Getting Legal in Tucson

As David and I prepare for our month in Mexico where we'll undoubtedly encounter some frustrations either with bureaucracy or local customs--or both--I was reminded, when I stumbled across this article I wrote six years ago, that dealing with bureaucracy in the United States isn't always easy either. 

Since yesterday marked my one-month anniversary in Tucson, I decided to celebrate by getting "legal."  A trip to the DMV in the morning yielded a driver's license that thrilled me no end with the panorama of the Grand Canyon in the background.  I also couldn't help noticing that my picture looks a lot better than the one taken in North Carolina four years ago, before I left for Mexico.  That must say something about the stress of teaching or the serenity to be found in Mexico--not sure which. 

It's a good thing the license doesn't have to be renewed until I'm 65, because the DMV parking lot seems to be a dangerous place to be.  When I was telling the car inspection man later in the afternoon about the woman who'd run into my bumper causing minor damage that morning, he said that was nothing.  Seems a woman was run over in the parking lot last week --the driver never stopped--and two weeks ago there were eleven police cruisers and a SWAT unit surrounding the building.  When a girl was caught cheating on her written driving test, she went outside and called the police on her cell phone saying a man with a gun was holding the DMV people hostage. 

My inspector said that they'd gotten used to just about everything there, including famous people dropping by (Though heaven knows why they want to stop there, given what happens in the parking lot!)  and he dropped a few names:  Linda Ronstadt, Andy (Can't remember the last name.), the most famous left-handed baseball pitcher in the world, and Kevin Costner. 

I dreaded the next part of the getting-legal-day-- car inspection, registration, and license plate because I drive an almost twenty-year-old van and there's usually something wrong with it.  I know of at least one problem with the front headlights, and I shuddered to think how many more would be revealed by an inspection.  Just fixing the one problem I knew about would mean getting a part shipped from the Bus Depot in Pennsylvania, finding a mechanic to repair it, and a return trip to the inspection place. I wondered, as I drove to the emissions testing center a couple miles away, just how many other parts would have to be replaced. Then, of course, there was the dreaded emissions test itself.  How could my ancient car possibly meet today's strict air quality standards?