My International Drivers License

When we moved here we got German drivers licenses. They are issued through an agreement with the German government by the base. The exam is tricky, especially if you massively over-think things like I do. I kept feeling like I needed more information on each question. And one of the answers literally involved making a "gentleman's agreement about who should go first." Anyway, this license lets you drive in Germany. But if you want to drive elsewhere you need to get an International license. Its pretty simple - some paperwork, 15Euros, bring a passport-sized photo, you're good to go. (If you are in the states about to travel, AAA can give you one.)

We were going to drive to Paris, so we went down to a German government office to get our licenses. Eric went first. Bing, bam, boom. Here you go. I hand her my paperwork and photo. "This will not do." Huh? "The photo." "What's wrong with it?" (it is actually an extra of my passport photo)

Get ready for it ...

"You are smiling."

Now, in their defense, if you point a camera at me you are going to get a big ol' cheesy smile (Eric and I may not be related genetically, but look at us in pictures. We can't turn it off.) Seriously, it's like I am so incredibly happy that you would choose to take a picture of me, that you would want to remember me at this moment and look at me again later (am I over-estimating the thought process behind you taking a picture of me? "Relax Val. I was just trying to be polite. I really wanted a picture of that tree, but you're in the frame.") or like you just told me I won the EL Gordo (the world's biggest lottery). It's an epically Pavlovian response. Even my Florida Driver's photo looks like a 35-year-old me just got her first car and am about to pick up her best friend for a joyride. And a passport picture? Someone just told me they are going to let me travel! So, yes, I am smiling.

So, no license for me. We go to Woolworths (what, you thought Woolworths went out of business? Not in Germany.) and there is a passport photo booth. So I put in my 5Euros and slip in. I have to send Eric to another part of the store or he's going to make me laugh (He's not doing anything. Just knowing he's standing outside and I have to look serious is going to make me laugh.) Ok, line it up, lock it up, hair behind my ears, straight ahead, look serious. You can do this.

Apparently that is too much pressure for me. I can't figure out how to not smile and look like a normal human being. The photo looks like I am a cross between Sylvia Plath (depressed poet) and a Emily Dickinson caricature. I am in deep melancholy, morose, despondent, looking at no fixed point, as if my love had tragically gone off to the moors. And I say looking-at-no-fixed-point because its impossible to figure out where I am looking. I mean there are a finite number of points I could be looking at, right? Even the kids said "where are you looking?" Into a tragic future, my child. You're creeping us out Mom.

It is the single funniest photo I have ever seen (second place is a photo of Eric, probably 15 years ago, at Busch Gardens Williamsburg standing next to a carved bear, seemingly looking in 2 directions at once. It may not sound like much, but I am laughing now thinking of it.). And, of course its a 4-pack on one page. Every time Emily or I mention it to each other, we both can't stop laughing. And if we look at it again we really lose it. Then we both try to imitate it - impossible, but hilarious to us.

Our new computer refuses to acknowledge the existence of our scanner (Macs are very passive-aggressive computers). If I ever figure it out I will send it along. You'll want to save it to look back at when you are having a bad day. I guarantee you'll laugh.