Moving on (Pt. 13)

One more step towards leaving the Mould State behind: both my car and I are legit with the great state of California.

I have to say that the process of same was not a positive experience.

First of all, California requires that you register your vehicle within 20 days of bringing it into the state. Now, they tell you you can make an appointment for this with your local DMV office. But when I tried on 23 August in their online system to get appointments in Los Gatos, San José and Santa Clara, the earliest I could get was 14 September.

So that was a joke.

To register an out-of-state vehicle you have to pass a smog test. While I actually passed the emissions part, my car triggered some system error messages. I had to get them fixed before they’d pass me to the point I could progress to the DMV. That took another day, $420 & an attempt at retesting.

However, because the internal system had been reset, I had to drive for 35 miles around the area before they could get any readings. Finally, on the third try, I passed.

So last Thursday I went to the San José DMV office at 0740, to find that the line for getting into the building was halfway up the street. The office opens at 0800.

Then, sadly, first off I discovered I needed my passport to get a driver’s license; my Washington license wasn’t enough. So I went ahead with the vehicle part, which involved forms, a “verification” of the vehicle, surrendering your out-of-state plates and $168. The wait for getting a functionary to go through the inspection checklist was 30 minutes. They don’t exactly move at warp speed.

Then I couldn’t get the rear Washington plate off my car, so I drove illegally with the single Washington plate until I could get it to the mechanic to get that one screw out.

With that finally done, I returned to the DMV this morning at 0720 to get the license.

At 0755 some rent-a-guard came by to inform us that today the office doesn’t open until 0900. Fortunately I’d come prepared with a bio of Dorothy Parker, but I’ll tell you that standing on concrete for more than 90 minutes isn’t pleasant.

To call this office a zoo would be to malign animals. And the process was fragmented and mindless. One window to fill out the application, fork over $31, have your passport examined (although they don’t trust the staff to do that; she had to take it to her boss for verification) and take the eye exam. Then another line to get your photo taken.

Plus—they made me take a written test. Apparently it doesn’t matter that you’ve been driving in another state. (I’ll say this—in Washington, you didn’t have to take a test unless your old license was expired. I made it with one day to spare.) I passed. With the maximum number of wrong answers. Well, it’s not like I read any regs before this.

Then, another line to have your exam marked and receive your pitiful temporary license. I made it out of there in an hour, but only because I’d waited to get in when they opened. (The chick at the first window told me that yesterday there’d been a five hour wait. I don’t get that, because one thing they don’t check you for in this process is automatic weapons.)

Oh—they only accept payment by cash, check and debit card. What’s up with that?

It pains me to have to say that the only improvement in the whole DMV experience over Washington is that you can get your vehicle reg and driver’s license at a single office here; in Washington they’re two separate locations. Mostly in separate cities.

But both these supposedly trend-setting and advanced tech states are left in the dust by Virginia. In that politically benighted and often socially backward commonwealth, you can pay with credit cards, and you take care of your entire license process at a single window: application, eye exam, photo, payment.

And you walk out of the facility with a real license in your possession. You’re done.

And you don’t have the sense of having been through a sausage factory run by droids stuck permanently on the slowest speed setting.

Moving on (Pt. 12)

Well, I’m pretty well moved in. I’ve given up on finding the bedroom lamp or the spice rack; & I guess I’ll spend the next ten months with only two saucepans (a 1-quart & a 2-quart with a lid) to cook in. I’m assuming all that kit is in cartons in the storage space, but they’re blocked in by about 20 boxes of books, so they’re not coming out until I move again.

The claims adjuster’s been here to assess the damage the movers did. (Did I mention that they just jumbled all my film cameras together in a box—without bothering to wrap a single one of them? Or that they packed opened bottles of things like vanilla & vinegar on their sides, so that even with the lids taped up they leaked?)

A friend stopping by on his way back from Seattle to LA helped me get rid of the broken bookcase—manhandled it next to one of the complex’s recycling dumpsters. Dunno what to think of this, but by next day the case was gone. Could someone have taken it for firewood? Can you burn that stuff?

So I guess I’m here. I’m working on getting street legal & in about five weeks my Seattle house will belong to another person who’s moving on—getting a divorce.

Seems fitting.