Instead of making this a story about my first experience with street parking in New York City, let's not put the focus on my near panic attack driving around the Upper East Side and instead focus on the nature of street parking in Manhattan.
I'm not going to park somewhere with a MuniMeter (who pays for street parking?), and I'm definitely not parking in a garage (we're not even going there). Hence, I found myself driving back and forth on the one-way streets between 1st and Park Ave., slowing losing my mind the further north I migrated. By the time I reached the 80s (street numbers, not the decade, though I'm not sure why I'd need to clarify that), I had started hallucinating open spaces where fire hydrants, driveway entrances, and bags of garbage overflowing from the sidewalks would eventually stop me.
Then, I park. Floating gracefully above the front of my car was a simple sign, much like this one:
It's a Thursday night, and I am parked under a sign that would quite clearly tell most people that you won't be able to keep your car there through the following evening, which was my intention. In the momentary insanity induced by the parking spot search from hell (even worse than a suburban mall during the holiday season sales), I decided that a broom through the "P" was not the same as a normal "no parking" symbol.
My car is still sitting under this sign, and I will be moving my car in the morning. Who cleans streets from 11 to 12:30 on a Friday anyways?
No comments:
Post a Comment