Permission: Granted

In two weeks, I'll have a learner's permit. Predictably, I waited on line to take the test behind a boy with a peach-fuzz mustache. 21 is old to get a permit, I realize, but it's a start.

The Harlem DMV is technically the local office for all of upper Manhattan, including the Upper East Side, so it should theoretically act as a great equalizer, much like jury duty, bringing kids who never leave the boundaries of the UES, who don't take the subway, in contact with the rest of the city. I was struck by how few wealthy-looking white teens were waiting for permits, then remembered that such kids tend to get licenses at their country houses, which generally aren't located on or around 125th Street, even the revived 125th Street. Oh well. A married French man was hitting on a young Latina woman, so at least some cross-cultural mixing was going on.

Something had to be going on, since all told this took me four hours, during which time I read a short biography of Proust once and the latest issue of Vogue more times than I could count. The Vogue ended up having more intriguing French-Jews information than did the biography; apparently the only French people still buying super-expensive bras at some place in Paris are the "important Jewish families of Paris." Fortunately, "J.F.P." isn't an especially catchy acronym.