A Free Man

“She’s got eyes of deepest blue
He’s got hair that’s green
Everybody’s got nice stuff but me
I wish I had the kind of cash
To make heads turn when I walk past
I wish I could live in luxury
Everybody’s got nice stuff but me…”

-The Dead Milkmen - “Everybody’s Got Nice Stuff But Me”

As our bus pulled away from Oxford on a cold late-March morning, Dr. O’C uttered the phrase that I knew would define the next month or so of our lives:

“We’re homeless with too much luggage.”

And that was the case as we trundled our way down to Oz, via family visits on the way. Living out of a few suitcases, going places but nowhere fast. It wasn’t easy, but it was manageable - especially with an end date, a light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe I was delusional, but I figured most of the stuff that we shipped from Britain would get to Oz shortly after we did. I assumed that I’d be reunited with my computer, the bulk of my clothes, my books, my kitchen knives, and so on. If you had told me that four months after leaving Britain we would still be living out of the same suitcases, well, I certainly would have packed more socks.

But, nearly four months to the day that Simpsons Removal and Storage came and collected our worldly possessions I’m still cycling through the same handful of underwear, still staring at blank walls in our new home, still cursing at the creaky old Mac laptop. I’m still shivering my way to the bus stop in the morning in a completely unsuitable jacket (that I nearly threw away when we left Sweden). And Z has grown out of all the Georgia Bulldogs clothing that we brought with us. At least that’s what Dr. O’C tells me.

Now, you’re probably thinking to yourself, how long does it take for a container full of personal itemes to get from England to Australia? Is four months a long time? Average cargo ship takes 32 -40 days - less than six weeks - to make that voyage, which begs the question - where has our stuff been?

Well for the first two months, it sat in the Simpsons Removals and Storage* warehouse in Kent. You see, when Dr. O’C negotiated the deal with Simpsons (this was during her “Don’t Get Done, Get Dom” phase) they neglected to point out that despite being a moving company, they actually suck quite badly at moving things. This lapse in providing us with accurate information sort of foreshadowed the remainder of our experience with them. Customer service is not Simpsons Removal and Storage’s strong point. They neglected to let us know anything about our shipment, they neglected to let us know when we owed them money, they neglected to let us know when payments didn’t clear properly.

To be fair to Simpsons**, as uninspired I am to do so, it’s not all their fault. They finally got our container to Melbourne in late June. For the last month it has been sitting in Customs in Melbourne waiting for inspection. It was inspected and contraband was found in the form of a stupid little wooden seagull, common in seafood restaurants all over the Atlantic seaboard. Australian Customs prides itself in protecting Australia’s borders from the entry of illegal and harmful goods, potential terrorist threats and unauthorised people. And apparently tacky sculpture. The best part? We had the option of paying Customs $90 to destroy the seagull or $260 to irradiate it and make it safe for Australia. I guess you’ve got to pay for all that protection somehow. To add insult to injury, we had to wait another week or so for the customs agents to come back and burn the damn bird.

Barring any unforeseen circumstances the 36 boxes containing the physical trappings of our lives will be on our doorstep by Thursday.

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* I’m repeatedly naming Simpsons Removals & Storage, the shipping company from Kent (UK), because I’m hoping that when ‘Googled’ this post will be available for people who are thinking of using Simpsons Removal & Storage for their move. Don’t do it.

** That was Simpsons Removal and Storage.

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The Dead Milkmen’s “Beelzebubba” is available from .

 

 The Dead Milkmen - "Everybody's Got Nice Stuff But Me" [2:50m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

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Dr. O’C is the latest member of A Free Man’s household to crack the job market. After what will be nearly a year in the purgatory of stay-at-home motherhood (she would quite possibly use a different word), Dr. O’C will re-join the ranks of the gainfully employed next month. This is the latest in a string of successes in our new Antipodean home and reflects one of the reasons that we came down here. And looking at things as a whole, and knocking exuberantly on wood, things are going pretty good in our new home.

A fellow American in Adelaide who stumbled onto my site wrote a post the other day that got me thinking about immigration. Her point is that most expats (and other people for that matter) relish and toss around the word ‘expatriate’ but ‘cringe’ at the word immigrant. ‘Expatriate’ carries with it images of glamour, worldliness, champagne on the Seine and first class round the world flights. ’Immigrant’ conjures images of huddled masses in steerage, midnight dashes over the Rio Grande and closed doors.

