Yesterday I finally brought our deceased Volvo’s license plates to the DMV Express on 34th Street. We knew that we couldn’t discontinue our insurance unless we surrendered them.

Who can forget the hall of hell that the Department of Motor Vehicles used to be. Sometimes I think I am hallucinating when I go to the efficient, organized, even pleasant DMV Express. Like, is this for real?

Ah yes, it used to be an unfathomably horrific experience to get a driver’s license renewed or register a car. Yes, horrific. You never knew how long you’d be there. Entire lines would be stalled waiting for an employee to return from lunch.

Nowadays I go to the DMV with a kind of cautious glee. And yesterday was no exception. I looked forward to dumping the plates and truly entering life without a car.

“When I sold my car I wanted to throw a party,” the DMV employee who took my plates told me. “I mean, who needs a car. Especially if you live in Brooklyn. Driving around for at least a half hour looking for a space. It’s a waste of time.”

I couldn’t agree more.

“You’re going to be getting a check from us,” he said.

Apparently the City owes me what’s left of my registration fee.

You’re full of great news for me,” I said.

“Yes, it feels great to get rid of your car.”