I am a guest blogger on the TIM Life in Spain blog and have had the following piece published in the May issue of the magazine.
Driving Lessons Greek Style.The only car I’ve ever owned was a red Mini, DF 214. We bonded in the
autumn of 1969 when I started working in a Greek school in Cyprus. I’d
never needed a car in London and couldn’t drive but now a car was a
must. There was only one solution. Buy one and acquire a Cypriot driving
licence. Getting the car didn’t prove to be too much of a problem - that’s
when DF214 appeared on the scene. Learning to drive took a bit more
effort.
Mr Lambrides, my landlord, introduced me to Panicos Charalambides,
proprietor and chief instructor at the town’s driving school. Panicos was
a good driving teacher but his English was a bit dodgy. I had to give
him an intensive run through of first, second and third after a crunching,
kangaroo-like lesson on gear changing.
His name, Panicos, comes from the Greek word for terror or panic and
when we came to the drama of the emergency stop, I could see why it was
so appropriate. He’d warned me the day before that we’d be doing one in
the next lesson. He prepared me with the instructions: “Imagine sheep in
road. I shout. Your foot on brake you throw hard. Miss sheep.”
I was quite worried about this. So by the following day, I’d worked myself
up into what can only be described as a bit of a state. Mind you, Panicos
didn’t seem to be much better. When I arrived for the lesson, I saw him
in the bar next door tossing back a short. He was puffing nervously on
a cigarette as he approached, which he tossed aside but immediately
put another between his lips. There was an atmosphere of dread and
impending doom in the car and after about twenty minutes I knew the
emergency stop was going to be quite soon. He had begun to look around
uneasily and was fingering both his worry beads and his crucifix. By
this time I was sweating freely and had begun to see sheep everywhere.
Suddenly, I felt him tense beside me. He spat out his cigarette, which had
been clenched, unlit, between his teeth, gripped the sides of his seat and
shrieked: ”Estoppp!!!”.
I threw, flung, and veritably hurled my foot at the brake and DF214
practically did a handstand. Panicos and I were propelled forward and
made violent contact with the windscreen. There was a dreadful noise
from the front of the car as it lurched forward then bounced back to a halt.
In the sudden silence, all that was heard was our heavy breathing and
then the concerned shouts of the customers at the bar outside of which
our drama had unfolded.
We eventually staggered out to see what had caused the noise. No
sheep had been harmed but DF 214 didn’t do so well. Apparently,
something called the engine mountings were jarred from position
and the engine was clinging on for dear life under the bonnet.
Panicos began babbling in Greek. His English went completely
to pot and I didn’t find out till later, at the garage, what was
wrong. But I could tell it wasn’t good and I was unnerved at the thought
of what the repair was going to cost.
We steered DF214 over to the side of the road and tottered into the bar,
where the owner phoned for a tow car. He even bought us stiff brandies
as we had, apparently, livened up a fairly slow morning for him. Panicos
bought the next round and I followed up with another. We had started
to mellow by this time and were seeing the whole thing in a different
light. These things happen. It could have been worse. After all, it was
an emergency stop and I had certainly stopped. So congratulations were
the order of the day. He kissed my cheek and raised his glass “Sheep
survive!” he said.
The actual test, dreaded equally by myself and Panicos, turned out to be a
doddle. I passed first time and returned to the school where Panicos was
nervously pacing the pavement. He grabbed me and smothered me in
hugs and kisses when he saw the victory paper I waved at him. We retired
to the local bar and reminisced over the ups and downs of the preceding
months. A few beers later, I slowly drove home to convey the news to Mr
Lambrides. “You’ll never believe it, Mr Lambrides! I passed!”
I was somewhat taken aback when he grinned, patted my shoulder and
said “I know, I know. The examiner, he is my cousin. I tell him you are
good girl. You not go out driving at night. You have good job and pay rent
on time. He listens to me. You pass.”
