The Dreaded DMV

The Dreaded DMV

I felt anxious when I heard the news.  It was that familiar reaction I had had as a student during exams.  But that was years ago… and here I was worrying about taking a silly driver’s test. What if I didn't pass?  The surprising news is that the state of North Carolina requires passing a written test regardless of what state you move from or how long you’ve been driving. I’ve had a license for nearly 50 years. The day I received the driver’s manual, which the Department of Motor Vehicles representative on the phone said she would send me, I began worrying about studying for a test imagining the ordeal of going to through another DMV experience.

Memories of the bureaucracy, the long lines, the unfriendly people associated with “the dreaded DMV” quickly came to mind. I have had licenses in Maryland, Florida, Colorado, Vermont, Virginia, Alabama, New Jersey, New Hampshire, and the United Arab Emirates.  This doesn’t include the years I drove in Chile and Costa Rica where we never bothered to get anything but an international license which we obtained from some nice person at a AAA office in the US.  The one and only written test I ever took was for my first license in Maryland when I was 17 years old and had just learned to drive. Of course, at 17, life was all about studying for everything from the SAT’s to school exams.  All my subsequent licenses were a result of waiting in lines in some DMV office, which I usually struggled to find in a new place I had moved to. But I had never had to retake a written test.

Recently I began to wonder why Departments of Motor Vehicles, no matter where they are, don’t carry happy memories for most of us. They only allow for a sense of relief when the ordeal of receiving a new license is behind you. It’s somewhat like going to the dentist’s office with a cavity or two.  I also associate the DMV with worrying about my teenager and whether he would pass the test on the first go round.

My most unusual DMV experience happened in Dubai. The United Arab Emirates has strict rules about resident expats and a bureaucracy that will rival any in the world.  It took several months after I arrived to get my resident papers and then I had to apply for a driver’s license. An international license was not accepted.  Despite the familiar feeling of dread, I told myself that it was simply a matter of going to a DMV branch, presenting the proper forms, my passport, a valid U.S. license from any state, and an application fee. No written test. Only a few weeks before, Art had taken his Vermont license and had no problems getting a U.A.E. driver’s license.  I went to the same office, took a number and waited in line.  When I presented my papers, the Emirati, who spoke little English and was not friendly, took my Vermont license and spent some time studying it.  “This is Virginia?” he asked in broken English.  “No, it’s Vermont,” I replied.  Reaching for a large loose-leaf binder on the back counter.  He began to go through the pages and I realized they were photocopies of U.S. driver’s licenses that had been organized in alphabetical order by state.  He was looking for Vermont and it wasn’t there.   I knew I was not the first person to have walked into that office with a Vermont license.  

“Virginia? he asked again.  “No, Vermont…it’s a state near the border of Canada, north of New York,” I tried to explain.  He checked his book again.  Finally he came back, handed me all my forms, my passport, the money and my U.S. license and told me he could not give me a driver’s license today because Vermont was not a U.S. state. If it was not in his book then he was done with me. I was stunned but asked what I should do next. I'd have to go to the main DMV office in Deira, on the other side of Dubai, which I could already picture mobbed with people and several hours of wait time.

As we came out into the hot sun I knew I was not going to go to Deira… no way.  I called an American friend and asked her what DMV office she had gone to for her license.  She mentioned a shopping mall in Jumeirah Beach.  We were not far from there and checking my watch I saw that they would be open. I found the office, walked in with my papers, passport, Vermont license and fee.  My stomach was in knots but outwardly I was composed pretending I had just started the process.  I turned everything over to a young Emirati in his neatly ironed, white dish dash and head dress and simply stood in front of him in silence.  As he picked up my documents and began examining my Vermont license, I held my breath waiting to see what would happen.  He turned over the license and held it up again and just when I thought he would hand it back to me, he sat down at his computer and began to enter my data.  Fifteen minutes later I walked out with my new Emirati driver’s license.

Now I was in North Carolina, faced with taking a test and adding one more license to my growing list.  Having read through all 112 pages of the North Carolina Driver’s Handbook once, and wondering how it would feel to fail a written test after driving for fifty years, I set off for the DMV.  Asheville is not Dubai and  people here are simply nice…  even DMV officials.  Why did that surprise me?   I breezed through the test, the eye test and identifying road signs.  Had a pleasant conversation with the DMV person who helped me and I was done in 45 minutes. 

While I held my new North Carolina driver’s license in my hand I felt foolish for having allowed myself to imagine the worst.  Why is it, I asked myself for the millionth time, that the things we dread the most in life often turn out to be the easiest?

