefully, his antics will make the 16 hours pass en un plis-plas.

Our last chapter left our hapless hero preparing himself mentally for a gruelling visit to the comisería. It was an unusually cool Thursday (at the end of March), and it went something like this:

I’m sitting outdoors, with frozen hands, at a police station just off Balmes. There is a large group of us (at least a hundred) sequestered in a parking garage, part of which is cordoned off and contains more than 200 chairs, about half of which are full. Full of couples, children, babies. Many South Americans are here, as are a good number of Asians, and very few rubios like myself (in fact, as far as I can tell, I’m the only one). The police gatekeeper told me to take a number, “como en la carnicería” (”like at the butcher’s”, how appropriate) and go sit in a chair. The parking structure where we’re sitting is covered, but open, and today is quite cool. And there are exhaust fumes.

It’s not yet clear to me how you know when your number is called. I’ve seen no electronic signs, heard no beeps, and no one has been calling people in. We just sit, looking mildly confused. I think you have to get up and look over a corrugated metal wall, toward the main building, when you think your time is getting close(?). I’ll go check in a bit — for the moment, I imagine there’s no rush, since none of the people around me has moved in at least twenty minutes. The buses are on strike today, so I hoped it might be less busy here. If this is less busy, I’d hate to see busy… A few people read as they wait (newspapers, the sports section of course), but many just sit, staring into nothingness, perhaps pondering the uncertainty of their immigration situation. Most are here as couples or entire families, so at least they have someone to talk to. Of course, many are talking on cell phones.

At least we’re in a place with natural light — curved whitewashed arches overhead with rows of small square skylights. A brisk wind blows into the parking structure, over us before being swallowed by the down-ramp. Several people wear Barça hats and scarves — an attempt to “impress” the officials (asks my cynical mind), or just genuine fandom? Surely the latter, Mr. Cynic. The chairs are light wood with black metal bases; actually surprisingly nice (considering the grim surroundings) and clean.

A lot of people, recently, have been getting up, I guess going to check the status(?). Will go do the same. [a few minutes pass] Well, there’s nothing I can see that shows the “current” number being processed, so I’m not sure why everyone is watching “the yard” so intently. Is this what prisoners do? Just watch the guards, since there’s nothing else going on.

Finally — finally! — a guy in jeans and a jean jacket came and started calling numbers: B60, 61, 62…eventually got to C0, 1, 2… Obviously they’re taking large “batches” of us into another waiting room. I wonder if C91 (mine) will be in the next batch, or more likely two or three batches later. The only problem is that each batch is being called about an hour apart.

11h00 — B60 to C10
12h00 — to C42
12h45 — C32-63
14h12 — a bunch more, and yay, I’m inside, in the WARMTH!

I got really chilled — after arriving around 9h45 in the morning, I waited outside in the cold (should have worn a thicker sweater under my “spring” jacket) for about 4.5 hours. They close each day at 14h, so I was lucky, the rest of the people (starting in the mid-”D”s) were sent home, to try again another day. There was much shouting and arguing, but Mr. Jean Jacket was having none of it. He was actually very calm, diplomatic, in control. Easy for me to say, since I wasn’t in the “sorry, try again” group.

I was in the final batch to get into the warm, (indoor) waiting room. Luckily, once there, I was one of the first people to be called forward. I was shivering uncontrollably, and my hands were like ice. Inside, at last there was one of those signs with big red letters that indicates which number should go into which office. C91, yes! — and off I go to sit in front of a matronly woman (no police uniforms here, except for the guards outside). She is quite friendly, although I think some of her co-workers are bitching that Officer Jean Jacket let such an enormous batch of us in at the last minute…by all rights, they should be going off to lunch by now!

I give her my passport, head-shots and other documents, and she asks for the resguardo of my original solicitud. I wasn’t sure what they wanted here — somehow my application for the residency was combined with the visa application (a good thing, that saved me much waiting once in Spain), but I didn’t have this paperwork. I had a copy of my original visa application in Montreal, but this was not what she wanted. In the end, after I nervously explained that I really didn’t have anything else, she shrugged and continued on processing me.

