Geneva 2001

 Crunch, crunch, crunch!

 I took pleasure in pulverizing the poor innocent autumn leaves accumulating on the ground on that cold October day.

 I walked slowly to the car park outside the company compound as if I was being dragged to the guillotine.  It was not that I hated driving. It was just a complex issue for me.

And I most definitely did NOT like Monsieur Morrison. Although, that too might imply a personal sentiment which would have been too much for him. He was just tedious.

And a driving lesson with this him was not in any way a pleasant way to spend any part of my birthday.

Since I was a child, I made sure I found a way to joyously celebrate my birthday in one way or another. This was not joyous in the least.

 Monsieur Morrison was waiting in the car as usual smelling of the combination of Old Spice cologne and cigarettes he must have just finished puffing up. He smiled at me or was that really a smile? I often wondered.

I don’t really need to take official lessons because I already have a British driving license but I have not been driving for years and it seemed the responsible thing to do. I cannot drive back home in Saudi and it was not always possible to rent a car when I was travelling.

 I sighed deeply.

 I remember my first driving lesson which was so delightful, albeit very bumpy. It was a ride along the coast just outside Jeddah. My uncle had a brand-new Camaro and he told me:

“Just hop in and I will teach you to drive”.

 The car got splashed with sea water and mud by the end. We were all laughing. This was the normal path to learn driving in my country.

 Well, for boys! But I had expected to follow the same path…soon.

 Although women were still not allowed to drive officially in KSA at the time, some did unofficially. The formal stamp was considered to be just a matter of time.

It was up to the mid 1980’s when things started to go crazy!

Time! Wasted precious time!

 I decided not to wait and took another path.

We used to spend summer vacations in London so in the mid 80’s I started to take lessons there. It fit in with my plans to study and settle there. I had a lot of aspirations that I believed, at the time, could not be achieved back home.

Mainly to simply be me.

Driving was just the icing on the cake. Or maybe it was a more essential ingredient, I was never quite sure.

I just knew I had to learn to drive and get my driver’s license regardless, or perhaps because of, being thwarted on this issue. It was a challenge!

I had already set on a journey of plotting to ‘relocate’ and my family trying to persuade me to come back every time I went away.

That also included my discovery that I had a rather peculiar luck with driving instructors.

The first one was a retired army major, whose name my mind opted to forgot.

He insisted on being very precise!

 “Once you pass the curb by 1 foot, turn your driving wheel 45 degrees to the left!”

If he thinks I was going even a little bit too fast

“Remember that a car is really a weapon in your hand”.

A bit too slow

“Are you a grandmother? This is a car, not a bicycle”.

Good times!!

The following year, it was John who was very easy going. Way too easy going!

From our first lesson, he started to tell me about his wife who divorced him. When I expressed my sympathy he said at the end of the lesson:

“You are quite unusual for a woman, you listen!”

I have to say after that blanket judgmental statement about women, my sympathy started to turn towards the absentee wife.

The lessons became a kind of therapy sessions! For him! Yet, I was paying for them!

Sometimes I wondered if he would even react if I were to head for a wall. Probably, but only to say mildly: “Better avoid that wall, love”.

I really should have asked for a different instructor but I felt reluctant to kick a person when he was down. The guy was so troubled and just seemed too vulnerable, poor soul!

Luckily once I started at Imperial college I had to move to South Kensington so I changed the agency office altogether.

Luke was wonderful. Calm, collected, good natured and actually instructive.

Eventually, I was given a date for my driving test and it was assigned to a test Centre in Wimbledon.

Which if anyone knows London is quite hilly. Furthermore, the test Centre was half-way up a hill on a narrow two-lanes road with busses going up & down. Which meant that on my test, I would have had to apply that thing about making space for a bus.

I was nervous so Luke told me:

“We will practice that route so much that you can do it in your sleep”.

Sure, the test was quite a breeze. At the end the examiner asked me to do an illegal U-turn to avoid a longer route back to the Centre.

I arched one eye brow at him but he smiled and said:

“This is not part of the test and is totally on me”.

Officially he was supposed to give me the result at the end so he said:

“Do I really need to tell you the result?”

Eh, voila, I got my precious British driving license.

Fast forward to Geneva in 2001, where I ended up to work for a major multi-national company!

The narrow streets of Petit-Lancy, where the Harrison & Ferguson office was situated, did not lend themselves to driving lessons for sure. At some point he signaled to me to turn right, rather absent mindedly, and I hit the curb.

SHIT!

It was a reflex reaction to the mental challenge I seemed to struggle with in estimating distances precisely. Later, as I got my car I realized a big part of it was how responsive the car was and getting comfortable with it.

I stole a side glance and sure enough, there was the teenage drama queen with the blond hair, pointed nose and pouty mouth! That is how I always saw him when he goes on these tirades. He must have been in his 60’s but he had such a flare for theatrics, always inflating every little thing into a big issue.

“Young lady it is not polite to swear”.

“I am sorry M. Morrison. I was not swearing at you, just at the curb”.

“You are swearing at the curb?”

Chill man. I thought and muttered in what I hoped was a very low voice but apparently it was not.

“It is not like I said the F word!”

“The F word????”

Yes, I am an adult woman and I can swear at anything in the world if I want to. I thought.

I wanted to say something to divert his attention before he set off.

Too late, he was off moaning about what his fiancé would do without him. I mean how could she live without HIM once I finished him off?

Seriously, the guy seems to think I was a hit girl paid by the mob to separate him from his lady love.

Did he snatch a mobster’s girl?

And my tool?

By hitting the curb? This is the worse that I ever did for God’s sake!

I was with my brother when he hit the curb once, in Bristol-UK, so badly that the tire punctured. He most definitely was not tracked by INTERPOL as a person of interest in mob activities!!

Mine was a soft one. Yet, hitting the curb for a woman seems somehow more dangerous.

Crazy women out for destruction of the world by hitting the curb! Watch out people!

Or maybe it was just me who sets alarm bells wherever I go!

As he continued acting out his tragic script, my thoughts were getting wilder and my notorious temper was building up to a breaking point. All I kept thinking of was that it was my BLOODY BIRTHDAY today. Surely, there was a better way to spend it.

I took the car back to the parking. M. M asked me when I wanted to have the next lesson.

I snapped!

 I snarled at him ‘When hell freezes over’ and slammed the door behind me.

A voice in my head was celebrating and shouting.

I went on with my day celebrating my birthday and swearing at anything that I didn’t like!

Later, I learnt to love driving because I just loved my little red MG TF.

Boys who are scared of the ride getting a wee bit bumpy, not so much. If a little bump on the road scares you, do not ride with me. I am not daunted by bumpy roads, I had a life full of them.