Don't Even Think of Parking Here

Sometimes I think Boston has its metaphorical head wedged sideways up its Big Dig.

Getting around this city is an exercise in futility.  New Englanders are provincial by nature, so city planners must have decided centuries ago that if you do not know where you are going you probably should not be there.  Hence the city boasts a shameful lack of signage.  Particularly on major roads, like Mass Ave or the Fenway, you really need to have a clear idea of where you are and where you are going.  Do not depend on the street signs, and be suspicious of your GPS as well.

Over the years I have developed a few treasured tidbits of Hub navigational survival.  For example, few people know of the unmarked ‘on ramp’ to Westbound Storrow Drive from Back Bay that’s hidden at the end of Berkeley Street (the ‘B’ in the alphabetical streets that radiate southwestward from the Public Garden:  Arlington,  Berkeley, Clarendon, Dartmouth, Exeter, etc.).  Or that to escape the Boston University campus area, you must enter the “exit shute” from Commonwealth to be returned back to civilization.  Those who don’t know Hemenway Street or Charlesgate risk driving in circles on one-way streets, humming madly to themselves the refrain from "Charlie on the MTA".  You will never return!

Those dastardly city planners have added yet another chapter to their “Keep Away from our Fair City” manual.  Now we have multi-layered prohibitions on the No Parking signs.  A single signpost may contain multiple signs saying, “No Parking During Snow Emergency,” “No Parking 2:00am to 6:00am April 1 thru October 31,” “Loading Zone 11:00am to 1:00pm,” “No Parking 9:00am to 11:00am 2^nd and 4^th Wednesdays STREET CLEANING,” and “1 Hour Limit 8am to 8pm”.  It is a strange sort of logic befitting the MITers across the river: if (A or B) and (C and D) are true, when is E also true?

Although the city has made itself into a national joke with these ridiculous signs, I learned long ago to heed their warnings.  There is a special level of Hell reserved for those who dare to cross the “no parking demons”.  Once your vehicle descends into those depths, there is no quick recovery.

It was back in 1980.  My college friend Jane and I, having met each other serendipitously on the street late in the summer after college, decided to get an apartment together.  Each of us had second guessed our respective graduate school Plan As in order to work for a year while taking our best aim at more Harvard degrees.  We found what had to be the smallest 2-bedroom apartment in the history of mankind—maybe 400 square feet if you count the hallway outside.  As austere as the digs were, it landed us a Beacon Hill address convenient to public transportation and just about everything else.  We were ecstatic to be young enough to hit the restart button on our after-college plans.  I am happy to report it ended up working out well for both of us.

On the day we took occupancy, I had my college things stored all over town.  My friend Marty made a magnanimous offer to help me move in.  I rented a car from a place in Harvard Square that catered to students.  They would rent a  no-nonsense vehicle for half a day for only nine dollars.  We made a few trips, each time loading the K-car to capacity.  On the final trip, long after dark, we pulled up to my new building but could not find a parking spot on the left—the only side where parking was permitted.  I decided to do as others have done; I “double parked” with the hazard lights flashing while we relayed the remaining boxes quickly into the door of the tiny building and placed them on the elevator.  Checking one final time to make sure I was not blocking any traffic on the one way street, I carefully locked the rental car.  Marty and I sent the elevator up to my floor and then ran up the stairs to meet it.  As quickly as we could, we slid the boxes the six feet from the elevator into my apartment.  This entire process took ten or fifteen minutes.

Not wanting to wait for the elevator to return to my floor, we quickly ran down the stairs and out into the street.  The rental car was nowhere to be found.

At a moment like this a lot of things run through your head.  First is a complete feeling of victimization.  Having not been accustomed to the ways of a big city, I believed the car to be stolen.  Marty, on the other hand, knew for certain it had been towed.  Either way, you have to start with the police, waiting to find out whether you are a “victim” or a “criminal”.  It took two hours of calling every fifteen minutes before my rental car had been logged into the towing database.  After that, it was another couple of hours until they could tell us which of the two major lots was playing host to my car.

This created a whole new nightmare.  My car was in No-Man’s Land, accessible by a long subway ride followed by a tour of South Boston on a city bus.  Once at the tow lot, I had to cough up ninety dollars for the tow, plus an hourly “storage” fee going back to the time on the ticket.  I was furious.  Nearly four hours elapsed between the time the car was towed and when they finally were able to confirm that they had my car.  I did not think it appropriate to charge me for storage when they did not even know they had possession of my car until a short while ago.  I think the guy took pity on me; he deducted two hours from my “Get Out of Hell” penalty. 

Since this time, I am incredibly law-abiding when it comes to parking.  I park within the painted lines, I run out from the hair salon with foils in my hair to feed the meter, and I never park in a Disabled Parking Space.  On an occasion or two, I have gotten store clerks on Newbury Street to take my credit card over the phone and run my purchase out to my car while I have waited, double parked and in full possession of my vehicle.    Many people think I am silly to humor the parking gods, but there is no way I will ever again let a moment of rashness or laziness send me to towing hell.

Tomorrow's blog:  Loving Lenny