Parking: The Sport

In the city, parking is a contact sport.

Tiffany excels at this sport:.

"That's what bumpers are for!" she cries when parallel parking, bumping into the car in front and the car in back.

I am a mediocre parker, at best:

"It's too small!" I cry, panicking, putting the car in park, and exiting the driver's seat. "You do it!"

When Tiffany is not in the car, I do fine. What choice do I have? I once got into a spot so small, I had no idea how I would get out. I prayed to the Parking Gods that the cars behind or in front of me would be gone when I returned a few days later. They weren't.

"What *ssholes!" two women said sympathetically while I inched up and back, over and over again, until I extricated myself.

I nodded, too ashamed to admit I had parked there of my own free will.

The good thing about living in a crowded city where everything and everyone are close together is that we can walk most places we need to go. And, of course, Tiffany and I have our scooter, which we can squeeze into tricky spots for slightly longer trips. But for really long trips or trips in the rain, we like to get in our car.

The way it works in our neighborhood is there are certain streets where cars with yellow permits (like ours) can park indefinitely. Spots on these streets are Perfect Spots, no matter how far they are from our apartment. Other streets have designated street cleaning times, requiring a mid-week move at an early hour. Spots on these streets are Sucky Spots.

Confusingly, Perfect Spots can turn sucky. Once Tiffany and I parked our car in a Perfect Spot and went away for a long weekend. When we came back, our car was gone. Our Perfect Spot had been roped into a construction zone and parking there (and in the subsequent tow-away lot) ultimately cost us several hundred dollars.

Whenever we maneuver out of a Perfect Spot, I always feel a pang of regret.

"We won't get a spot this good again," I say sadly.

And when we pull back into the city from wherever we've been, my heart begins to race. Besides being a contact sport, parking is competitive.

"Come on, Parking Gods!" we chant as we make ever-widening circles around our building, racing around other cars with yellow permits and swerving to avoid pedestrians (the contact in parking should not extend to people).

Sometimes the gods love us, and sometimes they don't. But they can send mixed signals, too.

On Sunday, when she returned from class, Tiffany circled several times before inviting me to join her. We made one turn and found a Perfect Spot, right around the corner from our building.

"Yes!" we yelled, high-fiving.

Two days later, we walked by the car in the rain to find a soggy ticket underneath our wipers. The offense? Not properly turning our wheels to the curb on what must be San Francisco's puniest "hill."

*ssholes.