My dad taught me to drive when I was 13 in the good old-fashioned Midwestern way: We took a tractor with a manual transmission into the middle of a field and practiced over and over again until I could drive around the field without killing the tractor.
A year later when I was eligible for my driver’s permit, I had to take the written test four times before I passed it. I suppose if I had actually opened the driver’s manual I might have only had to take it once or twice, but, you know, I was 14 and I knew everything.
When I was a sophomore in high school I took driver’s education and when I finally turned 16 in May I didn’t have to parallel park or worry about who went first at an uncontrolled intersection because I didn’t have to take a driving test. My successful completion of driver’s education was enough to allow me to be on the streets unaccompanied just a few days after my sixteenth birthday.
By the time I took the written test in Mississippi ten years later I had quite a few years of practical driving experience under my belt and, as a result, I passed that test with flying colors.
A couple of years later I was overjoyed to learn that Mississippi had a reciprocal agreement with Germany and I wouldn’t need to spend hundreds of Euros for driving lessons. Once again, I only needed to take a written exam. German driving tests are known for their difficulty, but I was able to pass even their written test with just one error.
I only drove a few times when I was in Germany, but since those licenses never expire I can use my German driver’s license to drive in America for now. And I have: I have been be-bopping around town ever since I got back two weeks ago in my old Chevy Malibu knowing that technically I am legal, but feeling a little bit dishonest about it nevertheless.
Therefore, one of my top priorities upon my return has been to get my Iowa driver’s license. Of course I want to be able to “legally” drive, but, as my American readers will confirm, a driver’s license functions as so much more than merely a license to drive here. And besides, the sooner I get my driver’s license, the sooner I will begin to really re-exist here.
So, last week I picked up the driver’s manual and have been flipping through it at my leisure. I took the written exam yesterday and very nearly had a perfect score. (My only error occurred because I carelessly marked a wrong box.) However, since my last American driver’s license had been expired for more than a year I was told that I would also need to take a driving test.
Even though I have never taken an actual driving test, I made an appointment for this morning with confidence. After all, I have been driving for nearly half of my life and besides, as long as I wear my seatbelt and use my turn signals how tough could it actually be?
When I arrived I joked around with the driving examiner because he had misspelled my name on the form. I proudly handed him my mom’s insurance card and calmly waited as he inspected my mom’s 2001 Pontiac that only has 37,000 miles on it. I didn’t pay attention to what he was marking as we drove around town through uncontrolled intersections and parallel parked. I turned off the radio and remembered to keep both hands on the steering wheel. I was glad I had worn a shirt that complements my complexion and hoped that for once in my life I would take a decent driver’s license photo.
And when we got back to the courthouse 15 minutes later, he told me he doesn’t like the way that I “roll” through stop signs and that he will see me again when I can actually come to a complete stop.
You see, I thought I had brought most of my finishing supplies like quilt batting, ribbon, buttons, etc. with me to the US, and I am still pretty sure that I did, but for the life of me I couldn’t find anything in my mess of things that are only about half unpacked. 
