Terror unleashed on Spanish roads

It was a big step for the family. Possibly a bad step for other road users in Spain.

Strictly, there were two steps. The first came when my middle son Michael passed his driving test, at the age of 38. Why so late? Well, I can only blame the parents. 

We should have got him through his test before he went to college. Twenty or so years ago. The extent of my failure comes home to me every time I watch one of those US shows where kids of about eight are getting their licences and driving to class in high-end SUVs bought for them by their doting parents before they even get to High School.

I may have exaggerated that last part a bit, but you get the picture. 

To be honest, at the time we lived about ten minutes’ walk from his school and most of his friends. And since then he’s tended to live in city centres (Madrid right now) so he’s perhaps not been under a lot of pressure to get a licence. But at least, and at last, he’s done it now and been unleashed onto the Spanish road network.

That may be bad news for other drivers in this country he and I both call home now, but it was a cause for celebration for us.

The second exciting step for the family was my own. Danielle and I had French driving licences. The old-style ones, on thin card, much the worse for wear. In any case, whether in good or bad condition, to stay legal we had to exchange them for Spanish ones within a sensible timeframe.

Old. Battered. And soon to be out of validity in Spain

That turned out to be less straightforward than we might have imagined. I’ve mentioned before that terrible combination of words in the Spanish language, ‘cita previa’. They mean ‘appointment in advance’. To me, they’re words of dread if I see them on my way to any administrative measure I need to undertake. I’ve learned that, though what I see on a government website looks like a convenient way to book an appointment, it usually isn’t. 

Often I go through several screens filling in information. That can be a long job, because I may have to quote reference numbers from certificates I was sent months ago, put somewhere safe which I wouldn’t forget, and promptly forgot. 

Eventually, though, I get to the ‘Submit’ button. I press it. And the system fails.

Nicely, I have to say. Courteously. With deep regret, the system tells me, it has been unable to save my details. Instead, it invites me to try again at some later date. In the meantime – no cita previa.

When it came to changing our licences, the problem was a little different. At least it didn’t make us fill in any forms before failing. This time, again and again, day after day, for several months, we could get no further than the screen asking for an appointment, on which we were presented with the message “no appointments are available in the next few days. Please try again later.”

A mercy that they told us that at the outset of the process and not at the end.

But how could it be happening for so very long? It took us ten months before we could get an appointment.

As far as we can establish, it was another of the consequences of Brexit, that bold, or reckless, step by Britain that has delivered so much damage unimagined, or at any rate denied, by its supporters, and so few of the benefits they promised. 

Quite a few Brits live in Spain. Many have – or had – British driving licences. While the UK remained in the EU, they could exchange them the way we were planning to exchange ours (Danielle is French, and through her I was able to get that citizenship as a second nationality, making us both still EU citizens). After Brexit, the Spanish authorities offered a long transition period in which Brits could exchange their licences without retaking a driving test. Still, they wouldn’t be able to do that forever. Eventually, this right would become one more on the long list of those lost by Brexit. 

To accommodate the flood of Brits wanting to change their licences before the deadline, all the resources of the Transport Ministry were focused on them. Inevitably, the rest of us had to wait. Until October, in fact, when, at last, slots became available for the rest of us again. The system worked perfectly when Danielle tried it, and she called out to me, “I’ve got an appointment! In a couple of weeks. Be quick and you could get one too.”

I hurried on to the system, but just too late. While Danielle had an appointment early in November, mine was for mid-January.

Still, at least I had an appointment.

Danielle attended hers. She was obliged to undertake what they call a ‘psycho-technical’ test. It checks hand-eye coordination, blood pressure and various other factors, including eyesight.

Danielle sailed through. But I was worried. It was that last test that seemed daunting. My father had cataracts. My mother had cataracts. And now I’m developing a cataract in one eye. Would I get through the test? I mean, I can still play badminton which requires decent eyesight, so I knew I could see well enough to drive. But would the test confirm that?

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to keep driving too long, as my mother did, to the point where it was a terrifying experience to be a passenger in a car with her behind the wheel. I don’t know how many times we passed close enough to a car going to the other way that I could have touched it by simply extending a finger. So I hope I’ll know when to stop. But I didn’t feel that moment had come and hated the idea of failing a test.

Now I discovered the depressing depth of the downside of having to wait so long for my appointment. It was a nerve-wracking burden. Every time I thought about the test, my dread grew. The night before the test I woke twice coughing (and woke Danielle too), though I didn’t have a cough. It was pure stress. To say I was terrified may be a bit of a stretch, but not much of one.

Ah, well. I needn’t have worried. My right eye was pretty hopeless, as I’d feared, though not useless. And, with glasses, my left eye was fine. I could read the bottom row on the sight test. And that was enough, apparently.

It became possible to exchange my French licence for a Spanish one. Which the pleasant civil servant who dealt with my case kept referring to as a carnet, a fine French word not used for licences in France. The French call them permis but, as she pointed out to me, the Spanish also use the word permiso. 

I’m not quite sure how to make sense of all that but, hey, I don’t suppose I need to. 

A small step for mankind.
Another cause for celebration in the family

So within two weeks, two members of the family have been released behind steering wheels – or in my case, re-released. A tremendous relief for us both. A second success to celebrate. But for other users of the Spanish road system facing such new or renewed terror? 

Perhaps not so much.