Sometimes I forget about what scares me until I have to do it Twice in the last week I have had to use a parking garage.
Oh, big deal. Yeah, I know some of you use them daily, so you are immune to the dangers.
I hate parking garages! They speak to my claustrophobic tendencies in a way that is almost too horrible to describe. They are dark. They echo. They have confusing exit signs. They direct you to drive around until you are certain you have entered a parallel universe. There is a mechanical arm blocking your entrance and exit. You must take a ticket, and like the Pennsylvania Turnpike, if you lose the ticket, you will pay the MAXIMUM AMOUNT. They never tell you what the maximum amount is. What if you don’t have it? And speaking of money, how is it fair that my time begins when I get past the mechanical arm and not when I finally find a parking space?
Parking in a city garage is like driving your car in an unmarked cave of doom. My city even has the parking thrill ride of a twisted spiral in order to exit! Round and round and round. Reminds me of a hated art teacher I once had. And if you don’t move fast enough, the guy in back of you becomes a ogre and beeps his horn. Which of course, because he is going to ride my bumper and squeal his tires on purpose.
“C’mon lady! I ain’t got all day here!”
I continue to creep, stomping on my brakes at every turn, until, there it is…a perfect space. I start to pull in and see the sign. “Parking is only for residents.” Well, who would want to live here anyway?
So, usually I end up on the rooftop where there is no one, but I can let my car get some air. Frequently, it is either raining or snowing. This adds to the ambiance which I try to enjoy until I find the elevator down.
Before that, I take a picture of my level, but in one garage that didn’t help because I was on third level to park and had to go down to the second level to find the walking bridge. I was fine until I wanted to take a bag out to my car. Third level. I walked all over the hotel trying to find the walking bridge until I just gave up and waited to ask the bartender. I tipped her for the information.
When I finally found the exit, there was no attendant, and I had to figure out how to insert my parking card and pay. I swear the same guy was behind me: “Lady!” I opened my window and told him to calm down, not nicely. Then I turned the corner, and there was the street at the bottom of a long steep descent. Who designs these garages? Stephen King? Oh, the horror!