Dorothy, We Ain’t in the ‘Burbs Anymore

One of the things that fascinates my ‘burban family and friends about life in the city is the parking situation. In my neighborhood, The Lauridio, parking spaces – if you can rent them at all – average about $250 a month. I figured for that rate, I could afford to get a ticket every week. And I don’t even HAVE to get a ticket. Meaning parking is free.

But sometimes you can outsmart yourself. I’ve only “lost” my car once, forgetting where it was parked for a few days but finding it in time to move it before the dreaded street cleaning timeslot. Admittedly, I was a bit slow to catch on to this parking-ticket intensive time when I first got here, racking up 5 tickets in about 4 months – but not a one after that. Until.

There’s a Monday 7-9 zone on the street behind my apartment, and I have moved my car there on Monday mornings in the past around 8:45. The street seldom looks like it was actually CLEANED, but there’s usually one lone car sitting sadly with a ticket on the windshield, and I give a silent fist-pump, then offer up a “Sorry, dude,” to the fates in order to avoid bad karma for taking glee in someone else’s misfortune.

Last Monday, I had to get to work early. Seeing other cars on the street, I ass-umed these people must ALSO be sly and know it was safe to park. It wasn’t. Sadly, I cannot fight my ticket. I played the odds, and lost. This Monday – I know better.

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