In the interim, I must walk (and drive, of course!) around with a large piece of paper that states that I will have a license, my now-"expired" New Jersey license and my passport, the last of which I learned I must carry when trying to buy a bottle of wine this evening with the piece of paper and expired license. In case you were wondering, that isn't proof enough.
And it only took me five visits to the DMV to get this useless piece of paper! For those of you who think I'm living the dream in la-la land over here, let me remind both you and I that certain things - no matter where you are - will never change.
One of those is the DMV. Without a doubt, no matter how small and peaceful the town one moves to, she can be sure that there will somehow be a line out the door just to take a number that entitles her to wait to go to the first counter, which will ask her for money and then send her to the next counter, where she will be ordered to take a test (a test?! they didn't even give me a California driver's manual to look at first!), have her thumbprint taken and a photo snapped (what - I can't use the photo of my fabulous sixteen year-old self from my New Jersey license?), before walking out the door with a useless piece of paper. That has her birthdate wrong. And so, she will have to turn around and drive right back to the DMV and go through the whole process again, just to obtain a new, equally useless piece of paper that does not serve as proof of age to buy wine.
It's moments like these that bring me back down to earth and remind me that - holy crap - I just moved clear across the country to someplace completely foreign - and that requires some actual "work" in addition to the play. Mind you, the job is certainly work, but it's also enjoyable. Is it really work if I like it?
What I do know is that (1) I do not like the DMV, here, there or anywhere and (2) it sure feels like work to me. I'm just glad I have some bizarre ability to pass exams that I have not studied for, and that my trip to San Francisco this weekend came with a lesson in the legality of turning one's front wheel to the left when parked uphill. At least there was no question on what to do if you come to a hot air balloon in the intersection.
Fortunately, these bursts of reality are few and far between. Not to mention, it's hard to appreciate the good without the bad, and I fear my perception of the world is at risk of becoming tainted if the worst thing that happens to me is Nathalie makes too many French dishes with ham in them for bocce night and I, oh no, have to make a leek quiche.
And, even in that case she brought a fantastic bottle of Chateau Picau-Perna St. Emillion. Last time I checked (and that would be earlier today), the DMV doesn't give me a glass of red while I wait for number G0278 to be called.
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