Fees for Driving Licences and Grant of Pension

My grandchildren laughed when I took driving lessons. And I just know it's never too late to dream.

I went to my first class with a notebook and pen, like a student. The room was full of young people. Most of them looked at me furtively, some with amusement, as if waiting for me to trip over my own feet.

They say old age begins when you stop wanting. And I was seventy-two and decided to want.

"Maybe you should lie down for a moment, Angelo?" Jadzia, my wife of fifty-three years, said as I paced back and forth across the apartment for the hundredth time.

"Lie down? Why would you?" I grumbled, as I usually do. "What am I, a dog? I have to sleep all night."

I dreamed of it.

I retired four years ago. The first few months were quite pleasant – getting up at nine, coffee, crossword puzzles, breakfast. Then a walk, sometimes a trip to the market to do some shopping.

But after a year… well, exactly. After a year, everything was boring. I knew every sidewalk in our neighborhood, knew what time the bus from the end of the loop left, and that Mrs. Halinka from the ground floor left for the store every day at 10:15.

When I was young, I thought I still had time to get my driver's license. But then I had to work, study, then the house, the kids. When we finally had a little more money, there was always something more urgent – ​​the refrigerator, tutoring for Michael, kitchen renovations.

And just like that, it flew by. My whole life, I rode my bike or the bus. I knew the schedules better than many a dispatcher. Until one day, I sat in the kitchen and said to Izabella:

"I'm signing up for a course."

"What course?" she asked, surprised.

"Driving license," I replied with a straight face. "Time to learn how to live before they completely tear me apart."

They laughed at me.

My grandson, Arnold, visited me in the evening. He's twelve years old, walks like he has springs for legs, and knows more about TikTok than I do about fishing.

"Grandpa?! Are you taking driving lessons? Driver's license?" he laughed, almost choking on laughter.

"So what?" I replied, feigning calm, but somewhere deep inside I was boiling. "Maybe it's time to pursue my dreams?"

"But Grandpa, do you want to be a rally driver?" he snorted. "Will you buy a Porsche?"

"I'll buy something that has four wheels and works," I said, pouring him tea, even though he probably deserved a glass of vinegar.

I couldn't sleep that night. I tossed and turned, thinking, "Maybe I really am too old?

Maybe this is ridiculous?

Why bother?

I went to my first class with a notebook and pen, like a student. The room was full of young people. Most of them looked at me furtively, some with amusement, as if waiting for me to trip over my own feet. The instructor was maybe thirty-five. He dressed casually, with such confidence that it was almost stuffy.

"At that age? I respect you!" he said as he handed out materials and approached each student individually.

"I want my freedom back," I replied.

I was the oldest.

During the lectures, I listened to the instructor like a priest in church. When he talked about intersections, signs, and the importance of vigilance, I felt as if he were speaking to me personally, as if he wanted to impart something more than just theory.

Over time, I stopped paying attention to the whispers and glances. One of the guys, sitting two chairs away, whom I initially suspected of mocking, asked during the break:

"Mr. Andrzej, are you seriously writing everything down?" I don't even know where my pen is.

"When I study, I do it seriously," I replied. "I don't have time to repeat the same mistakes."

I could see they admired me. One even approached me one day to ask how to memorize all those right-of-way signs. I showed him my method – drawings, simple associations. He listened attentively.

I wasn't ashamed.

At home, my grandchildren continued joking. Kacper brought me a toy car and set it on the table.

"For warming up before driving," he said with a look that was meant to be witty, but came out more affectionate than mocking.

"I'll be the first grandpa to take you for ice cream, you'll see," I muttered, and started repeating the signs.

In the evenings, Jadzia asked if I wasn't overreacting. And I said I was doing it just for myself. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was doing something meaningful. Not to escape old age, but to catch up with it and hold it by the arm while I still could.

During the driving test at the driving test yard, my heart was pounding like a church bell. The instructor told me to wait for the examiner, and I sat in the car, repeating the sequence in my head: lights, seat belts, mirrors. When this young, cool guy with a briefcase entered, I felt sweat starting to form under my arms.

I failed.

It started with a downhill climb. My car stalled. The second time, I barely moved. In the city, I made a wrong lane and entered a one-way street from the wrong side. The examiner didn't even raise his voice, just said dryly:

"Thank you, please pull over."

I got home earlier than Jadzia expected. I didn't say anything. We sat down for dinner, but I had no appetite. That evening, Kacper called.

"So, Grandpa? Did you pass?"

“What do you think?” I replied with a mock laugh.

“I said it wasn’t for you,” he said without a hint of malice. More like he was stating a fact.

That night, I couldn’t sleep for a long time. I thought about giving up. Why did I have to? But then I remembered those lectures, those looks from the students, the respect in their eyes. And the shame I felt for myself was greater than that failure. I didn’t sleep until almost dawn. And in the morning, I only said one thing:

“Again.”

I was stubborn.

I showed up for the second exam without much preparation. I no longer had that nervous frenzy, just focus. As if my body and mind already knew what to do, they just needed to be left alone. This time, the examiner was older, with a gray beard, and he looked at me intently.

“Ready?”

“Always,” I replied and started the engine.

When I pulled back into the parking lot after the final turn, he gave me a quick look and said:

“Congratulations.” Passed.

I don't remember if I smiled then. I only know that something inside me unlocked. It was like someone had opened a door that had always been locked. A few weeks later, I went with Maciek, my son-in-law, to look at the car. It was used, a little worn, but the engine ran smoothly. After a brief exchange, I handed the seller an envelope.

"Mr. Andrzej, may it serve you well," he said.

I was proud.

My first solo drive... It was something. Aimlessly, through country roads, through the forest, past the old mill where I used to go on dates with Jadzia. I drove slowly, with the window open, listening to the rustle of the trees and the engine. I wasn't in a hurry. A week later, I took Kacper and his younger sister, Hania, for ice cream.

"Grandpa, you really know how to drive that thing!" said my granddaughter, her face smeared with chocolate.

"Sure," I smiled.

That evening, a neighbor across the street stopped me outside her staircase. "Mr. Andrzej, you'll take us everywhere now! Mushroom picking, doctor's, wherever we need to go! A neighbor like that is a treasure."

I felt needed. But what I enjoyed most were those solo rides. Somewhere where no one told me to go, where I didn't have to be there for anyone.