Driving School

I come from a family of storytellers. These stories come in many forms, presented through various media. Jenn cooks and writes, describing the brilliant meals that have sharpened my palate and softened my belly. My daughter Mina is a promising seven year old cartoonist. She is sloppy like her father. But, also like her dad, she has an eye for finding just the right line to tell a story in a scribble. My brother rants. Sure, many people rant. But he has a gift for rapid fire weavings of intensity, frustration, irony, the obvious, the obtuse, and a touch of sadness. He crams it all into little monologues that offend your sensibilities while crystalizing his point. It is the old make 'em laugh and cry at the same time gig that is the hallmark of great storytellers. People in my family don't always have the answers, but we find the words.

As I was walking through Maadi the other day I saw a sign for a driving school. It reminded me of a story my mother often tells. She has many stories from her traveling days when her nine children were being hatched in various cities across Europe - tales of frost bitten ferry rides, broken down Fiats, and endless flights with feverish children. I would classify most of her stories in the genre of historical fiction. The events and timelines are basically sound, but characters and details change to reflect modern realities and interests. The story that the driving school sign brought back is a little different. It is a story of frustration, even anger. The thing is that it never changes, so I've always assumed it isn't really true. It is not my story and I won't retell it in its entirety.

The basic idea is that my mom and dad went to get their drivers' licenses in England. They had to take a test. My dad aced the thing. My mom was cursed with a chauvinistic evaluator and had to retake the practical part several times before being given her credentials. She was angry, livid even. My dad opted to drive home. He hadn't been driving five minutes when he turned to her with some stupid question about how to negotiate an English roundabout. Her face still flushes with anger when she tells this story.

My own follow up to this story occurred when I was seventeen. My mom took me in her old Chevy wagon to take my driving test. I totally blew the parallel parking part. The little flags that represent parked cars waved frantically as I repeatedly backed over them. My tester was very short in stature. By the time she was able to turn around in her seat, stretch her body up, and peer back over the head rest, the flags had stilled. I passed my test the first time. On the way home, we stopped at a bakery for a celebratory pastry. I smashed into a car in the parking lot, red plastic from the tail light splintered across the asphalt. My mom, who was still covering my insurance at the time, claimed that she was driving and took the fall. She has never mentioned this story again in my presence - funny how much easier it is to forgive a child than a spouse.

She doesn't tell the story, but I will. I am a hack writer. I steal and lie until I find the truth. Facts are only as important as they are useful. Let me tell you a secret. I always start with the conclusion, the last sentence, and contrive my way to the beginning - looking for a starting place where you can join me. It is important that you see it my way. I already know how this will end. I knew before I opened the lid of the laptop, fired up the wireless. But this subject is just too big for my limited skills.

I haven't even tried to describe the way people drive in Cairo. I probably wont. It is a bit of an embarrassment for me to admit that I simply don't have words for it. All I have is a final sentence. It is like trying to capture the Grand Canyon in photographs. I could show you fractured images, tell you about it with intense language. But until you have stood on the rim, gazing in disbelief and lost in the immensity, you just won't get it. I could attempt to describe the car horns, a million near misses, some hits. Even as I stood gaping at the driving school sign and smiling daftly, I was very nearly taken from this world by a passing taxi. Jenn and I saw the sign at the same time. We smiled, then laughed. The anarchy of Cairo traffic was raging about us. There was that funny, magic moment of shared understanding. I don't remember which of spoke first, drying tears from our eyes, "They have schools for this?"