Next Stop, College: For now? DMV.

Sometimes, it's cold. Bone-rattling, spine-cracking cold. Usually, these cold days directly coincide with the days when your mom calls out, "Need a jacket?!?" And you simply smirk, walking into the icy mist with your bermuda shorts and t-shirt.

Totally normal behavior for me.

That was the day I ended up going to the DMV and waited on line outside at 8 in the morning on a Saturday; an ungodly hour at best. Getting your permit is one of the few steps towards becoming a real college kid, and one that's pretty easy to put off when your main modes of transportation are:

1. The light-rail in all of its fare-officer dodging glory
2. Footing it, usually in sandals or ill-fitting sneakers
3. Biking on a decrepit piece of metal that needs to be kicked in encouragement every few blocks

On second thought, maybe a car's exactly what I need. But let me say, getting to drive one could really be easier.

First: The lines. Good Lord. When you go to Six Flags and stand in line for Kingda Ka, at least you know you're getting a thrill eventually. Delayed gratification at its finest. But the DMV? Oh. Oh no. Oh, ohhhh no. Finally arriving at the end of a 'queue', as they're known in Britain, doesn't exactly kindle excitement in me. In fact, waiting and actually being served are almost equally horrible experiences. But the lines are incredible, just like accidentally slicing your own thumb off with a dull spoon is incredible. And imagine when DMVs were government run? You could camp out for weeks just to get halfway to the front door... shenanigans like that typify the pre-Internet era, when people were glad for distractions like that. 

This is what the 80s were like.

Next: The people. Nowhere else in America will you experience such a skewed, motley representative demographic of the American peoples. When a line drags itself slower than a turtle through barbed wire, distractions truly are easy to come by. In this case, counting Indians. Looking around "Step 1" of the DMV line, I racked up a head count of 16 Indians out of... 20 people. Given, it was early, and I guess they're all about early birding the worm, but... seriously? If I yelled, "Shah! Patel!" half of the entire building would turn around and stare at me. The oddest thing, though, is that many of these immigrants spoke better English than a majority of people I know or have met, including the Hispanic lady who was attending to me at "Step 29C."

Sketching from memory, she looked something like this.

Last: The silly paperwork. I accidentally filled out "USA" in the county box of my permit application (county, country, all the same!) and was viciously beaten by a troop of DMV commandoes. When I handed another kind, large black man my blue card for my actual permit (after 4 layers of overlapping paperwork and running around counters to fix errors made by other workers) he told me it was going to expire soon and I had to retake the knowledge test. On the spot. At the touch screen station I was ushered to hastily, there was lots of  punching letters and then confirming that yes, indeed, I am sure you're supposed to stop on railway tracks when the red lights flash... right? The passing grade was 40/50, and at 32 right, I had 9 wrong. THIS close to needing to change my dungarees on the spot.

Previously, I've lamented the services of post office workers. In fact, I am now eternally grateful for the wonderful, luminescent, saintly workers of the post office. At least their faces aren't permanently fixed in grimaces and scowls; their mindset one of undying resentment of all humans brazen enough to appear before them... WELL. Am I excited for my driving test or what!

**If you are offended by the mildly offensive racial remarks here, please go chase yourself. And then accept my insincerest apologies.