There are about 4 million people born in America each year, and I have no idea where they are all going to park. I use to think that the fear of not finding a parking spot was reserved for older, fragile folks with mobility issues. Lately, however, this concern has become more cross-generational than geriatric.
Pulling into the parking lot at a popular local grocery store on a weekend afternoon, I join the creeping caravan of cars circling the lot, like a macabre game of metallic musical chairs. At the twinkle of a taillight, every car within a quarter mile puts their blinker on to indicate ownership of the soon to be vacant spot, including the car in front of you who slams their car into reverse as they send you the death stare, daring you to pull in and suffer the unspoken consequences, leaving me to wonder if a sale on laundry detergent is worth the wrath of road rage.
I decide to forgo my food shopping for now, and instead head to downtown Salem, where I quickly find that the percentage of cool shops and restaurants cropping up in the city is disproportionate to the number of parking spots to accommodate potential customers. Lack of parking is like the cold shower of impulse buying, putting a damper on your shopping desires once you realize that while you can see the object of your desire, you just can’t get there.
Working in South Boston, I should be use to this. During our woeful winter of 2011, I once drove around an entire block of empty parking spots being reserved with everything from air conditioners to beach chairs to a set of golf clubs; a giant frigid flea market where customers were not welcomed. I slowly circled past the store I had intended to shop at, once, twice, three times before finally retreating back to work, wondering if what our economy really needs to get it going is more parking spaces.
Then there’s Cambridge, where resident parking is so rare that once you find a space, you try your best to never drive again. Cars sit in their prime parking spots like old trophies, glory long gone, plowed in by snow banks in the winter and collecting dust in the spring, while their owners commute on the T, beg friends for rides and walk for miles telling anyone who will listen about the great parking spot they found right outside their door 2 years ago, where their car still sits.
Near the Boston Herald, there are a handful of free, non-metered, non-posted parking spaces that have remained overlooked by the city, an oasis in the desert. Each morning, there is a line of double-parked cars, their rhythmic blinkers signaling in unison, as they await the exit of a night shift employee to snatch their parking prize. Unfortunately, the entrance to the Herald parking lot is in the midst of this parking panic, and each day as I slowly drive pass them with my blinker on, they mistakenly assume I am trying to cut into their territory, and their silently swearing faces behind their windows remind me of the wedding scene in The Graduate. Good morning to you, too!
Several years ago, a friend of mine lived in Nahant near Short Beach, and I had an open invite to join her on any given weekend at this beautiful spot. Which sounded great until I realized there are no legal non-resident all day parking spots within walking distance. After multiple stake-outs and failed attempts, including a disastrous and embarrassing shot at strapping my beach chair to my back and riding my bike, I finally discovered there is exactly one parking space walking distance from the beach where you can stay all day without a resident sticker and without getting a parking ticket. Even though my friend has long since moved, I sometimes drive by my prized spot to see if it remains free for all. Where is it you ask?
Nice try, but that’s my spot.
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