Martha Cooney

In Philadelphia to celebrate America’s 250th birthday? Between seeing the Liberty Bell and running the Rocky steps, check out one of our hidden gems: the DMV at 8th and Arch Streets.

 

You can be forgiven for holding the common assumption that the landmark is accessible only to city residents. I can’t hold my head up as a travel writer if I don’t cut through the cow field marked by a “No Trespassing” sign; so too a sightseer too timid to ask forgiveness, not permission misses the best a place has to offer. 

 

To get around the technicality, simply walk past the ticket booth and say into your phone “I brought the proof of address … where are you sitting?” and pretend to search the crowd for a family member. For the ultimate experience, latch onto someone in line and pose as an accompanying buddy; most people are happy to have you along. We’re known as the city of brotherly love and sisterly affection, after all; show interest in our way of life, and we’ll invite you to our mom’s house for meatballs and stuffed shells. 

 

Myself, I only get there every few years – life keeps life-ing – but every time I get a chance, I’m reminded I should go more often. With the pleasant discovery of an expired license, and my birthday coming up (coinciding with America’s, no big deal), I decided to treat myself and steal a few hours for a visit. My editor* was only too pleased with my proposal to cover the trip for a piece, agreeing a swivel of the telescope from global to local would be a nice jump onto the semiquincentennial’s trending moment. Pieces in place, I set about happily preparing for my expedition. 

 

The morning of my journey, I wake up pre-dawn. The excitement of packing lunch in the dark is usually reserved for a day of travel further afield; I’m surprised to feel the same anticipation before putting on tourist glasses to experience a hometown destination. I realize how much I take for granted what my city has to offer. 

 

I lay clothing options on the bed. I’m tempted to amplify the day’s specialness with my sparkly gold boots. Athleisure could peg me as a local; on a day playing tourist, would I do better with jeans and hat? I haw and hem, then decide on a deep-pocketed romper, the best for carrying my reporter’s notebook. 

 

As I gather nut-based snacks (you never know how long you’ll be there – part of the thrill) and two book options (there are few things as pleasant in life as reading in the DMV), I find myself in a reflective mood. What will it be like to be back? Has it changed? The more provoking question is, have I? 

 

The DMV can be reached by bus or segway, or on foot. I recommend the Broad Street Line subway. I trot there under a cheerful sun; an American flag juts from a parking-spot traffic cone and jewel-colored petunias tickle the morning. On the subway ride, a woman in khakis helps someone get off at the right stop. I take it as a good omen for the day. 

 

I exit the train and sigh in pleasure at the familiar embrace of the station’s soilage. A man walking in front of me holds the shorter carry handle – forgoing the long strap – of a satchel. Its weathered brown leather calls to mind Woodward and Bernstein; Mark Ruffalo’s character in Spotlight: the bag of any journalist’s dreams. A travel mug is tucked into it; a banana pokes out its stem – a head still shrink-wrapped in its plastic shower cap. 

 

At City Hall, banners celebrating the World Cup pop in the wind; suit-dressed visitors roll suitcases and world travelers in soccer jerseys explore the plaza. I share the buzz of adventure and walk past an arrowed sign reading “Jury Duty Assembly Room.” It’s known to be invite only, but I consider seeing if they can squeeze me in if someone doesn’t show. I decide I can’t fit in everything, though I allow a moment of wistfulness as I watch another woman enter. 

 

As I process, altar-boy-like, beneath City Hall’s impressive architecture, the peachy bare butt cheeks of ageless cherubs wink above me. I pass through tall iron gates opening to the north into a Narnia; the air is different here; the noise of tour buses and the brim width of safari hats increases. I am a traveler.

 

American-flag garland stretches between telephone poles and sidewalk barrel planters are emblazoned with “250th” labels. I pass Reading Terminal Market and Chinatown’s Friendship Gate. Finally, I’ve arrived outside the DMV. 

 

When you go back to a place you experienced as a previous self, past and present collide. Nostalgia often drives our travel. Will prying open an old door disturb the magic? There’s only one way to find out. 

 

Minimalist lettering on the window reads “PennDOT Driver License Center” with an arrow pointing to the entrance around the corner. Drawn blinds in floor-to-ceiling windows are unfussy; like a coffee shop lacking signage, the DMV knows intuitively that trying too hard ruins its cool. It remains unfazed by light mirroring off the panels of the recently redeveloped Fashion District’s parking garage across the street. 

