So I went to the Virginia DMV on Friday and took official possession of my car. It was nothing like the D.C. DMV, which is to say Virginia was easy. There was a clear Web site beforehand; there were chairs while waiting. There was the usual collection of citizens — the angry teens, the scurrying worriers, the men in capri pants — but also supportive family and friends. A quarter of the people in the room must have been there to help someone else. Parents, adult children, significant others, sidekicks, all serving as aides, translators, ridealongs, and sympathy.

I'd never noticed those people missing before, but then again, I'd never expected them to be there. No one ever joined you on trips to the D.C. DMV unless their presence was required. Maybe that was the true mark of the department. It taught that there were some places in life where one was meant to go alone. A Stygian lesson. Yes, Theo Huxtable had a different theory — "he who walks, walks alone" — but the ancient Greeks put much more thought to the idea of hell. So too the patrons of the D.C. DMV.

That's not to say I won't miss it. The department's continues to be one of the few aspects of the city that truly bind the neighborhoods. Regardless of their personal alignment to the park or the rivers, everyone suffers together at the D.C. DMV. Besides, it's come a long way. Be nice. It has.

It's strange now to see Virginia plates on my car and a Virginia license in my wallet. It's not my city anymore. Legally. I wish they would let you keep your old license, but they don't. You hand them your form and old license, and they sit you down and take a picture. ("Do you have a mirror?" the woman in front of me ask the attendant. No.) They shoot further back than in D.C. and end up cropping you larger. The effect's a negative in my case. ("It's him all right, sergeant. He's skinny.") And there's way too much of my green shirt involved. ("It can't be him, sergeant. He's not wearing a green shirt.") But it could be worse. I could have worn a blue shirt against the blue background. Or I could have had breasts. ("I don't know, sergeant. She's….")

Anyway, the point is the face. A picture of a face establishes identity. That's why we have the license, and that's why the large crop doesn't make any sense. It's not really important, but they don't put up with that crap in the city. Whose license and plates I miss. It might not get much else right, but it wants a good look at you.

It's comforting to know one can move back, as both my parents and of course countless others have done. I'm here in Virginia now to be on the other side of the bridges. They're beautiful but complicated, and I drive automatic.

Dan Neil's car column this week helps me a little bit with the disorientation. After driving a Ferrari, he describes the sound at length. He has fun with the telling, but it also brings to mind how temporal both sound and place can be. When you drive between them and create your own, you can always go back and create them again … keeping in mind that movement needs purpose.

This is not a car for the bashful. The F430 Spider is exactly as loud as four Italian sport bikes glued together, which is to say loud enough to set off jewelry-store burglar alarms and register on governmental homeland security monitors. At part-throttle, the car tries to restrain itself — it sounds a lot like a trombone played with the mute in. But as soon as the needle on the big yellow tach sweeps past 4,000 rpm, an air-metering drum rotates between the dual air plenums, and then, oh boy. This is the motorized diphthong from hell. BaaaaWHAAAAHHHH!

In jail, no one can hear you scream.

For sailor expletive, Napoleon brandy, Dylan and Italian Cracker Jack references, all asides, read the rest. Asides are important.

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