She was friendly, and at one point, mentioned the weather — how cold it had been recently! I thought she was saying this because she could see my quivering legs or blue lips, and so I made some joke about how miserable it was to be sitting outside for so long. Just then, in a very motherly way (or so I thought), she reached out and said: “Let me have your hand.” Wow, so friendly! I gently lay my left hand in hers, ready for an embrace of warmth.

She pushed away my left, and grabbed at my right. Fine, I thought, that one’s cold too. But she kept twisting my wrist in a strange way, and it took a moment of this “wrestling” before I realized she wasn’t trying to comfort me, but rather was trying to take my fingerprint. “Ahhh!” I said, laughing and blushing, finally understanding. She took my right index finger, plunked it down (in a motherly, loving way, it must be said) onto the inkpad, and pressed it into the form. Then she handed me some Kleenex to clean off the ink.

And that was it, more or less. She gave me yet another resguardo, and told me I could pick up my TIE in a month, at another indicated address. Many things had to be put on hold until then — for example, opening a bank account. But a couple of weeks ago, at the end of April, I went to another police station, and picked up my sparkling new identity card. Although we’d had some beautiful warm weather in the intervening month, this was another cool, rainy day. But this time, no line-ups, no butcher’s numbers, no delays. I walked right in (the building seemed like a ghost town, and I had to find my way to the correct floor and office), showed my passport to some other matronly women, and — just like that — got my new card. And that means that I’m now con papeles (”with papers”, i.e. “legal”).

Ah, that sound is magic…it’s pouring rain outside. It’s the first time we’ve had any serious rain since I arrived in Barcelona almost a month ago. The entire region (Catalunya) is suffering from a drought, the reservoirs are very low, and we are always reminded to conserve water. It’s really something that’s on people’s minds here; I’d say that, compared to Canada, there’s more consciousness in the general population of (water) conservation.

The city of Barcelona “proper” (not including those garden-waterers in outlying areas of the metropolitan region) has low water consumption per capita (for a major Western city): apparently around 110 litres per person. Catalunya’s average, on the other hand, is 272 litres per person, more in line with much of North America, I believe. (Yes, I know calculating a true water footprint is more complicated, due to indirect water usage such as the water needed to produce goods, fuel, etc. Indirectly, we consume thousands of virtual litres per day.)

Of course, this year’s Expo in Zaragoza (June 14 to September 14) is focused on the theme of “Water and Sustainable Development.” Very timely…but how hypocritical will it be if they go ahead and build the mega-casino complex in the dry steppe landscape of Aragón, not far from the expo site?

In Montreal, there aren’t even water meters in peoples’ homes, so household water usage is “free” (infrastructure costs are included in the property taxes). You don’t receive a regular utility bill, so you have no personal cost associated with your consumption of water. People run their showers for a half-hour, water their lawns without conscience, run the tap for ages while washing dishes. I used to be one of these people.

As for me, luckily my Spanish “tutor” has trained me, years ago, to shower in three phases: wet-lather-rinse. The middle phase (water turned off) can be as long and luxurious as you like! (ha ha) You’re not as likely to get cold here during that phase; nevertheless, I showered that way in Canada for the past couple of years without any grief… (Someone told me in the U.S. it’s referred to as a Navy shower.)

Every weekend, we’ve been going to art exhibitions. Not big ones at the major galleries, but smaller ones (that also tend to be free, perfect for us “cheapies”). Last Saturday we went to see one at Casa Amatller, called Dones d’aigua (”Water Women”), which featured water-related photos of women and girls in Africa, alongside short essays about the problems caused by the extreme amount of time they spend fetching water each day. Imagine spending between five and twelve hours, daily, on the basic necessity of getting water — not to mention carrying 20 or 30 kilogram jugs all the way back home! And with all your time spent on this necessity, there is no time for school, fun or anything else.

It was a sobering reminder — even in Catalunya, a drought isn’t really a drought, and we’re hardly suffering from it. You turn on the tap and water comes out. It may smell funny sometimes (the Brita filter takes care of that), but you can drink it without getting sick. And if there were a real water shortage, we could always just drink wine…