 

Around the corner, the front entrance faces a day care, auto tag center, and other parking lot; diagonal, the lettering on the brick facade of the old Lit Brothers building is faded, a relic from the past representing Philadelphia’s throughline: History alternately holding hands and arm wrestling with the present. Deep in thought about my own perception of times past, I almost miss the corner mailbox within chatting distance of the bus stop – a sweet nod to municipal serendipity. 

 

The DMV’s popularity and lack of reservations often results in long lines as people arrive early for front row seats; the camaraderie while waiting is one of the highlights, so I’m disappointed to see there’s no line today. A man walking away from the entrance scrutinizes the photo on his new card. A girl in athleisure (did I make the wrong choice?) opens the door ahead of me; I follow. The place is teeming with life; I breathe in a lungful. 

 

Hello, old friend. I look around with a smile. After so much holiday decoration on the streets, the DMV’s own lack is noticeable. Is it a shortfall in their own budget, or neglect in the city’s planning? I’m surprised, then consider that perhaps they are choosing a gentle statement: they’ll be fulfilling their duty long after the tourists have gone home. 

 

It’s 9:55 a.m. when I enter. The line of six people moves quickly. The welcome ambassador at the host stand – 70s mustache, untamed hair, earrings, printed short-sleeve button-down, someone who I imagine funnels the positive energy of his days here into a music career at night – is seasoned and disarmingly honest with visitors. He asks me a few get-to-know-you questions, gives me my entry ticket, and points to a bin of clipboards with pens to fill out more self-discovery exercises. Choose according to your travel personality: plastic clipboards are more lightweight and functional; wooden are layered with history. I look for a paper map of the place to orient myself, but there are none.

 

In an aisle seat near the back, I fill out my worksheets and wait, excited. The chain of tiny balls marrying the pen to the clipboard is unwieldy, and I’m getting frustrated before I realize I am to return the equipment to the bin and hold onto the papers only. Pleased with the attention to visitor comfort, I go up to the bin and return to find my rowmate has been replaced with a man I would pass over as a hitchhiker guest. It’s important to follow your gut instinct when traveling solo, so I move to the other side of the room, close to the front. The view is better. 

 

Settled, I scan the room to see if all is as I remember. Fourteen counters spread across the front – only four are staffed – with plexiglass barriers and a gray stackable chair at each window. The counters are in pairs, like family-style restaurants with long tables for making new friends. I’m filled with pride at our city’s legacy of protecting arts and culture: drawn shades along the far side block the light to protect the faded-blue 80s-era art prints of Philadelphia landmarks from further discoloration. The linoleum floor is a pleasing pigeon gray with subtle mud-colored streaks here and there, like a Jackson Pollock painting. I appreciate the runway-style industrial skid-resistant black rug, and a blue recycle bucket with a clear trash bag is available for a guy to spit into on his journey to the counter. 

 

Smart design is coupled with the trend to bring the outside in: benches line the back wall for a parklike feel, and two potted trees turn the written driver’s test area into a spa-like sanctuary. Are they artificial? My seat is a pebble’s throw; from the short vantage point I’m impressed I can’t tell. 

 

At a counter window, a twentysomething girl shouts “Awesome!” in a genuine tone. She has a canvas tote bag with a deconstruction of the Target brand’s iconic dog. As she walks back to her seat with a huge smile, our tour guide comes over the loudspeaker. “Number B538 to counter number four please.” Her calm voice, so ethereal it’s almost unhuman, makes me feel I’m in good hands. 

 

I’m glad she reminds us to catch the light show installation: flashing numbers on the digital signs blink from the ceiling. I love this part: an escape room puzzle. Okay. My number is 1007. But the signs all show letters followed by a string of numbers. Do I have a Golden Ticket? They didn’t have this part last time. Then, a twist: a visitor on the other side of the room is called by last name. I consider the clues, glancing at my neighbors to see if we can connect over the enthusiasm of shared mystery-solving. My seatmate seems reserved. 

 

A cheerful woman booms at a counter. “I just got permanent residency in PA,” she says, the way you might say I just got chosen for the space shuttle. Over the next few sentences she mentions biography and Alzheimer’s and Russian literature and punctuates her story with filler laughs. Will I be as comfortable sharing my truth? This is the specialness of the DMV: make it confessional box, therapist couch, guidance office or stand-up stage; when you travel where nobody knows you, you’re free to be whoever you want. 

