Walking into an Apple Store is equal parts dazzling and dizzying. The space is pristine, minimalist, white as baby teeth. It looks like it’s been carved out from a bar of soap.
The experience is transfixing. But it’s also extremely disorienting.
Why do I say that? Because in an Apple Store aesthetics crowd out clarity, and the traditional markers of a “store” have vanished. There are no cash registers, no blinking numbers to signify an open aisle, and no clear signs pointing toward either “Customer Service” or “Check Out.”
Many times, I’ve walked into an Apple Store and just stood there, awkwardly staring at people while trying to intuit the identity of someone with both the ability and the authority to help.
It all looked pretty, but it was chaos.
Walking into the DMV, on the other hand, is an affront both to human senses and to human decency. The space is dingy and damp—flooded by flickering fluorescent light. It looks like a bathroom where a bar of soap should go.
It seems like you’re surrounded by people with the ability and authority to help, but every employee appears to have left their willingness at home.
Nonetheless, you take a number, but deep down you
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