A Tale of Two Cities: DMV

A Tale of Two Cities: DMV

I was dreading it.

My last day at the farm before going back to LA and I discovered I have to go to the DMV and get registration tags.

All the stuff I had to get done, clearing out a my new living quarters in a day and a half, pack and try to go to the DMV?!?!

Well, no one to whine to about it, except my very understanding dog.

Heave sigh, move on.

Anyone in any city feels my pain, the DMV is the poster child for slow and surly service and long eternal waits in uncomfortable chairs.

I walked in to the Ontario Oregon DMV with a knot of stress in my stomach, push the red button to get a number, 98.

I looked around and there is nobody there.

Well, almost.

One person walked away from the service counter and the one in the chair gets up, he was waiting for the one person at the counter. There was a woman taking a written test.

No one called my number, instead she smiled a big smile and waved me over “Hey Hon, need some help?”

I resisted the urge to look around and point to myself in a comic manner and scurry over with happiness.

She is smiling and sweet and efficient and in about two minutes I had everything I needed and am ready to go. She even knew my family and told me how everyone at the DMV thought my Uncle was just adorable.

As I drove back to the farm, I looked at the clock and realized that in LA this would have been rush hour, there is no rush hour here.

Some things about small town life are awesome and the DMV is now on the awesome list.

I consider this a good omen for my future here—I welcome more such pleasant surprises.

Like the grocery store has finger-steaks at the deli counter.

What are finger steaks, you may be thinking?

Regional cuisine is a topic for another day.

Stay tuned.