Getting a driver’s license was like a pregnancy: too much pain, mitigated by occasional hope.

As a new comer from Taiwan, I enjoyed the ample living space in Los Angeles. However, when I realized that I had to pass the driving test in order to move around freely in this gigantic city, my nightmare was about to begin. I had to conquer the fear of driving, overcome the anxiety of being tested, and prevail over the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV). Lacking any pleasant memories of bureaucracies, I did not know what to expect from the first one I was to experience in the United States.

Reading the thorough Driver’s Manual was not a problem. I passed the written test. The challenge was elsewhere. Because of my limited driving experience, it took me a month to muster the confidence for a driving test.

My ignorance of the features and controls in the car caused me to fail the first time. The examiner ordered me to get out of the car even before I got a chance to drive. The second time, I was not allowed to take the test for want of my insurance card that I left at home. The third time, my licensed driver left behind the driver’s license, so I had to schedule another appointment. It was already a month later.

Chinese philosophy holds that success depends on the right time, the right place, and the right people. On September 26 (2006), I visited DMV for the fourth time. I remembered all the symbols on the car board. All the documents were in my purse. The car was filled up with gasoline. When I checked in at the counter, the clerk rewarded me with a rare smile. By the time I pulled the car over to the driving lane, the usual long queue was nowhere to be seen. I was the second driver waiting. The sun shone upon the windshield. Time passed by.

A chubby Hispanic woman wrote down the license plate number and walked up to my window. She was my examiner. I correctly identified the three symbols she pointed out on the dashboard. Getting into the car, before letting me drive off, she ordered me to follow her instructions exactly. That was the rule. Shifting into drive, I made a left turn onto the street. As I drove, my shoulders stiffened, both of my hands perspired, and my right foot constantly hesitated between the accelerator and the brake. I slowed down to forestall any possible mistake. The examiner pointed out a clear straight line to back up. I breathed hard. Sweat ran down my forehead.

The test ended in the parking lot. I did everything that the woman instructed me to do. I also did everything that she did not instruct me to do. I should have kept the wheels straight while turning, whenever pedestrians were passing. I should have emphatically turned my head and looked around whenever I turned. I should have turned my head to look back while backing up. I should not have driven so slowly in the traffic. All the cars behind me were trying to pass by. The examiner marked “dangerous manner” on the test sheet. I failed.

I failed the next two times. Each time I had to pay 5 dollars. I corrected my mistakes every time and did whatever the examiners instructed me to do. However, I did not perform well enough. I had to pay 26 dollars to take another written test before the next driving one. I made six mistakes on the written test. This was the maximum I was allowed to fail. If only someone could tell me how much I am allowed to fail in life!

I failed to maintain a perfect record of failure. I obtained my driver’s license after the seventh attempt on October 19. It was another a beautiful day. I got myself all prepared. The car was in impeccable condition. The clerk at the counter did not give me a hard time. I even had the same chubby examiner. But I drove much better after visiting DMV so many times, and contributing so much money to it.

I look back over the whole experience according to Samuel Beckett’s words: "All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."

I smile.