Driving lessons (2) and 3

Lesson 2 was not official. It was rescuing Zab from the opthalmologist after she drove the Mini there and then had eye surgery. It was something! First we drove around in circles trying to avoid traffic whilst getting from Yonge & Davisville to Shaw and Dundas. Heath Street was not as accessible as we might have hoped. Then there was a shortage of gas and a stop at Bathurst and St. Clair, followed by a left turn at Bathurst, which went a lot better than the one at Shaw & Davenport. Not so much my idea of a good time, what with all the honking behind and so on. At College& Shaw Zab had the clever idea of hopping out of the car and engaging the pedestrian crosswalk, but unfortunately cars going west pulled right up to it, leaving me no room to get through, until finally one curious driver, mesmerized by my wild-eyed look and Zab's blazing white eye patch left enough room to get through. We followed it all up with a stiff Campari and soda and a romp in the park with the dog (GF). I had a crashing headache on the streetcar home, which was not that much improved by the reading material I had with me: Lawrence Durrell's Provence. Erica Jong loved it and apparently wishes she had written it (according to the front cover blurb). I find it mostly self indulgent but punctuated with the odd bit of interesting information. I did not know Julius Caesar was bisexual or that Cleopatra was as well. There is quite a detailed Freudian analysis of their relationship. For the less prurient, there is the fact that Arles used to be a major seaport, until the Rhone recede 28 miles.

Today I had driving lesson 3, but my second official one with a professional instructor (no offence, Zab). That went much better, although at three hours in length I found it fatiguing. In any event, I managed to get from Kipling and Dundas Street West to Bloor and Ossington without stalling or ruining the clutch. Tomorrow we work on hills and gearing down -- for another three hours.

Heading to France

It is not quite the last minute, and yet I am frenzied, making lists of e-mails to send (instead of sending them), of things to pack (instead of packing them) etc. etc.  Partly it is the nagging horror of the upcoming driving lessons and the fear that they will not prepare me for navigating a standard transmission up the inclines of Vaucluse.  But I get ahead of myself.  First there are the inclines of Etobicoke to deal with (Saturday from noon until 3:00 p.m.) and then the inclines of the near west end (Ossington and Bloor on Sunday from 2:30 until 5:30 p.m.).  What was I thinking!  Vaguely, in the very back of my mind I think there is a pertinent essay by David Seadris on the topic of driving lessons, but since it is hard to imagine that such an endeavour ended successfully for him I am trying to resist the temptation to look it up.  Then again, perhaps it is his French lessons I am recalling, although that is no more comforting a thought as I head to France for 5 weeks with not much more than a Bescherelle  and a copy of the Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme keeping me from linguistic disaster.