We found out that, as a Chinese woman with a Chinese driver’s license, you’re allowed to drive a vehicle in Germany for six months. How generous. Tiny problem: the license is, of course, entirely in Chinese. So as an “official document,” it’s basically unreadable for German police officers—unless they randomly speak Chinese. Spoiler: they don’t. So you need an official, stamped, sealed, certified translation. Because in Germany, nothing is real until it has at least three stamps and a small ritual sacrifice.
The ADAC can produce this translation, certify it, slap on official seals, and probably also bless it under fluorescent lighting. Naturally, it isn’t free. It costs €98. But what won’t you pay just to be allowed to operate a car legally in Germany? So we took our daughter’s Chinese license to the ADAC office in Deggendorf—and behold, a few days later we could pick up the finished document. Amazing! One more piece of paper, and suddenly you’re a real human being again.
Now here’s the part that still breaks my brain:
She can legally drive in public traffic now. But after exactly six months, she has to get a German license. That means driving school, a theory exam, and a practical exam. Let me spell out the logic: for six months she may drive, crash, cause accidents—worst case, seriously hurt someone—all legally. And then, on day 181, Germany says: “Absolutely not. Now it’s dangerous.”
Is this… logical? Or is this German humor and nobody told me?
We had already bought her a Mini Cooper, because young ladies should obviously drive with style. After the translation was ready, we put her behind the wheel of the Mini. And that was—how do I put this gently—a full-scale disaster. She happily drove into oncoming traffic, stopped in the middle of an intersection, turned into oncoming lanes, and did several other things that I’m pretty sure aren’t listed under “normal driving behavior.” That was her last time driving a car for a while. For the benefit of humanity.
Yes, she had a license. But she absolutely could not drive. We didn’t expect that. (Because why would a driver’s license imply actual driving ability? Silly me.) So we enrolled her in a nearby driving school. Unfortunately, the instructor spoke no English. So how do you explain traffic rules to a student when you share exactly zero languages? With vibes? Charades? Prayer? I had mentioned before that we’re basically stranded in the countryside—this is where it became painfully obvious. After two lessons we decided she needed to switch schools. Sad for the school, great for survival rates.
In Dingolfing, there’s a driving school that teaches in a Mini Cooper. We were also told there’s an instructor who speaks English. Later it turned out this was… let’s call it an optimistic interpretation of the word “speaks.” But we’ll get to that.
Before she could do proper driving lessons, she had to pass the theory exam. At least that could be done in English. Oddly enough, you can take theory in English—but the practical exam is entirely in German. Strange logic! Because obviously the most important driving skill is understanding German instructions while panicking.
She studied hard alongside her university workload, and then exam day arrived. The TÜV-Süd office was packed, and students were being herded through the exam like livestock. Some came out in tears. Parents, siblings, and friends stood by with comforting words and emergency emotional support. Our daughter came out smiling and casually admitted she’d made a mistake. I internally prepared for doom. But: she passed. Germany sometimes surprises you.
Then the driving lessons began. Thankfully, as a holder of a Chinese license, she didn’t have to attend classroom theory lessons. Which probably wouldn’t have helped anyway, because she wouldn’t understand the teacher. So: €1,500 deposit, and off we go.
The instructor truly spoke no English. Instead, he spoke a charming Lower Bavarian dialect that even I—native German speaker—could barely understand. Perfect choice! Communication? Optional. After several weeks of intense training we decided she should register for the practical exam. The date approached… her confidence did not. But whatever. Clench and proceed.
A few hours later I got the message that I could pick up a bundle of misery at the driving school. She failed. No surprise if you cruise through a 70 km/h zone at 95 km/h and occasionally treat “right before left” as a cute suggestion. Costs: exam €130, and the last driving lessons over €300, because the initial €1,500 was already long gone—evaporated into the German economy.
So we wired another €1,000 to the driving school and continued with more lessons. Because quitting isn’t allowed unless you file the correct form in triplicate.
A bunch more lessons and three weeks later: second attempt. Naturally, the stress level is now even higher. Exam. Phone call. Failed again.
I picked up the psychologically shattered child and asked what happened. Through tears, she told me the examiner ordered her to go straight. The only problem: she was in a right-turn-only lane—and still obediently drove straight ahead. That was the knockout.
So yes, we burned more money and registered her for attempt number three.
To be continued…
