We have taken possession of a 1995 Gold BMW 530i Estate Car (wagon to all of you!). It’s sweet. The first night we had it, Jerry the Car Guy suggested we drive out of London to Marlowe, a lovely town on the Thames. We had dinner at The Compleat Angler. Apparently, custom is that if you buy a used car, you don’t get it with a full tank. So we had to fill up on our way out of town. The total cost of that first visit to the pump? £55. With the current rate of conversion, that’s a little over $100! Finbar and I high-fived and off we went! So hence the name of our beloved new vehicle, V8 and all. It rocks! Picture to come.
We have both embraced the right-hand drive and are doing well.
In another extraordinary show of British bureaucracy, I attempted to get what’s called a provisional driving license. This paperwork would then allow me to take a driving test to get my UK driving license. Americans can drive under US licenses for one year. After that, there’s trouble. So I thought, I have the time, I’ll do this pre-baby. After various consultations with friends here and reading the DLVA paperwork closely, I set off for Wimbledon to get my provisional license.
It’s about a 30 minute train ride and a quick walk from the station. Easy. I arrive and there are about 20 people on line. Luckily for me and the bump, it’s a seated line. I’m nervous, like when I went to get our parking permit. I’ve got paperwork. I’ve got passport. I’m ready. I finally get up to the front and luckily got who I thought would be the fair clerk, a young, jolly-looking British guy. I pass him my paperwork. He asks how long I’ve been in the country (at this point, 5 weeks). He looks happy, I’m relieved. Then. “You do know I will need to keep your passport?” My stomach sinks. I don’t want to give up my passport for a whole host of reasons, most importantly, I think it’s insane to be a foreigner without one. But additionally, I’m leaving for Spain in three weeks time. I beg, “Is there nothing we can do?” He very nicely apologizes. He tells me the rules will be changing in the fall but for now, there’s nothing to be done. I pull the pregnancy card and whine that I had hoped to get this sorted out before the baby arrives. Nothing. As I’m used to doing, I walk out of there, drag my feeling-sorry-for-myself butt back to the train station and head back into London.
It’s raining at this point. I take the tube a few stops in and get off at one point in search of a maternity shop I’d been hearing a lot about. I find the shop but it’s disappointing. The highlight though is on the way back to the tube I find a shop called Espadrille. It’s a French company that sells extraordinary canvas fabric made by the Basque. Gorgeous truly. Our home is twice the better for it with two beautiful new pillows. So all was not lost.
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