Five years ago we studied eight hours a day for an entire month, to  prepare ourselves for our Italian Driver’s License because our ENTIRE Italian adventure depended on it. That’s sounds a bit extreme as I write this, but it’s the truth. We passed the written portion of the test without any problems, but then had to enroll in Drivers’ training behind the wheel (over 30 years of successful driving didn’t seem to count) to learn how to drive like an Italian, which basically means how to selectively speed on a whim and take totally unnecessary risks whenever possible. We passed that test too. Whew!

I keep a calendar of “events” that absolutely need to happen. Well, guess what needed to happen in November?! That’s right, it was time to renew our licenses. So, we stopped by the Eurodrive Autoscuola at Piazza Libertá where we had done our original training. The young lady behind the desk wondered why we were there in October. “No, no. E troppo presto! It’s too early.” “Va bene la prima di novembre. It’s okay the first of November.” They never plan ahead or do anything before it’s time.

Okay. You are no doubt wondering what it takes to renew the patente, license? We asked, and the answer was a 3-part response. We’d need our old license along with our codice fiscale (the Italian version of a social security card). We’d need 95 euro each. And, this is the big one: A VISION TEST. Now this is the hard part of the process for a very simple reason. I am very nearsighted. I’ve worn “corrective lenses” for roughly 3/4 of my life. So what’s the big deal you might ask? The answer is: “mono-vision.”

Years ago my trusty eye doctor in the states, prescribed a simple solution for someone nearsighted who wants to read, do needle work, or whatever: one lens. That’s right. I have an eye designated for distance and one that does close-up stuff. It actually works amazingly well. When I asked about driving, I was told that mono-vision is a perfect solution. So, I’ve enjoyed wearing one contact lens, in my left eye only—for years. But in Italy, they don’t seem to care much about mono-vision. No! You just have to read the eye chart. Simple. I was nervous. My right eye is a speed reader with books, but graciously defers to my left eye for anything more demanding than say, farther away than arm’s length. Eye charts are always at least 10 feet away. My right eye began to cry. No way little “Righty” could pass a distance test. Oh my, what to do . . .?

Ah, yes. Glasses. I pulled them out of their hard shell case and Em immediately asked, “Where’d those come from?” I explained about my vision anxiety and that I needed to retrain Righty to see far away, FAST! “We HAVE to pass that test!” Not to drive in Italy is unheard of. In fact, where we live it’s impossible. And besides, everybody here relishes the right to cut corners, stray left of center, and speed as though they are being pursued by a pack of angry wild boars. “I MUST renew my license!”

Now, at this juncture, you may wonder how I passed my Italian vision test in the first place. I had the same anxiety and forgot about wearing glasses, so I wore 2 contact lenses. Wow! Distance vision in both eyes! I could spot an owl in the dark at 100 meters, but I couldn’t see to button my sweater.

Luckily, Em and I went in together and there, poised on a stool, was Sophia Loren‘s twin. This woman was too beautiful (as we often say in Italy when something is just “too, too divine”). Very stylishly dressed, she immediately began flirting with Em (which makes total sense). She asked him to read the chart. And I am not making this up: you cover one eye with your old driver’s license, while the “free eye” reads the chart ( what a clever final use for the expiring card). Then you switch. Card over the other eye, read the chart. Em’s distance vision is quite good—impressive, according to la Dottoressa, the lady doctor. She complimented him, smiling, chatting and flitting around the room ostentatiously.

Then, it was my turn. Card up. Read. Okay. Switch. Card up. Read. I wasn’t sure that she cared about my vision, since she was still gazing longingly into Em’s eyes at the time. But I passed, so what did I care? But after 5 years, I was slightly worried. Righty could falter. I could go down in a tailspin after the first big E. But no! The glasses worked! I read the chart equally well with both Lefty and Righty. I was thrilled!

I walked to the front counter and paid my 95 euro, while Em was still at the mercy of la Dottoressa Whew! What a relief! The young lady behind the counter told me that the new sticker would have to come from Roma—within the next couple of months. She asked if our information was all correct and current. Unfortunately, I had to tell her that the local commune, planning commission, had changed our address. Same house, same everything—just a different street name and number. Nobody can explain why. So, yes, it’s a bit odd, but truly Italian.

Her appearance suddenly shifted from sweet to stern. She informed me that we HAD to have the correct information on the new license and that would require a trip to the official corrections office to get that approval. We made that required visit the very next day and were told that a second new sticker would be issued for our licenses—directly from Roma, in about 6 months. In the meantime, we’d have to carry proof that we’d applied for the changes. Righty began to cry.

Posted on November 19, 2011