(3)
Nasty side of parking lot wars
Because overpriced parking should always be as inconvenient as possible, you already have to wedge your car next to a stupid pole because there are never any spots; to remember not to lose the little ticket; to try to locate the stairs or elevators before those shady-looking characters come to mug you; and to arrive at your destination not looking sweaty and scared.
Personally, I liked the person in the little booth. In the midst of a concrete jungle, filled with the echoes of cars spinning upward and upward as they pray for reverse lights, that person in the booth was a little bolt of humanity.
They controlled the button on the arm that could set you free; they could make change; they could wait patiently while you dug quarters out of the passenger seat to pay; they could even magically lift the bar if the tears threatened as you realized your kids had taken the last $20 out of your wallet.
Now, that is all gone. And not with a bang, but a whimper.
An infrequent garage parker, I get fouled up by the new rules. Now it's not enough to locate your actual car – you have to also locate a machine to pay in advance.
And you must find your car first, because you only have a certain length of time before the ticket expires.
Do not ask me how I know this; just trust me.
There are some garages that let you pay at the exit with a credit card. I watched a woman at the airport the other day discover that the airport is not such a place.
As she sat at the gate, backing up a few centimetres, then creeping forward, I could practically smell her frustration over the exhaust fumes. The people behind her were just fuming.
The Poor Sod had come to pick me up after a flight. I told him just to do loop-de-loops until I came out, because airport parking notches up at about the same speed as a taxi meter.
I'm sure there are cheaper flights between Toronto and Montreal than there are parking rates as you wait for someone to claim a bag.
Of course he parked. As we approached the garage, I asked what floor he'd parked on.
"Four?" he asked me. At the fourth level, he decided the paint blobs were the wrong colour, so we went up to five.
"Start hitting the remote," I told him. This is my secret weapon for finding the van in these places. The sound bounces off the walls. As I said it, I realized a dozen other blasts were going off – some locking, some locating, all confusing. Beeping parked cars are now as ubiquitous as crocheted pompoms on aerials at the mall on senior's day.
As we hopped in the van, I peered through the windshield desperately looking for a list of rules. I don't know why I do this; a place that I swear moves your vehicle from one place to another behind your back while you're away is surely not going to offer up assistance on how to escape. No signs.
"I think we can pay with a credit card at the Out," I told him.
"I think we can't," he replied. I noticed the woman crying at one exit, her car like a wild animal with its paw in a trap.
"I think you're right," I told him.
To his utter delight.
Lorraine Sommerfeld's column appears Saturday in Wheels and Mondays in
Living. www.lorraineonline.ca
Video: Chevrolet Sonic a small car with a big car price
These four affordable, mid-size SUVs are worth a look
Rick Hendrick buys first Chevrolet Camaro ZL1 in Oshawa
