South of Sunnyside

Since I had the day off, I decided to wager another hour or so of my time in hopes of finally registering my Harley. On my last visit, I was told that a CHP officer is available on Fridays, and that I needed his sign-off on my registration papers (it’s a long, convoluted story).

I figured the line would be shorter before lunch than after, and while I was right, the receptionist was surprised I hadn’t made an appointment with the officer; that wasn’t advised, or even given as an option before. Fortunately, the officer wasn’t as busy as she thought—he was leaning against a cubicle wall, just chattin’.

The officer took a quick glance at my paperwork and said it was good to go, meaning that I should have been able to complete the process on my last visit. He pulled a ticket for me, and I sat for 40 minutes waiting for my number to be called.

I still claim that this has been the most ridiculous process I’ve ever encountered, and I’m not confident that it’s over—there’s still plenty of paperwork that could be lost—but at least I have a license plate.

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• The route may just be better than the destination
• Good, fast and cheap