 

A few grumblers populate the crowd – complaining is how some people have fun – but otherwise, the feel-good energy is palpable: a man says “Excuse me;” someone tells a neighbor “You dropped your paper.” Like a sweaty bearded fellow in a public park holding a sign that reads “Free Hugs,” the room offers an invitation to connect. 

 

In my appreciative scan of the crowd, I realize I’m overdressed and quickly remove my hair scrunchie. There is no official dress code; Crocs are allowed, with or without socks. The environment is family-friendly, with a playground of linoleum floor space for antsy toddlers. I must mention the one thing the site lacks: a cafe. A section offering lattes and pressed paninis would draw even more visitors and give everyone an excuse to enjoy the space a little longer. As it is, one tourist rests his clipboard on a small pizza box, lid closed. 

 

The new PA resident is still at the counter. I’m curious if there’s an upgrade option that gives you more time; more and more places offer them these days, but I’m shy to ask. On the other side of the room, a woman in a hot pink shift dress and fresh blond blowout gushes to a counter person. “Thank you so much, AMAZING! … I was hoping that in between the party bus I could make it here!” That’s the type of bachelorette I’m in support of. I only wonder why she didn’t bring the rest of the girls. 

 

The welcome ambassador at the front swaps with someone else. While Guy #1 stood, Guy #2 sits, with friendly knees and approachable elbows. I have a sudden flashback. I remember him from the last time I was here, years ago. Or do I? This is the other-worldly sensation of returning to a favorite spot: I’m time traveling, and never quite know what’s imagined; what’s real. 

 

I haven’t cracked the code of my ticket number, and consider asking – it would be a shame to miss my turn, though to have an excuse to come back is not a bad proposition. Before making a decision, I visit the facilities.

 

Like Miss Havisham, the bathroom has frozen in time waiting for me. The well-loved walls are tiled in shades of oatmeal and bone. Compared to the waiting area, this floor’s gray is darker and broodier, no doubt like its stories. A pockmarked door in muted warm ivory welcomes me to the stall; the lock is broken, and a personal touch – a sign written in sharpie – is taped to the wall: “Please push handle hard to flush.” 

 

Mindful of all our need to stretch out tech-worn wrists, the bathroom encourages one to shake hands dry while monitored by a rusted soap dispenser. Back outside, I hover by the back wall and enjoy watching a man in a subtly tie-dyed purple shirt and mirrored sunglasses stashed on the back of his neck get ready for his photo. “Do I have to take the hat off?” he asks in a friendly smoker’s voice. To the woman next to him, he says, “You look very nice!” but in a brotherly, pat-on-the-shoulder sort of way. 

 

Target Bag Girl is back up again at another counter. “I’m really grateful that...something something…lost license!” Then she yells, clear as a bell across the room, a string of numbers recited in the corresponding pattern of a Social Security number. The DMV is a place of trust. 

 

A young man carries a license plate past me the same time I realize that my ticket for 1007 is actually letter-I 007. I win! I’m a bit shaken at almost missing what I’ve been looking forward to for weeks. Risk adds to any adventure.

 

I’m called. I greet my counter friend chirpily. In one movement she takes a sip from her mug, finishes an unidentified fast-casual sandwich, crumples the tissue paper, pushes the paper bag away, and hands my passport to another staffer to help her complete a step in the process that “I’ll figure out one day.” Unbothered, her helper pulls his hair into a ponytail and tells the girl in front of him she can go wait to be called for her photo. 

 

“Wait… I have to get a new photo?” She’s thrown off guard, and says nothing for a few beats, as if he will change his mind. “All right…I’ll just get my life together,” she says, and pulls out a lip gloss. I assure her she looks great. She still seems tripped up, but doesn’t run away from the challenge. 

 

At the counter on my other side, a staffer tells a visitor to wait his turn - firm but loving, like a parent. I sit again – in the front row this time – and wait for my souvenir photo snap. A woman in a brown fedora and bright floral wrap shimmies on her walk up to the counter. She’s got earbuds in and a mint green backpack and continues to shimmy to her soundtrack during her entire counter session. I am almost envious. To feel free to shimmy! 