I prefer the word ‘expatriate’ myself but the Australian government, probably rightly, would use the word ’immigrant’ to describe me. Maybe it’s time I started to use that word as well. Both Dr. O’C and I come from a long line of immigrants and maybe it was natural that we followed in their footsteps. Dr. O’C’s family emigrated from Ireland to Australia when she and her sister were quite young in the hopes of making a better life for their family. My great-grandparents emigrated from Europe to Canada in the early part of the 20th century to escape a continent that seemed to be in a state of endless war. My parents moved from Canada to the U.S. in the late 60’s to ride the tail end of the post-war boom. And I emigrated from the U.S. through Europe to Australia in the early part of the 21st century in search of a life that I didn’t think was available to me in the U.S.

I suspect that all of the immigrants in our bloodlines had the same goal when they picked up and left their  home - a better life for our families. All of them achieved that goal - they succeeded beyond what they thought possible in the Old Country. Now, with the unemployment rate in the Free Man household reaching 0%* we’re well on the way to that better life that brought us Down Under.

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* We’re going to give Baby Z a few years before including him in employment statistics. 12 or 13 maybe?

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Led Zeppelin’s III is available from .

 

 Led Zeppelin - "Immigrant Song": Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

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“We used to drive
Thru Lafayette and Baton Rouge
In a yellow El Camino
Listening to Howling Wolf…”

-Lucinda Williams -”Lake Charles”

If you grew up, as I did, in the U.S. in the you probably have fond (or other) memories of the Chevrolet El Camino. You couldn’t go far in the American South or West without seeing one of these babies languidly cruising the back roads and byways.  They were almost always piloted by a man with questionable fashion-sense and a coiffure in the style of an Oakland A’s relief pitcher. As your average El Camino crept past it usually left in its wake a funky cloud of ZZ Top, exhaust fumes and marijuana smoke. Sadly, the El Camino is an endangered species these days in most parts of the civilized world.

If you ever wondered what happened to the El Camino, if that’s a mystery that’s plagued your waking hours, I am here to help. When they fell out of favor - probably for the embryonic SUVs - in the late 80’s Chevy didn’t stop making them, they just found a new market. That market? Well, I currently call it home. They call them “Utes” down here in South Australia and their owners are more inclined to Silverchair than the Top, but an El Camino by any other name still smells of exhaust and cannabis.

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We’re here. It’s been a couple of days of physically painful, bleary-eyed jetlag. I don’t even know if I can do it justice. The trip was, well the trip is over. Let’s just say that I am not traveling back to the States or Europe until the trip here is somehow erased from my memory.

I’m currently scavenging someone’s free wireless from a shopping mall somewhere south of the Adelaide city center, so no music or photos. If I’m being honest, I’m not yet enamored. But, I’m open minded, with the full recognition that the more sleep I get, the better things will look.

Impressions so far - bone dry, lots of birds (including wild cockatoos), more American than British.

Z and Dr. O’C are slowly coming into Australian time. We get Timmins back on Friday - I think things will start looking a lot better by then. Hopefully we’ll have our internet sorted by next week and your underwhelming correspondent will be back like cooked crack.  Until then, I’ll be trying to keep me kangaroo tied down.

Oh, and I’m pretty sure that I saw some kind of exotic Australian marsupial crossing the road last night but everyone is trying to tell me it was a cat.

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“Adelaide
On a plane
Far from the United StatesOf LA
Dropping in from outer space
Takes a day…”

-Ben Folds - “Adelaide”

Tomorrow is the day. The last leg of our trip, the longest and probably the most painful. Orlando to L.A. to Sydney to Adelaide. We’ve managed to avoid, and I’m knocking madly on wood, the horrifying stomach contents ejecting virus that’s been making the round of my family. So if all goes well we’ll at least be healthy for the 30 plus hour trip Down Under

.Pretty much all the anxiety that I should have been plagued with for the last six months has blown in like a hurricane in the last few hours. I’m having sporadic minor panic attacks. This move seems vastly more permanent than the move to Oxford a few years ago. I know that there are flights from Australia as well as to, but I also know that I don’t have another intercontinental move in me. If I’m being honest, I’m not sure I have this one in me.

I haven’t a clue what to expect when we finally stagger off the plane in Adelaide. I know that Dr. O’C’s mum has found us a house in a place called Happy Valley. That’s got to be a good sign.Internet access could be sketchy for a while, thus there may be a bit of radio silence here at afreeman.org.

