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Tuesday, October 08, 2002 Now that was an active weekend. Friday: got up, packed, stuffed everything into the car, made the three-hour drive to Cambridge, Mass. where I went to a branch office of the Registry of Motor Vehicles to apply for a duplicate title. (Why? Because I tried to register my car in Vermont last week, found out I can't without the title. The bank from which I'd briefly taken out a loan back in the spring of ‘99 should have sent me the Title three years ago when I paid off the loan, but never did. I called them, they advised me that at this point it would be simpler to go to the Registry. I called the Registry, they told me it would be fast/easy, could be taken care of at a branch office.) The irritable gent at the branch office counter told me they could give me an application but could not process it. I mentioned I'd been told specifically by a friendly, helpful Registry telephone gnome that they could, he nearly flew up out of his seat with anger at that, repeated that they couldn't. Fine. Caught the T, rode a green line train into Boston's Chinatown, found the main Registry office. There I sat in a long, large room with many, many other supplicants, all of us waiting for our number to be called. Kind of a neat room, actually – rows of nice wooden benches to wait on, people of all kinds streaming in and out, floor to ceiling windows along one wall looking out on the street where cars zipped by and downtown types trudged past staring in at us. After half an hour my number came up, I sauntered to the right window where I was given a beautiful illustration of a difference between Montpelier, VT and Boston, MA: at the Dept. of Motor Vehicles, where I finally went and got my Vermont drivers license this last week, I had a wait of five minutes, the woman who dealt with me was kind, good-humored, informative, efficient. At the Registry in Boston, I had a wait of 30 minutes, the woman who dealt with me hardly spoke to me, wouldn't look at me, clearly wanted to be anywhere but there dealing with anyone but me. (Then again, I've had abundant experiences in Boston/Cambridge where bureaucratic types have been warm, friendly, helpful, so what do I know?) There seemed to be a problem with my registration (which I'd had to hand over to facilitate the process). The woman grabbed it, waddled to a woman at another window, conferred with her. Came back, picked up the phone, couldn't get a line, made irritated noises, finally got through to someone else. Turned out the original Title for my car had never been mailed out by the Registry, supposedly because the dealership where I bought the bugger never supplied the necessary info. (Somehow when the woman behind the counter related this she managed to make it sound like it was all my fault. That is a skill I would love to master. I swear I would use it wisely, with restraint, and only against the forces of evil) The woman notified me in a rapid mumble that the Title -- the one that should have been mailed out three years ago – would be sent to me this week, adding that I wouldn't have to pay anything for this since the Title was never mailed to me in the first place. That sent me out into the street with a smile on my silly face and straight to a dive near the intersection of Boylston and Tremont Streets where I picked up a cheap lunch of Chinese food before catching the T back out to Cambridge and my car. Drove out to Burlington (Mass.) where I checked in at a hotel, dumped my stuff off, headed off to Sears at the Burlington Mall for a new set of tires, my current set – warrantied for 30,000 miles – having crossed the 40,000 mile mark and begun losing tread so fast one could almost see the rubber flying off the thing. Got new tires, headed back to the hotel. A couple of hours later, a friend picked me up and drove me two or three towns away to a barbecue joint called Skewers. We blabbed over sizeable dinners, me going for the half-a-chicken/two ribs/rice pilaf combo. (The chicken: so-so. The ribs: outstanding!) [Continued in entry of 10/9.] rws 10:37 PM [+]
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