Cross-cultural licensing

My husband was trying to drag me to the department of motor vehicles, because he has a fascination with getting things licensed. I wasn't very interested, and if left to my own devices, I would probably require at least a speeding ticket to prompt me to change my affiliation. After all, the department of motor vehicles is boring, right?

When we arrived at the licensing center, which was located in an unassuming strip mall, with its title in large red letters "Driver's License" being the only marker for its presence. We walked inside to find a cross section of society waiting in line. Hispanic would-be gangsters in gold chains with tattoo sleeves, African women draped in traditional robes and hijabs, and, most intriguingly, a large black man wearing a mask. This man was wearing a disheveled, discolored white T-shirt and sweatpants. He had short dreads and red sneakers. He also had on a red facemask, the sort you would wear if you were attending a costume ball or Carnivale. "Excuse me, is this the line?" We asked. "Yes, the Red Hornet is in line, you bet," he said. The Red Hornet turned to his friend, who was wearing a white t-shirt that was basically an amalgam of stains, and a baseball cap with a dollar bill pattern on it. "They gonna try to get me to remove this mask," he told his friend, who smiled. "'Cause being a superhero, the police always got to be chasing you. They always got to be in your business." "Mmm-hmmm." The friend agreed. The Red Hornet continued his very loud, masked soliloquy about the difficulties of being a superhero at the DMV until he reached the front of the line. He seemed ready to make a grand social statement. I was disappointed when he finally walked up to the desk and, mask off, began to act like a completely mundane customer.

After taking a computer test to get my new license, we walked to the counter where the vision testing was taking place. "Put your forehead to the bar," the DMV staffer was saying, to a woman in a beaded turquoise hijab. "Now where do you see the flashing lights?" The woman pulled back her head and stared at him. "Did you see the flashing lights?" He asked. She nodded uncertainly. "Where were they?" She didn't answer. "Put your forehead back to the bar and look for the flashing lights," he said, pointing. We watched as this scenario repeated itself about 10 times, with the staff member getting progressively more frustrated each time. "Do you SEE the flashing lights?? Tell me where they are!" He gestured wildly at the machine. The woman would look at him uncomprehendingly, but she refused to give any answer that might incriminate her. You could see her eyes were searching his for the right answer. Eventually he managed to coach her through giving him the answer. This encounter made us wonder - what exactly are the criteria by which a driver's vision test is judged? If a person cannot understand a simple instruction in English after several repeated attempts... shouldn't this disqualify them from driving on roadways where the signage is in English? Or is the purpose of the test as far as the DMV goes simply to actually ensure that each eye is working?

Farmer's Market Flood

My first farmer's market in a place where farms abound. This put my suburban farmer's market experience to shame - row upon row of booths from vegetables to dairy to meats, with a couple of folk singers strumming in front of their open guitar cases in between. The peddlers ranged from grandmotherly types selling homemade jams, jellies, and pies, to southeast Asian immigrants selling bunches of Thai basil.

The trucks selling meats had menus an arm's length long, with sausages and sandwich meats, steaks and bratwursts. The Amish were there selling pastries from the back of their truck (yes, they had a truck too), and the Norwegians staffed the lefse tent. I tasted my first lefse - like a heartier crepe, rolled with butter, sugar and cinnamon.

As we purchased a small loaf of banana bread, the shopkeeper glanced at the sky. "Did you hear? There's a big storm coming." "No, I didn't realize," I said, and went merrily strolling towards the next booth, assuming that I should batten down the hatches for later that afternoon. A few minutes later, tall, dark clouds were looming to the west. The storm was bearing down on us, and we realized we only had a few minutes to reconnoiter. "Quick, the $3 raspberries! You get the Amish cinnamon rolls! A small bag of spring mix, please?" The farmers were grabbing and stacking dollar bills as quickly as they could collect them, one eye on the sky, and one eye on their wares, desperate to maximize the take before the storm bore down on them. Shoppers were streaming out from the marketplace, including the acting troupe who had been performing the Music Man - they crowded towards the exit in their suits, straw hats and frocks, singing in harmony as they went.

As we fled towards our car, we could hear the rain roaring towards us like a watery curtain, the shrieks from soaked pedestrians getting closer and closer by the moment. By the time we were in the car, the rain was pelting down on the remaining marketgoers and sellers. Puddles were beginning to stretch along the roads. The sky had completely transformed itself with the suddenness of a solar eclipse. And we departed the farmer's market to make our local lunch, marveling at the fury of a Midwestern storm.