Once you've moved, boxes unpacked, paintings you've collected now adorning white walls, family photos placed on table tops, every vestige of moving smudged away, the moment arrives when you take the inevitable plunge and head to the DMV. The dreaded institutional building where long lines are de riguer, suffering abuse at the hands of disgruntled state employees part of the experience as you forfeit your current license to receive one from your new state.
That moment had arrived for me to become a New York driver, to be the holder of the card with the state's insignia across the top, all verification I was no longer a Californian. The experience at the DMV on 34th was, as expected, exasperating. Lines moved at a blistering pace. The officials taking your photo and looking over your paperwork were brusque in their manner. The momentousness of this moment as I crossed this new threshold to shedding my LA life was of little or no consequence to the various people behind desks. Was I sad about shedding this last official claim to my former life? The moment, like most big ones, was less of an earthquake than a slight quiver.
My son and I left the DMV, my temporary license in my wallet, as we headed to Herald Square for some shopping and lunch.
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