Welcome to Asheville

          “Where are you from?” comes up daily in conversations since we moved to Asheville.  It’s the question I remember being asked most frequently when we lived in Dubai, a city with over 85 percent foreigners from every country in the world and a handful of native Emiratis.  Asheville is not Dubai and yet it is a unique small city in the Western North Carolina Blue Ridge Mountains that has been discovered by transplanted people from all over the U.S…like us.  The conversation usually continues like this:

            “We moved from Vermont,” I say.

            “Oh…where in Vermont?”

            “In central Vermont near Middlebury and Rutland… in the small town of Rochester,” I reply.

            “You sure got out in time, didn’t you?” the person answers referring to Hurricane Irene this summer. 

            “How long have you been here?” I’ll ask back.  And then I learn they have moved here from southern California or Maine, Chicago, Michigan or Texas. We have even met Vermonters from Putney/Brattleboro area in a casual conversation and have become real friends.

Often the conversation will continue covering mutual interests, why you moved, and where you live in the Asheville area.  There is a friendliness towards the many newcomers that continually surprises me. Here, the dialogue goes beyond the ”where are you from?”  And, if you happen to meet a native North Carolinian they will immediately rattle off a long list of places you absolutely must see.  Our realtor Hope, who happens to be one of the few native Ashevillians I have yet to meet, drove us all over Asheville for an entire day and a half pointing out sights and highlights before we ever set foot in a house for sale. She wanted us to love Asheville as she does.

            Meeting new people in Asheville usually ends with, “Oh, you are going to love it here!” or “We came for the weather and it’s wonderful.” Or “You won’t believe how much there is to do here.” 

            It’s only been five weeks since we arrived here and I look around my house and marvel that the packing boxes are gone and things put away in places where hopefully I’ll remember where they are.  A new sofa is in place in the living room with its high cathedral ceiling, and a large Mission style table and chairs (very Asheville “arts & crafts”) graces our dining area. Two new beds are in the guest room waiting to be slept in for the first time. The last of our paintings collected on our world travels are now hung on the walls, and our Dubai rugs look like they were made for the dark hardwood floors in this house. The pantry is beginning to be well stocked, and fresh yellow mums from the Farmer’s Market on front porch are a sign that 50 Black Horse Run is lived in.

            We are members of the Center for Creative Retirement at the University of North Carolina Asheville, the North Carolina Arboretum and the YMCA all in a month.  I now go to Yoga and Zumba classes and Nathalie, my favorite instructor who handles up to 30 and more to a class greets me with a cheery smile and a “Hello, Kristina!”  I can drive places without clutching my dog-eared Asheville map or plugging in the GPS and am rewarded occasionally with discovering a shortcut to get somewhere. I can get to Tyson’s Furniture in the charming town of Black Mountain outside Asheville and I’ve been lucky to find bargains at the huge Restore run by Habitat for Humanity volunteers and the Resale Shop supporting Hospice. Volunteer opportunities are endless as I learned when I met with a volunteer coordinator, a young woman from Toronto, who is helping me look for a way to use my Spanish.  I now know where and what Greenlife is - a huge whole foods and organic market similar to my familiar Coop up north but much larger. I stocked up and “Kristina’s Granola” is back in production again.

            We’ve gone with the Biltmore Lake Hiking Club to Graveyard Fields (at 5,000 ft.) off the Blue Ridge Parkway and next Saturday will hike to the summit of Mt. Mitchell, over 6,000 ft, the highest peak in Western North Carolina. The Duplicate Bridge Group plays once a month and of course, everyone is from somewhere else and loves it here.  My wallet is filling up with new membership cards including a library card at the Asheville Buncombe County Public Library, a mile from home. I walked there on a warm sunny afternoon the other day.  We’ve biked on the Biltmore Estate with our new Vermont friends who invited us on their passes and even tasted local wines at the Biltmore Estate Winery.

 

            Perhaps it’s the openness of people in Asheville that has made me want to dive right in faster than it has taken to settle in other places. I think about my new friend Sarah, a tall slim girl with a wide smile in her mid twenties who greeted me at my very first Yoga class at the YMCA just two weeks ago.  After the usual “where are you from” conversation she went out of her way to catch me afterwards and formally introduce to me Nathalie the Yoga teacher who had just lead the class.  Then we walked out of class together and she told me she had grown up in Asheville and gone away to college. She confessed that after college she came home to visit and just couldn’t leave because “after all, what better place could there be than Asheville?" I see her from time to time at the Y and she always has a smile for me. I am old enough to be her mother but I like that she wants me to like Asheville as much as she does.

