Driving in France: Part One

Just the other day I strolled into a driving school to sign up for driving lessons. I want to learn how to drive a manual transmission (mostly because it scares me more than it should). You may not know it, but we Americans are ridiculed over here for not knowing how to drive stick. In France, it's mostly the sick or disabled who drive automatic transmissions. I've been told that that's the assumption, anyway.

I was delighted to learn that I could just take a few lessons à la carte to learn how to control a car the old-fashioned way. All was looking good until I was told that the information I'd received last week was incorrect. It turns out that you can only take those "perfectionnement" lessons if you already have a French license. And at that point, I'm assuming you already know how to drive, and therefore don't need the lessons?

I bundled up my passport, a copy of my lease, my visa letter, a paper that certifies that my long-stay visa is forthcoming, the application forms for my French license, a French translation of my CT license, and five passport photos. Side note: if you watched Amélie, you might have noticed the central role of the photo booth in the film. And I think that's because you need official photos that come from those very photo booths to get most administrative tasks completed here.

I took this hefty pile of paperwork and went to the French version of the DMV, which is located in the northern edge of Paris at Porte de Clignancourt (not far from the famous and fab-u-lous Parisian flea markets and some really fun ethnic food markets. Those impossible-to-find black beans are not so impossible to find after all. And a giant tub of Greek yogurt? Quite tempting at only two euros). There was a long line at the ''DMV,'' of course, and the applicant at the window was engaged in a heated discussion with the staffer, which made me nervous, as the anger he caused was going to remain long after he'd left.

About ten minutes later it was my turn. The woman took my passport, pecked at the keyboard, asked me a few questions, and then began to frown. ''If you had come back in 2010, when you'd been in France for less than a year, you could have easily exchanged your Connecticut license for a French one. Sans problème. But now there's nothing I can do. You must go to French driving school.'' We talked about my other options. She said I could apply anyway, but then her boss would be obliged to reject my request. That didn't seem particularly promising. 

She and I soon agreed that a more hopeful course of action would be to re-do driver's ed here and then take the written test (there are over 11,500 possible questions to review and be able to answer, plus all that technical vocabulary I've never learned. Comment dit-on ''day time running lamps'' en français? No idea.). Once I pass the ''code de la route'' I will be allowed to take the driving test. I love to learn, and it's true that the road signs here are quite different from what I'm used to back home, but the full driving course costs over 1,300 euros, and that seems a bit steep.

A friend here suggested I take driver's ed in Germany, where it's most certainly cheaper. When I suggested there might be a language problem, she said, ''It's Germany! Everyone speaks English!''

Then, after calling a driving school up the street, the woman gave me an alternative solution: apparently I can apply to get my license as an "external candidate," which  means I must submit an application (in person, back at Porte de Clignancourt -- why didn't they mention this option when I was there last week??) to take the driving test without going to French driver's ed. However, I will have to be able to drive a manual transmission to take that test. Recap: in order to learn how to drive stick, I need a French license. To have a French license, I need to know how to drive stick. Not only that, but if I apply to be an "external candidate," I can expect to wait at least eight or nine months to have an appointment for the test. That's enough time to learn how to drive the car, I suppose.

When I returned to Porte de Clignancourt this morning, I went up to the fourth floor, took a number, and waited. Finally a man came to the desk, visibly perturbed that his empty waiting room was no longer empty. ''You realize you have to wait a year?'' he cautioned me. ''Yes,'' I replied. ''But I have no other option, right?'' I suspect his attempt to dissuade me was actually an attempt to keep his workload light.

More paperwork in hand, I left the office and hopped on a vélib (those city bicycles that you pick up and drop off as you wish around the city) and headed home. After a few seconds, I realized my bicycle was broken, so I returned it to a nearby station and started walking, too impatient to wait the few minutes before my account was cleared, allowing me to take out another bike. About twenty five minutes later, my feet began to hurt, and the two kilos of beans I was carrying were getting heavy, so I went to take out another bike. When I swiped my card, the machine buzzed and the release button stayed red. I waited a few seconds and tried again. Sighing, I pulled out my phone and called the information number.

Apparently when I returned my first bike, the return was not registered properly. I was given the bike's ID number, told to return to the station back near Porte de Clignancourt, and see if it was there. If not, I would be fined 150 euros. Reluctantly, I walked back, found the bike, and saw that the whole station was ''off-line,'' which is why the computer didn't register my bike's return. Annoyed at having retraced my steps when my feet were already hurting, I took another bike and came home, where I promptly walked into a pole and hurt my ankle.

Armed with an ice pack and a glass of wine, I'm taking it easy this afternoon. I think I'll take the métro when I go out to dinner tonight.