By Max Milano (Travel Writer)

The day of the driving test finally came.

Months of waiting. Over a thousand euros spent on driving school fees, paperwork, and lessons. He’d already flunked the first written exam. This was the last chance before the whole thing reset. Another fail would mean 300 euros to re-enroll in the school. The written exam stayed valid for two years, but the rest? Gone. Then 50 euros per driving lesson, with the driving school requiring at least ten. Mandatory. No debate.

This, despite the fact that the expat had been driving since high school back in the States. No accidents. Not in California. Not in Spain.

The test was held in a nearby medieval town. Tight cobblestone streets, blind corners, and tourists wandering into the road without looking. The test car held four people: the school owner riding shotgun, the examiner in the back, another student waiting his turn, and the expat behind the wheel. Some other cars had six people crammed in. At least this one was less crowded.

The school owner and examiner chatted in Spanish, cracking jokes and mostly ignoring the driver. The examiner barked an instruction: “Drive wherever you like.”

So, he did.

He drove carefully and steadily. Not over 30 kilometers an hour. Stopping fully. Signaling properly. He’d learned to drive on the hills of San Francisco, with tram tracks, cyclists, and delivery guys darting through traffic. This was flat and tame by comparison. Just another day on the road, right?

“Hostia,” the examiner muttered. “I obscenity on the milk. Every time I see one of those British cars with the steering wheel on the wrong side, I want to vomit. They shouldn’t even be allowed on the road.”

Drive Towards Madrid, But Take The Road That Passes By My Uncle’s House…

“I think it goes back to the old carriage days,” the school owner offered. “Drivers rode on the right and used their left hands to whip the horses.”

“I obscenity on God. I don’t care if the Queen of England herself invented it,” the examiner snapped. “It’s wrong and should not be allowed.”

They passed a caravan park. The examiner rolled his eyes.

“I obscenity on the host,” he said. “These Germans. Always with their caravans. If I ran this country, we wouldn’t allow them in with their caravans.”

“It’s because of the war,” the school owner said casually. “They got a taste for caravans during the war, and now they won’t give them up.”

“The mother that gave them birth!” the examiner nodded, “and now they ride them through here blocking traffic.”

(It’s 2025, by the way. I don’t think that there are many German WWII vets cruising the costas in VW Combis these days.)

“Now,” barked the examiner, “go via Madrid.”

So, the expat turned onto a road he knew led toward Madrid. A beat later, the examiner was back to chatting.

“Remember that Frenchman?” he asked the school owner.

“The one with the jacket? The big shoulder pads?”

“That’s the one. Thought he was some fashion icon, that gilipollas. Turn left!”

The expat was now sweating bullets, trying to drive and follow random directions mid-conversation. Right. Left. No advance notice. Just barks between jokes and insults.

“I think that French guy was a big marica… Turn right!”

“They all are,” said the school owner, laughing.

Finally, the examiner muttered, “Back to base.”

The driver was confident. He’d followed orders, kept calm, and didn’t hit a tourist or a dog. It wasn’t elegant, but he got through it.

Back at the test center, the car stopped. The examiner made a show of checking his clipboard.

“First of all,” he hissed, “when I told you to go via Madrid, you went straight. It should’ve been left.”

“But that road goes to Madrid,” the expat replied, trying to keep calm.

“No. Via Madrid was left,” the examiner snapped.

The expat looked to the school owner for backup.

“He’s right,” the owner said with a shrug. “Should’ve gone left.”

And that was the moment it clicked. The driving school owner, who would pocket another 300 euros if the expat failed, was siding with the examiner in the most shameless way. No hesitation. No attempt to help. Not even to play neutral.

So, he failed.

No feedback. No encouragement. No “We’ll book a couple more lessons and fix the weak spots.”

Nothing.

Just: You failed. Pay again.

And just like that, the car drove off with the next group of test-takers. Gone.

The expat crossed the street to his wife, stunned. No explanation. No recap. No support.

And the irony? He got in his own car, the one he bought in Spain, pays road tax on, and insures. He drove home on his U.S. license that he uses to drive all over Spain, because north Americans are allowed to drive in Spain for up to six months with their north American licenses plus an international driver’s permit.

But somehow, he’s still not good enough to be issued a Spanish driver’s license.

Who are they protecting? Their pockets?

Because it’s not about road safety.

It’s about money.

The driving school industry in Spain sees North American expats as walking ATMs, and they don’t even try to hide it.

One driving school owner we interviewed said, with a straight face, “The purpose of the test is not to check if you can drive a car safely. We know you can drive a car safely.”

So, if it’s not about safety, what is it about?

Let’s do the math. Most expats report needing between four and six attempts to pass, judging by Reddit threads, Facebook groups, and bitter WhatsApp rants. Each time you fail, the school resets the clock. That’s another 300 euros to rejoin, plus ten more driving lessons minimum. At 50 euros each, that’s 800 euros per round. Fail twice, and you’re out over 1,400 euros per person, and still no license.

It’s blatantly obvious that the driving school industry in Spain counts on repeat business from failed students. The examiner and the school? Two sides of the same coin. One fails you. The other sells you more lessons. Over and over.

