Disclaimer: I live in Brooklyn. Williamsburg, to be precise. I pre-emptively and freely admit that parking is much harder in Manhattan. However, I'm fairly certain that parking is more difficult for me than it is for any of my (limited) readers on FisherCatch.
That said, I don't actually own a car. I mean, why would I? I can walk no further than a mile in any direction (or take a bus or subway) and find pretty much anything I can imagine wanting to buy, eat, see or do. Occasionally I rent a car--either because my job sometimes requires that I commute to New Jersey for several months or because I simply want to run errands. It's a good solution, actually, and the sporadic expense of renting is much, much less expensive than the ongoing expense of ownership. I've been renting a car since last July (reimbursed by my company, thankfully) because I've been assigned to manage several projects for a large pharmaceutical company out in Princeton, New Jersey-- about 60 miles away. I'd complain about the commute but as this is an essay of parking I'll let it go.
Parking is insane. New Yorkers spend an additional ridiculous amount to put the damned car in a lot or a garage (and we don't have lots and garages in Williamsburg) or cope with being on the street. Being on the street means being locked into a ritual directly related to alternate side street cleaning restrictions and mainly consisting of two activities: 1) driving in ever-widening circles around and around the neighborhood in a vain attempt to park on the correct side of the street and ultimately failing, so that 2) I'm doomed to the (usually failed) early morning dash to move the car (in ever widening circles) before receiving a ticket. Of course, this is only a problem on those days I am not driving out to Jersey... and that's twice a week.
Sometimes I manage to park on the right side of the street and then rejoice in knowing I can forget all about the car until that side of the street is due to be cleaned. This is rare and not always without problems. One evening I snagged a "good spot," meaning no early morning car shuffling and did, indeed, rejoice. The next morning I took the subway into my New York office with a clear conscience. Walking back from the subway that afternoon I passed the car and noted that it was completely blocked by a large municipal truck full of gravel, a small steam-roller thingy, several orange traffic cones, a wooden sawhorse-like barrier and a group of extremely angry men gesticulating and swearing at said vehicle. It seemed that the city had decided to fill the rather large pothole I was parked over. It also seemed that the angry men were in the process of calling a tow truck. I walked slowly, trying to hear what the plan was while also trying to look completely disconnected from the situation. "I already called the tow," I heard, "be an hour at least. Let's go get something to eat." I walked on, ducked into the doorway of my building, and watched until they drove off in the truck. Scuttling furtively down the street, I assessed the situation. They'd left the steamroller, the cones and the sawhorse--presumably to pen the car in until the tow truck could arrive. I shoved the sawhorse out of the way, squeezed past the steamroller, and flattened the cones as I left. Frankly, I was more concerned about escape than respecting municipal property. Of course I then found myself driving in ever-widening circles...
A few years ago I thought I'd found a good spot and then realized mine was the minority opinion when the car disappeared completely. Gone. I can't tell you how many websites I had to visit and numbers I had to call to track the thing down. It was a lot worse than driving in ever-widening circles. Every tow yard in New York claimed they didn't have it. Yet when I finally reported it stolen, it took the police about 30 seconds to find that it had been towed. To make a long, painful and convoluted story short, I'll just say that the paperwork containing the order to tow originated from the police but was missing when I visited the station; the tow yard could not release the car until the police authorized it; the police could not authorize release because the paperwork was missing; I was considered a nobody because I did not actually own the car. This went on for days, while I was still paying for the car, until finally I told the rental company I had no intention of paying beyond the moment I'd informed them of the problem. To this day I have no idea whether or not they ever got the damned thing back. I still have the keys on my desk as a reminder.