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I was thrilled when I drew Jennifer from No Place Like It for my second go at the Great Interview Experiment. Like your underwhelming correspondent, Jennifer is an expat (a Canadian in Paris) dragged overseas in a net of romantic entanglement with a furriner. Like myself, she seems happy to stay in her adopted home. Unlike myself, she’s a talented graphic artist - all of the images in this post are hers and she does commissioned portraits as well.

It was great to get to know a little more about Jennifer who gave wonderfully thorough answers to my questions. The only thing I’m left unclear about is exactly what a “shooter girl” does…
AFM: We’re both willing and long term expats. What drove you to make the trans-Atlantic migration?

JC: Actually, like most things in my life, it was a question of just going with it… Continue Reading »

 

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I enjoyed my interview with Courtney a couple of weeks ago so much that I asked Neil at Citizen of the Month for another go at his Great Interview Experiment. Thus, late last week, I spent a fair bit of time in the role of either interviewer or interviewee. With all the questions buzzing about the internets I realized that a well conducted interview is a great opportunity to get to know a lot more about both parties.

Invigorated by inquisitions, I’ve decided to declare this week as Great Interview Week here at chrisdellavedova.com. I plan to feature a (hopefully) great interview a day for the week. In addition to the Interview Experiment posts, I’ve got a couple of crackers in the pipe, so check back each day this week to see who’s on the virtual couch.

The subject of the first day of Great Interview Week is, with narcissism appropriate for the blogging medium, me! Turnbaby over at And as the world Turns came up with a set of thought provoking inquiries that, surprisingly, got to the serious side of your underwhelming narrator (here’s her version of the interview). Without further ado…

Turnbaby: I see that you met your beautiful wife in college–I want to know how you met and what drew you to her and her to you.

AFM: Aha, an opportunity! A lot of people assume, as you did, that Dr. O’C and I are married. In fact, we are living in sin and have been for a number of years. We are co-habitors, co-conspirators and - in the eyes of the Australian and British governments - common law spouses. Since we’re interested in neither the Church nor the State’s blessing, that’s likely to remain the case until my Mom pesters me to death about it.

We met in Rocheport, Missouri when I was doing my Ph.D. and she a post-doc. I’ve written a couple of posts about how we met. Is it wimping out just to link to them? What drew me to her initially should be fairly obvious, have you seen her picture - absolutely gorgeous. I can only imagine that it was temporary insanity that drew her to me as I was sporting a nappy beard at the time.

TB: The first thing I noticed about your blog was your excellent taste in music. I love the songlist you initially picked to play for your boy, Z, while he was in utero. Are there some songs that you really love that you won’t play for him yet? Why?

AFM: Not really, I sort of play him what comes to mind. I’m not bothered about strong language as his mother curses like a sailor. I tend to avoid some of the really thrashy punk or heavy metal in my library as I think it’s a bit dissonant for him yet. But beyond that, pretty much Z hears what I hear. Oh, and he’s not allowed to listen to crap - no Justin, no Brittney, no Jessica. I am a music nazi.

TB: You are an Obama supporter and a self avowed “political junkie”. I know he “gives good speech”.But I need more than that. So without using the ‘hope’ or ‘change’ rhetoric–tell me why?

AFM: Because Barack Obama gave me a puppy. This is a great question because this election is more about personalities than I can remember in recent history. I thought about using your thesaurus trick for this question (yep, I read your interview - well played, Madam), but it’s a big deal so enough fannying about. It’s a fair question as they are politically pretty similar. My biggest reason for supporting Obama is because the last eight years have been evidence of how poorly a dynastic presidency works. If Clinton won and then won a second term, the same two families would have run the country for 28 years. This is very dangerous for American democracy. Second, the Boomers have had their time in power and to be honest have done a pretty piss poor job of it (I include Bill I and George II). It’s time for the next generation to take a whack at it. Third, America is in a rut and we need a kick in our collective asses. Obama, with his inspirational rhetoric, gets people thinking about the state of the State and what we can do about it. Clinton or McCain seem cynical and jaded. Oh, and Barack Obama told me to tell you hello.

TB: I love the new template and look of the blog. I’m curious about why you wanted a change and what made you pick this look.

AFM: Well, why I changed the look was because I kind of got my ass kicked in a review by Ask and You Shall Receive. It was a great experience and gave me a lot to think about. I do like the sort of clarity and simplicity that they suggested. If you want some honest feedback on your site, request a review from these guys. But beware that they don’t pull punches. Beyond that, I change it up every few months or so because I am short attention span boy.