How is that not corruption?

Take Me To My Uncle’s House Next To The Palm Tree Up In The Village, Cariño…

The Spanish Driving License Gauntlet

So, what does it really take for a foreigner, especially a North American expat, to get a Spanish driver’s license?

Money. Time. Frustration. And a thick skin.

Several expats we interviewed described a process that felt more like a bureaucratic hustle than a public safety measure. To begin, you must register with a certified driving school. That alone can cost upwards of 300 euros.

In one case, a school initially explained that Spanish residency papers were required to join their school (these expats were still waiting for their paperwork to arrive), but after two employees huddled outside for a few minutes, they returned with a new offer: the expats could pay 50 euros per person, cash only, for study materials. A book, basically. No receipt. Wink, wink, nod, nod.

Another couple explained they had limited Spanish and needed an automatic car. “No problem,” the school said. But after the theory exam was passed, the school ghosted them for the entire summer. When contact resumed, they were informed there was no automatic car available. They had been quietly transferred to another school, where they were hit with a new 350-euro fee to change schools.

The Language Trap

Language proved to be one of the biggest barriers. Several schools outright refused to take on students who weren’t fluent in Spanish. One manager tested an expat’s Spanish by asking, “How many sheep do you own?” When the question wasn’t understood, he ended the meeting.

Rumors persist, confirmed by multiple interviewees, that examiners speak more quickly and less clearly to English-speaking foreigners, offering confusing instructions like “drive to my aunt’s house” or “turn left after the house with the blue door…then take the road via Alicante but on the old road that goes past my house.”

The Written Test

While the written theory exam is available in English, the translation is notoriously poor. Even native Spanish speakers from Latin America struggle with the regional vocabulary. One example: “turismo” means “car” in Spain, a meaning not shared elsewhere in the Spanish-speaking world.

The preparation is no small task. Expats were told to complete 90 mock exams, each with 30 questions, and repeat them three times. That’s 8,100 questions, just to pass the theory portion.

Lessons: The Money Pit

Driving lessons averaged 50 euros each. Although some schools claim students can test after four to six sessions, others reportedly require 20, 30, or even 50 lessons. The number often seemed to increase depending on the student’s nationality.

Gotta Gatch Them Guiri Walking ATMs For The Autoescuela

Many described failing for what felt like nitpicking. For instance, some schools and examiners insist that drivers stop twice at every stop sign, once to show intent, and once to stop. As for pedestrian crossings, instructions vary. Some say to stop if a pedestrian is nearby. Others say not unless they’ve stepped into the crosswalk. Guess wrong, and it’s a fail.

Exam Day: Controlled Confusion

Several expats reported waiting over an hour outside on exam day with no explanation. One test car contained three men: examiner, instructor, and another student, with a female expat behind the wheel, visibly intimidated. Throughout the drive, the instructor and examiner chatted away in Spanish, offering directions with little clarity or warning.

In one case, an expat was failed for taking the “wrong” exit to Alicante, even though the exit they took was marked for Alicante. In another, the examiner simply said he had a “feeling” the student was driving too fast. There was no official speed violation.

After the test? No feedback. No guidance. No encouragement. Just a silent walk away and the unspoken expectation to pay again, start over, and repeat the process.

That Will Be Another 350 Euros Plus 10 Lessons At 50 Euros A Pop So We Can Flunk You And Do It All Over Again ‘Cause A Man Gotta Make A Living…

Conclusion: A Rigged Game?

What emerges is a troubling picture: a system riddled with inconsistencies, cultural disconnects, and what many suspect is financial self-interest. Driving schools benefit from students failing. More failures mean more lessons, more fees, more business.

And the final irony? Perhaps the most absurd part? After failing the test, every expat we interviewed simply got back into the very car they legally own, insure, and register in Spain, and drove home on Spanish highways using their valid U.S. license (Spanish law allows foreigners to drive with a U.S. license and an international permit for six months after becoming residents).

Which raises the real question: what exactly are these excessively repeated driving tests for profit supposed to accomplish?

From where these expats stand, it’s not road safety that’s being prioritized.

It’s profit.

And unless the system changes, getting a Spanish driver’s license as an expat will remain a costly, time-consuming, and often humiliating obstacle course. One designed less to test your driving, and more to test your wallet.

For more offbeat, brutally honest travel stories and expat survival tips, head to GuiriGuru.com and start living Spain from the inside out.

Max Milano is a travel writer and photographer based in Los Angeles, California, and Valencia, Spain. His latest photography book, Mexico City Noir, Life Under The Volcanoes, is Available on Amazon. His photographs are available at MaxMilanoPix.

2 Comments

  1. Peg Ross

    I had a completely different experience. My instructor spoke some English and didn’t carry on a separate conversation with the examiner. The examiner gave directions in castellano, and I understood most of them but the instructor repeated them in English. I passed the first time. I also passed the theory test the first time, but agree the questions in English were very confusing. Not all autoescuelas are scams.

    • Max Milano

      In Benidorm we were told that no english was allowed, witch is strange for a heavy UK expat and tourist area, but it’s good to know that some other areas allow some english.

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