            Moving to Asheville from Vermont has taught me that that there is much more to “where are you from” than I had experienced.  In Dubai, where different nationalities kept to themselves it often didn’t go much beyond this first question even if you would have liked it to.  While as a newcomer it is easy to embrace the friendly atmosphere here, I remind myself occasionally that as a transplanted Ashevillian, I should do the same for the newcomers who just keep coming.

           

                       

Locked Out

Most everyone has been locked out of a house or an apartment at least once.  For me it seems to have become a ritual to settling in to a new place.  I jest, of course, and yet I take certain "signs" related to similar experiences I've had in the past, to be indicative of things I need to pay attention to.  This is far better than succumbing to the thought that "I must be getting forgetful and therefore old".  


Enchanted with our new life at Biltmore Lake in North Carolina, we set out one evening to walk around the lake after dinner.  Mornings and evenings are the best times to follow the trail which is out the front door, crosses the road and is reportedly 2.2 miles long.  It follows the perimeter of a 65 acre, man made lake 2,000 ft. above sea level. Before leaving the house I remembered to lock the front door, take the key, grab my ID which we were told we should wear when walking the trails to prove we are residents. I also pocketed a small head flashlight...just in case.  It was cooling off after a warm day as we walked along at a brisk pace enjoying the ducks leisurely paddling by, some children still playing in the water as we rounded the beach area, and greeting other walkers and joggers as we passed along the way. We were marveling, as we had already done a dozen times each day, at having landed in such a beautiful place after a long summer of endless clearing out, packing, making plans, and lying awake nights wondering how it would all turn out.  Having found a buyer for our Vermont house in four days we were still reeling from how it could have all happened so fast.


It was getting dark and I was reminded  that I'd come 1,000 miles south from Vermont where the evenings are shorter.  As we crossed the road to hike up the final hill to our new townhouse, I fished in my pocket for the key. No key.  Perhaps I had forgotten to lock the door and left it on the counter.  I put on my flashlight, double checked my pockets and still no key.  I decided I would willingly succumb to the thought that I'm getting old and forgetful if only I had left the front door unlocked.  But it wasn't. I had remembered to lock the front door and had lost the key.


Strangely my first thought was what my neighbors were going through in Vermont at that very minute.  We had been immersed for several days in trying to imagine living through Hurricane Irene and had images of the destruction in Rochester, and the picture of Gt Hawk Colony being cut off from everywhere when all bridges were washed away.   The truth is, we were suffering some very real "survivor's guilt" at having moved away from Rochester, Vermont just a few weeks before the hurricane hit. It was hard to shake the idea that we should be shouldering some of the burden along with our neighbors in Vermont. Instead we were walking around beautiful Biltmore Lake. 


My second thought was a flashback to the first weekend in November 1990. I saw Art, Hayden (who was 13 at the time) and me, closing the door behind us of the new home we had purchased on the mountain at Gt. Hawk in Rochester, Vermont.  We had driven  six hours from New Jersey for the weekend to take a look at the first house we had ever purchased.  It snowed hard that Saturday and by evening there was a foot or more on the ground - a gorgeous first snowfall of the season.  Someone suggested a walk in the snow and before any of us could think, we had slammed the front door behind us.  It was locked and we had left the key indoors.  We were locked out on a quiet mountain blanketed in snow on a Saturday evening in Vermont.


We knew no one on the mountain but saw a light down the driveway across the street.  All three of us trudged through the deep snow, knocked on the door and met new neighbors who let us in.  We waited about an hour until the realtor who had sold us the house came through the storm to deliver a key.  That very next morning we hid a key under the front deck that remained there for the next 21 years.


My thoughts swung back to the problem at hand. The solution was not difficult but we needed some tools.  Knocking on a neighbor's door a few houses down, I explained our situation and asked to borrowed a step ladder, a pair of scissors and a screw driver.  While Art held the stepladder, I climbed up to a side window I had left open and proceeded to neatly cut out the screen as if I had been used to doing this all my life.  Then I shimmied through the window and was in!  I unlocked the front door,and was surprised not to get caught breaking into my own house.  


The next morning as I got up to get coffee, Art dangled the lost key in front of me. He had already been out on the trail determined to find it. Now the key is back, the screen is repaired, and there is an extra key on a nail tucked under the back deck. If we ever move again I will be sure to put the extra key under the deck before we go through the ritual of being locked out.