TB: How did you end up in Oxford and what did you find most appealing about the idea of living abroad? Did that turn out how you thought it would?

AFM: I wanted to live abroad because I was sick to death of Wal-Marts and strip malls and Fox News. Oh, and a certain red-headed Irish/Aussie woman may have had just a little something to do with it.

I applied for jobs all over Europe but Oxford offered the best opportunities for both of us. It has turned out beyond my wildest dreams. I took to the European lifestyle like a duck to water. There’s just such a hugely better quality of life over here. I don’t know if I can do it justice, but it’s like you realize that there is a whole different way of life that you didn’t know existed when you were in the States. I use this analogy: where my parents live in Florida there are two shopping centers across the street from each other - literally 50 yards away from one another - and everyone drives their cars from one to the other. It just doesn’t occur to anyone to walk across the street rather than unparking your car, sitting at the red light until it turns and then reparking your car nearly as far away from the store you want to go to as you were when you started. Takes about 10 minutes. It’s the realization that it takes you 2 minutes to walk it rather than drive. That’s the change that you go through if you have a good expat experience.

TB: I see that your move to Australia is imminent. Do you think upon seeking employment there that you’ll stick with your current field of endeavor or take a leap into the new all the way?

AFM: It’s all about the new. I’m a disaffected academic and am looking forward to joining the “real world”. I’ve got no idea what the “new” is going to be and that’s what makes it exciting. What I’ve learned so far is that no matter what happens it will be as good an experience as I let it be. I am looking forward to a couple of months off in Oz to spend some time with the boy and a lot of time on the beach!

TB: Why did you start your blog and what about it inspires you to keep it up?

AFM: I started it after Dr. O’C got pregnant. One of the reasons that I’m doing this blog is as a sort of virtual “baby book”. We can keep track of his progress, but I also spend a fair bit of time talking about my own. I now find it really therapeutic - I love writing and this gives me a reason to do it. When I get feedback from my few readers it lets me know that someone appreciates it, which is just the best. Yep, I’m a slave to strokes.

TB: You are a big Georgia Bulldogs fan. What plans have you made for keeping up with games now that you’ll have a whole ‘nother time zone thing to worry about?

AFM: Time zones are not an issue for REAL fans. The math may be a challenge but no matter where I am in the world, my Saturdays (actually I think they will be Sundays in Oz) are booked from the beginning of September til the last week in November. I see that you’re a UK fan - I can’t really think of anything to say about that as y’all don’t usually provide much of a challenge on the old gridiron.

TB: Y’all obviously plan on raising Z outside of the United States, What would you like for him to know about growing up in his father’s country of birth?

AFM: For some reason I struggled with this question more than any of the others that you’ve asked. I think it is because I don’t know myself how I feel about this. I can honestly say that I can’t foresee coming back to the U.S. to live. But it is important to me that Z identifies himself as an American - and he is a natural born American citizen. I would love for Z to be able to experience some of the things that I did growing up and would love for him to be able to avoid a lot of the things that I did. Most of the things that I loved and hated from childhood are gone, though, so they wouldn’t be there for Z anyway even if we were in the States. He’s got to have his own journey.

Gosh, this is all very serious and introspective, not like me at all!

TB: What do you miss about US?

AFM: 1. Proper corn bread.
2. Wide roads.
3. Southern accents - not that dumb ass Texan via Yale accent of Bush’s - a proper Georgia, Carolina, Virginia accent.
4. Big old steaks.
5. Waffle House hashbrowns - scattered, smothered, covered and chunked.
6. My family.
7. Wing nut right-wing talk radio.
8. Popcorn with gallons of butter.
9. People that call you “sugar”.
10. Peet’s coffee (good coffee in general, the Brits just don’t get coffee)

That was off the top of my head and I’m surprised how much of it is food. Must be dinner time.

Image Credits:

