I have had the dubious pleasure over
the years of registering vehicles and/or licensing myself at DMVs in
five different states. New Jersey was the worst. Bad enough, in
fact, that I can say with some confidence—even absent experience in
the other 45 states—that New Jersey's DMV is the worst in the
country. Of all the things I love and miss about New Jersey,
spending 16 hours over three days to finally register a truck is not
among them. But despite its flaws, the New Jersey DMV was a great
social equalizer. As a state, New Jersey has extremes of wealth and
poverty, and New Jersey required you to come and sit with a “now
serving” number pinched between your fingers for hours on end
whether (very) rich or (very) poor. In a country marked by a
shrinking middle-class and an ever-widening wealth gap, the DMV may
be the last public space dedicated to bringing disparate people
together under one roof to share a common experience.
A close second might be commercial air
travel. Lets face it, the (very) rich are unlikely to be found
flying commercial, and the (very) poor might find more pressing
things to spend money on, but a pretty wide-swath of our population
comes together on planes. Where else would the two men sitting
behind C and I on our way to Reno for a quick Easter weekend getaway
have met? The exchange started off as they often do on planes: “So,
where are you headed?”
“New York.”
“Oh yea? Business of pleasure?”
“Well, I am proud to say my son is
currently at West Point and serving this great country. He plays
football and has a game in New York this weekend, and I'm going to
support him.”
“Wow, man, that is great.”
It could have ended there. But the
West Point dad with a close haircut, a lineman's build, and West
Point jacket, did the polite thing and asked his twenty-something
neighbor with unkempt curls sticking well out from underneath a hat
the follow up: “So, what about you? Where are you headed?”
“Denver.”
“Working?”
“Sort of. I've got an entry in the
Cannabis Cup and have some meetings set up with some growers.”
“Oh.”
And that pretty well killed the
conversation. I don't know if West Point Dad knew anything about the
Cannabis Cup. (I didn't, but learned a little with a quick on-line
search. See, e.g.,this article.)
But he probably knew enough to know he didn't have much interest in
pursuing the conversation much further. In any case, I hope the two
of them learned a tiny bit about a world broader than normally dreamt
of in their philosophies. And at least they were both nicer than the
guy who yelled at me during boarding.