My dad, once a driver’s ed instructor, taught me to drive on the backroads of Illinois and Wisconsin. I’ve never had a collision as a driver, but as a passenger, I have been in major accidents, one for each time period of my life from adolescence, to college, to the pro’s, to living abroad.
I thought passing my drivers license in Paris France a decade after my basketball career ended in a car accident was the scariest thing I’d ever done. But getting behind the wheel after a major brain surgery in Switzerland takes balls.
Four decades after a traumatic brain injury, I have to learn how to drive again. Never one to shy away from a challenge, I take my driving lessons in the Jura Mountains where we now live.
The drive from Nyon, down by the lake, is a six and a half mile climb on a treacherous road with sixty curves, six of which are hairpin turns.
Before we begin the ascent, a sign warns that 73 were injured and 4 people died in the last decade. At every sharp turn, road markers remind driver where an accident or death occurred on the Route Blanche aka the corkscrew.
On weekends youth play motorcycle madness, a type of Russian roulette where they attempt to see who can beat the record for the fastest up or down.
If that isn’t challenging enough for other vehicles, the rugged route is also a favorite for hardcore bicyclists.
Luckily, I can practice my skills on the route d'Arzier, the other road from town that has wider turns and loops through villages.
“Allez, allez … faster!" Gerald insists.
“I know,” I answer, “I am going at a speed where I feel in control.”
“Okay, Pat, but we haven’t left the parking lot yet!”
When I turn onto the highway, clutching the steering wheel, Gerald insists that I loosen up and use finger tip control. I hit the brakes before every curve, lean into every corner.
“Focus
straight ahead. Don’t look at cars coming the opposite direction!” Gerald barks. “If you keep swerving into the field, you’ll hit a cow!”
Invariably as soon as I see another vehicle approaching, I jerk the wheel and hit the brakes, as if I am on Mr. Toad’s wild ride at a Disney park.
“Don’t cross your hands when turning the wheel, you could lose control,”
he reminds me,“If you squeeze the steering wheel any harder, you’ll break it. Besides, it's is illegal in this country and could cost you CHF 120 a ($135) fine.”
“Relax. Lean back. You’re sitting on the dashboard!”
Arrhhh.
As I swerve around curves, cling to the mountain side and try to maintain the 50 mile an hour speed limit, I scream, “Wheeee, I feel like a race car driver!”
Obstacles abound: logging trucks, farm vehicles, train crossroads, pedestrian crosswalks, motorcycles, buses, cars, campers and bicycles.
But the greatest distraction is the incredible view. The spectacular Swiss panorama makes it difficult to focus on the highway. To my right the snow-covered Alps rise above Lake Geneva. Mont-Blanc, the majestic crowned jewel, reigns over the land. If I look to my left, cows graze in green pastures and golden rapeseed fields wave in the wind.
Honestly, I don’t think I will ever master driving in Europe.
I’ll keep practicing, but the world will be safer, if I just ride shotgun daydreaming, window gazing, writing stories about my sublime Switzerland.






















On a recent trip to England, our son took us to visit historic Warwick, an enclosed city. The highlight of the afternoon for me was going for a proper English cream tea at the
looking like they stepped out of the back kitchen where they baked homemade cakes and scones. Patrons spilled out of the ground floor tea rooms, so our waitress led us up a rickety, winding, ancient staircase that made me feel like I stepped into the old nursery rhyme.
We squeezed around a low table designed for short-statured folks of earlier times. We folded our long legs; our knees knocked into the furniture.

From the window of our son and daughter-in-law’s home in Warwickshire, England, I was admiring the red, brick barns and lush, green fields when suddenly a head floated past, just above their back hedge.
century. In the past, a boy riding a bicycle prepared or set locks ahead of a boat's arrival. Nowadays, the woman aboard, carrying the lock key, hopped off onto shore to open the gate letting the water rise or fall, while the mister stood at the stern manning the rudder bar.
Revolution, the canals system provided a commercial transport network until the the railways prevailed.
Only a sunny day, a carnival atmosphere prevails. I felt wistful watching the colorful boats parade past on the lazy canal. Whimsically, I imagined ditching real life and drifting down the canal without a care in the world.