Waffle House

Cornbread

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“Haul away your rolling king Heave away, Haul away Haul away oh hear me sing We’re bound for South Australia…” -The Pogues - “South Australia” Since we moved to Britain in the autumn of 2004 we’ve been trying to figure out where to go from here. Neither of us are British, so we have no ties to the place, but we’ve toyed with buying a house in staying in England. We’ve flirted with the idea of moving to one of the northern European socialist paradises where crime is virtually non-existent and you get about a year of paid maternity (or paternity) leave. But we’ve always come back to the idea of Australia. Dr. O’C grew up in Adelaide and like every good Australian, has always planned on going back at some point. I’ve never been Down Under but I’ve also never met anyone (outside of some jealous Kiwis) that have anything much bad to say about Australia. I know a few critical things about Adelaide and - it’s on the beach and they have 230 some odd days of sunshine a year. If that sounds a little shallow to you then you’ve never lived in Britain in the winter. For these, among other, reasons I’ve always been a keen advocate of emigrating to Oz. When the concept of Zach became frighteningly real last winter, the decision was pretty much made. Dr. O’C has always said that she wanted to raise her kids in Australia - to give them the kind of upbringing she had - and deep into my third gloomy British winter I was not going to argue vehemently against her reasoning. The fact is that even as two childless professionals we couldn’t afford to get on the property ladder in the south of England, so adding a mouth to feed and a bum to clothes wasn’t going to improve our standing. Thus, the decision made, we should have been on our way… Except for one little problem - me, little old American me. Dr. O’C has dual Aussie/Irish citizenship and Zach has American, Irish and Australian (and could have British except his Mum refuses to allow it). But, I’m an American in good standing with an advanced degree and all sorts of skills not to mention being partnered up with an Australian, should be a piece of cake to get an Aussie visa. Well, I’m here to tell you that the Australians don’t mess around when it comes to immigration. My application for a spousal visa was about the size of a middling Stephen King novel and included just about that much information about your underwhelming narrator. One of my favorite parts was the requirement for testimony from several Australian citizens (I’m not using the word xenophobic, but they had to be Australians) to the length and intimacy of our relationship - I would of thought that Zach was ample testimony. I’ll leave to your imagination how we got some good Aussies to attest to that latter stipulation. I also had to sign an “Australian Values” statement that included, among other things, that I would never attempt to quote (using my best Aussie accent) from “Crocodile Dundee” or “A Cry In the Dark“. I had to submit a full medical exam including chest X-rays, HIV and hepatitis B and C blood tests - all negative despite an uncomfortable night or two. I had to submit police background checks from both the Thames Valley Police and the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation - both clean, I’m proud to say. Oh, and there was the small matter of the non-refundable filing fee $1390 Australian (about £65o or $1300 US). And now, everything is submitted and (knocking firmly on wood) there’s not much left standing in the way of our family and the Land Down Under. If I’m being honest, I’m starting to get scared. The move to Oxford a few years ago was no cake walk but I knew what to expect. I had a job in place and I’d had a few days to wander around the city. But this imminent Antipodean migration is something else entirely. One of the things that has always attracted me to Australia is the sheer isolation of the place. Adelaide is over 10,000 miles from our current home in Oxford and nearly the same distance from my parents’ home in Florida. And neither Dr. O’C nor I have jobs lined up and we have a little one in tow. I kind of feel what my ancestors must have felt when they left Italy or the British Isles for North America taking a chance on a better life, sailing into the unknown. Finally, despite myself, I’ve come to really like Oxford and, in the last few weeks since the move has become inevitable, have been noticing just what a wonderful place it is. I had a similar experience when we moved away from the Midwestern U.S. a few years ago. Seems that, for me, I only start to appreciate a place as I’m fixing to leave it. “And as we wallop round Cape Horn Heave away, Haul away You’ll wish to God you’ve never been born We’re bound for South Australia.” Image credits: Australia Adelaide skyline

 

 The Pogues - "South Australia" [3:28m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

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“You cant go on, thinkin’,
Nothings’ wrong, but bye,
Who’s gonna drive you home,
tonight?”

-The Cars - “Drive”

I may have created some confusion the other day when I wrote about passing my driving test. I am not, in my mid-thirties, learning to drive for the first time - though if you’ve ever ridden with me you may question that statement. No, I learned three years ago when I first moved to Britain that the UK did not recognize my Florida driver’s license and that in order to drive legally here I would need to pass both a written and practical driving test. This was kind of irrelevant, however, because we did not own a car.

The thing is, I was perfectly happy with this situation. The roads in Oxford were not designed with anything much bigger than a horse and cart in mind so driving seemed a blood sport to an idle observor*. We lived close to the city center so I could bicycle to work and the train station so Dr. O’C could catch a train to work. We took the bus or train if we needed to go on a longer journey, shopped online for groceries and I quite enjoyed our car-free existence. It was just one of those nice differences in expatriate living.

Dr. O’C, however, had one too many British rail nightmare and after about a year in Oxford we purchased a rattling, clattering Vauxhall Corsa for six hundred pounds. Vauxhall’s a British brand owned by GM - I think that the closest American equivalent would be a GEO Metro. With that purchase we got all the joys of car ownership - taxes, licensing, repairs, parking, gas and so on.

