National Park Service

National Park Service 

By Charles E. Kraus

      Last night I dreamed I’d died, been handed a GPS preset with coordinates to Heaven, arrived, 

and found myself unable to locate a parking space. There were a few vacant spots but these were 

reserved for Angels. 

      

      I grew up in New York City back in the days when street parking was sanctioned. Also back in 

the days prior to power steering. My father’s two fisted manipulation of the wheel as he coxed our 

Hudson Commodore Custom into a modest opening, a mere six inches longer than our car, 

combined Jujutsu, Boatswain knowhow and Balanchiean precision. 

      Street parking in Manhattan is now a corporal offense. In other cities — San Francisco and 

Seattle for example, dealing with high-tech-low-bid parking meters often requires the deciphering of 

obscurely displayed but essential information such as how many minutes registered when you kept 

pushing that ‘add time’ button. You force your credit card into the gummy slot then pry it out using 

two hands and your teeth. Eventually, if the meter connects with your bank and they agree on a fee, 

a sticker is issued. This gets affixed to the windshield or the passenger window, placed on the 

dashboard, or Velcroed to your ear. 

      Upon returning timely to your car, you are as likely as not to find that the bumper of the vehicle 

now parked in front of you is just about but not quite touching your license plate. And behind? 

Where you’d left yourself a few feet of maneuvering room? The previous tenant, a Mini-Cooper, has 

been replaced by a commodiously cabined Land Cruiser. The super-sized transport is docked so 

close to yours that the only way you could pass a credit card between the two vehicles would be if 

you didn’t have very much credit.

      Sadly, my wife is the proud owner of an officially sanctioned Disability placard. The permission 

slip gives her the chance to park in certain otherwise restricted zones. I say “chance” because in 

most cases, handicapped parking is just as overbooked as the rest of curbside. Signage denoting 

such spots should more accurately read: Reserved for the Handicapped & Lucky.

      Has someone counseled, “leave the car over there, they never give tickets.” Have you been 

offered an event-specific permit allowing you to ignore the posted regulations? Were you 

contemplating a protective order personally signed by Judge Judy, only to be handed a scribbled 

note saying, “Board Meeting, don’t ticket. Thanks, Harvey.” Do not fall for these attempts to 

outsmart the meter-readers. 

      Such schemes only work for other people.

      There are red curbs, yellow curbs, green curbs, white curbs and just plain curb curbs. There is 

alternate-side-of-the-street parking, parallel parking, angled parking, between certain hours parking, 

three minute loading zone parking, and Restricted Parking Zone parking. After circling the block for 

hours, I’ve concluded that all of these options are theoretical. The real world offers only one kind of 

parking space, and it’s occupied.