he air was thick with the smell of burnt coffee and
he air was thick with the smell of burnt coffee and tension — at least for me. There were thirteen of us sitting in a small café in Moschato, each with our driving instructors,” recalls 27-year-old Thanasis, describing the day of his driving test to TO BHMA. “Everyone else seemed calm — laughing, joking, relaxed — as if this were a mere formality and not an actual examination. I, on the other hand, was gripping my coffee cup with frozen hands, my stomach in knots. I scanned their faces, wondering how they could be so at ease.”
He remembers his instructor leaning in, voice barely above a whisper: “You see all these people, smiling over their coffee? Look at you — your tight lips, the way you’re sighing, looking around like you’re lost. It’s because you haven’t paid a cent. And them? They’ve all already passed. Because they paid.” Thanasis was struck by a powerful sense of injustice and anxiety. “In that moment,” he says, “I knew that if anyone was going to fail, it would be me.”
This kind of story, though vividly told, no longer surprises many in Greece. Despite the constant headlines about road accidents and the
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