 

Target Bag Girl is back at the counter a third time, saying her name loudly and still smiling. She’s so genuine, I’m concerned for her. A woman calls me for my photo, and welcomes me with the sweet warmth of a honey-painted loaf fresh from the brick oven. Her voice has the care of a nurse preparing you for surgery as she guides me through the vulnerable process. Ego trips us up: I want to be in the moment and experience the joy of my travels without being conscious of a camera, but do I want to be caught in an unattractive expression? When we capture an inauthentic self, what are we losing?

 

Target Bag Girl is spelling her name helpfully. “N as in Nancy … A as in Apple …” 

 

I want to ask Cinnamon Bun if people bring glam squads, wear wild outfits, ask for a dozen retakes? There must be endless stories, but as tempting as the rabbit hole is, my editor** gave me a strict 3,487-word count. 

 

Sauced Bread Pudding says we need to retake the first photo because of glasses glare and directs me to point my head down for the second photo. She displays it on screen: chin down, hair askew, toothy forced smile that won’t even pass as fake: I look like the Joker. She asks for my approval: it’s all about hospitality here; the visitor’s desires are met. “That’s fine,” I say. 

 

Target Bag Girl leaves her counter, beaming. Have I been too hard on her? She’s unapologetic about leaning into her genuine enjoyment, the wow factor of being a tourist. Why do I want her to hold back? I share the same enjoyment, after all. 

 

Glazed Munchkin tells me the photo card won’t be mailed out for a week or two. As hard as it is to pick one thing, it’s my favorite part of the DMV - not only is the photo memorabilia built in, but you have something to look forward to, something showing up in the mailbox just after you’ve fallen back into the drudgery of normal life, to remind you how special that day felt. 

 

After one hour and thirty-five minutes, my visit to the DMV is over. Target Bag Girl walks out right after me, our twin threads crossing for the last time before untangling forever. She walks in the opposite direction, still smiling. I look after her. I’ve warmed to her now; I admire her, actually. It hits me that I was unnerved by her nature precisely because I used to be that way, puppy-dog and sunny, handing out smiles like free samples, before the years hardened the soft edges. Is Target Bag Girl my old self? I blink. She’s gone. 

 

On the sidewalk under the hot sun, I recall Steinbeck, reflecting on his road trip with his dog Charley: “We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.” 

 

I ponder this as I wander toward Independence Mall and the city’s Visitor Center. Red, white, and blue bunting hangs from brick walls and entrances, and tourists in soccer jerseys and USA gear crowd the lobby. I tell the woman at the front desk I’m a local checking out the festivities. It’s a few days before July 4th week. “Next week is gonna be –” She rolls her eyes, shakes her head and puts up her hands: A war, and she’s already given up. Amidst the fevered planning, neither the commemorative guide to the 250th nor the Fun in Philly guide lists the DMV as a recommended place to visit. It’s not pointed out from the tops of double-decker tour buses, and is conspicuously absent from the Visit Philly website. It baffles me, but hopefully, things will change. If we don’t value what we have, we may lose it. 

 

Looping around the park, I’m passed by a young man holding a plastic-wrapped rolled-up replica of the Constitution. On the red brick sidewalk across from Independence Hall, its pillars gift-tied with patriotic ribbon, an Ubereats robot rolls undisturbed past pedestrians. I’m dizzy from the irony. A volunteer asks me to sign a petition to save National Park funding and restore its history instruction. 

 

A line of visitors outside the Liberty Bell broils in the sun; a sandwich board positioned midway reads “15 minute wait from this point.” I resist the urge to tell them the DMV line is short, and air-conditioned. I’ve been to the Bell – multiple times. For my money, the DMV is better. 

 

I stop to picnic on a bench in the shade across from the grassy lawn of the Mall. A sparrow, unburdened by the passage of time, hops along the bricks. A man in colonial garb – three-cornered hat, butter-colored breeches, button coat; red cuffs – looks at his cell phone.

 

At home, I paste my numbered ticket into my travel scrapbook and look forward to the souvenir photo in the mail. Perhaps we can revisit the past, but not without creating it anew. The old line goes that travel is not about the places you go, but the people you meet. The bathroom mirror may have been cloudy, but in the DMV, I met myself. 

 

IF YOU GO

Location: 801 Arch Street, Philadelphia 

Hours: 8:30 am - 4:15 pm. Closed Sunday and Monday. 

Entry Fee: Free

License Renewal Fee: $39.50

Bring: Multiple water bottles, pre-filled 

Skip: The chair in the furthest back right corner

Don’t Miss: The tall poster listing requirements for Real ID 

 

*my editor = me

** editor = still me

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