by neznakomka

Created on: March 13, 2009

As a daughter of a professional driver, I have been always restrained from obtaining my own license.

"Once you are behind the wheel, the law will always be against you", my father used to say.

And I wouldn't bother to tease the law and learn to drive. Besides, I had my feet and the public transportation to take me wherever I wanted. What was the point of having a license?

But that was back in Bulgaria.

In the United States, I had to embrace the inconvenient truth that driving was unavoidable.

And after I steered directly into the closest bush during my first driving lesson, my husband had to accept the much more inconvenient truth: he wasn't cut out for a driving instructor like many of his American co-workers who were teaching teenage sons and daughters with an innate mastery and confidence. He had to pay for his wife's driver's education.

And this is how I came to know Lenny. After spending more than ten fruitless lessons with a "nice and easy" young Jeremy, stopping here and there for him to grab a cup of coffee or a bag of chips, I eventually gave up and switched to a different school - less money, more of their cars on the road - the change seemed to be justified.

"Happy Nationalities" driving school seemed to target new immigrants and to consider the learning styles of different cultures. Soon I had to realize, that for my Bulgarian origin the most appropriate style was thought to be not the gentlest one, but as Lenny used to say in his native Russian: "To me, you are like one of us. We will be fine together".

And so, the lessons began. Thirty minutes before the scheduled time, Lenny used to ring the phone, ready to pick me up, and inquiring about my "delay".

"At least we know nothing bad happened in Bulgaria", my husband used to murmur, hiding his head under the pillow and trying to catch up the lost sleep.

It was five-thirty in the morning, after all. Six a clock was the only available time slot for the overbooked Lenny.

"So, are you going to be a good girl now?", Lenny used to ask, and I knew that whatever I would say, it would be wrong. Quietly, I just envied my husband for being able to stay home for a little longer, and accused in my mind my father for not letting me go to a driving school back in Bulgaria. They both were spared Lenny, his eruptions of rage, his pushing the brakes on the road like in an action movie, his blaming me of being not responsible.

Lessons passed in emotional torture and despair, shame and shouting, but as irrationally as it may sound,

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