I was not really interested in getting licensed to drive - I just had no need. I wouldn’t drive to work even if I could, most days it would take longer than cycling - an activity that I had really learned to enjoy (check out this video I posted this summer of my cycle trip to work).

Once we knew Dr. O’C was pregnant, this all changed. It became clear to me that I may need to drive without Dr. O’C in the car and this is where my quest for a British license began in earnest. I passed the theory part of the test with no problem in January which just left the small matter of the practical test.

Now, I suspect that you are thinking to yourself that a practical test should be no problem for someone who has been driving for nearly twenty years. If that’s what you are thinking, then you and I think alike. Sure, they drive on the wrong side of the road in Britain and everything inside the car is reversed but that’s just a question of perspective. Right.

I scheduled my practical test for a few weeks after passing my theory. Most of my friends told me that the UK practical test was very difficult and I might consider taking a lesson or two just to brush up on things. “I don’t think that will be necessary”, I would assure them with a slight grin. The last time I took a driving test I seem to recall having to drive around a track slowly without knocking over any widely spaced cones and I couldn’t imagine the British test being much different.

For some reason, a few days before the test I thought that maybe a lesson wouldn’t hurt - just so they could tell me what was on the test, mind. I set off for a two hour lesson smugly explaining to the instructor how ridiculous it was that experienced drivers like myself had to be subjected to this type of foolishness. I asked if he enjoyed his job, if any novice drivers ever crashed up his car and we laughed together about dinged bumpers and smashed side-view mirrors. This conversation was perfectly punctuated by the distinctive sound of metal scraping against metal…

It took me a little while after that to book another test. I was just a little wary about driving. It was a question of perspective, I just couldn’t get a grasp on where the left side of my car was. I spent a lot of time in the middle of the road, or when passing another car cringing and waiting for that sound again. Don’t even get me started on roundabouts - typical English overengineering. Basically, I drove very slowly and nervously - very much like the learner (loser) driver I was required to declare myself by displaying a scarlet L on the front and back of my car.

Several months and a couple of lessons later I had built up the confidence to sit the test. I had a slot scheduled for September 13, cutting it a bit close to Dr. O’C’s due date. But we had both pretty much decided, considering our combined training in obstetrics, that Dr. O’C would be late. When Baby Z came into the world around noon on the 12th, my driving test was not at the top of my list of things to think about. But I must say, I was surprised when I phoned later that day and explained the circumstances that childbirth was not an acceptable reason for cancellation and my test fee was not refundable. Seemed a bit harsh…

It worked out OK, however, as a cancellation left me a test slot a couple of weeks later (and £50 odd lighter) - bright and early, first thing in the morning and I came in sat down brimming with confidence and the glow of new fatherhood. The last time I took a driving test was in Florida some time in the 80’s and as I recall I had to drive around the Highway Patrol parking lot without hitting any of the trooper cars. This explains a lot about the quality of driving in the Sunshine State. The British test was 45 minutes on the open road and at the time I had picked - rush hour traffic. I’m not looking for excuses, but let’s just say that was strike 2.

Three and your out. Because of the waiting list, I had to sit on my failure for a couple of months until last week. This time I had a new strategy - schedule the test for the middle of the day when traffic is light and no preparation. Actually the latter part of my strategy was accidental, but you know how this ends, so it worked out. I relied on my ability to talk my way into and out of things. My examiner was a nice young Welshman who had just had a baby girl a few months ago and was struggling to balance his life between work and spending time with his new family. We drove around the outskirts of Oxford chatting about fatherhood, tattoos and how much the English annoyed us for three-quarters of an hour. Turns out, when you’re mouth is moving it’s hard to pay attention to pesky test sheets.

There you are - I am a fully licensed British driver. King of the English highways and byways. Doesn’t matter that I still can’t drive to work because there is nowhere to park in the center of Oxford. Doesn’t matter that we’ll be leaving Britain in less time than it took to pass the test. Doesn’t matter that I haven’t driven to the supermarket or to meet up with friends or to work or anywhere at all. Because I could and I am no longer a loser.
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* I’ve since traveled more on the continent to places like France, Greece and Italy where driving is a lot more like a blood sport. We were in a cab in Paris on the way back to Gard du Nord and got rear-ended by another vehicle - the cab driver didn’t even blink an eye.

Image Credits:

Learner trike

UK photo license

 

 The Cars - "Drive" [3:55m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

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