Everyone’s been there. The frantic dash out the door first thing in the morning. Potentially sacrificing a primping essential for punctuality. Teeth? I’ll just chew gum. Hair? It’s looked better.
It’s the same challenge every time. Leaving the house an hour before class will definitely land a parking space, it has to. Then there is the rush to the car, and that silent prayer when the engine actually starts. Your heart can’t help but leap as you coast along Cliff Drive. This view, absolutely breathtaking.
And then you turn down Loma Alta Drive and see the cars lining up just to enter the parking lots, a different kind of breathtaking. Have no fear, the sound of your rumbling engine quickly snaps you out of your dreamlike disbelief.
It should be no surprise. It’s the same circumstance every Tuesday.
The economics of City College parking spaces are as follows. The demand greatly outweighs the supply. It’s understandable for the school to encourage students to ride a bicycle or take public transportation for the sake of the environment. But could you imagine how much earlier you’d have to get up to catch the bus? Heaven forbid attempting to bike up the gigantic hill on Carrillo Street.
Eventually you slow to a stop and join the line of cars, and that is the exact moment that you envy the person who gets to park their car right in front of the Physical Education Building. What kind of parking pass does that require?
So you move on, manoeuvring your way through the tight turns of the parking lot. Thanks buddy in the extended cab pick-up truck for parking on the corner and not pulling all the way up. You can’t help but feel a little ashamed as you desperately follow each person walking through the parking lot, pathetically praying that they’ll happen to go with the very vehicle that you are next to.
Every once in a while you catch the eye of someone else looking equally as miserable trying to get a spot. It must really suck to sit in your air conditioned car, with your leather seats as I am sweating bullets and my car still smells damp from the weekend of rain. Go ahead, back up eight feet to get that spot. That seems fair. After all I can’t race there, I have been riding the clutch for 25 minutes and my car is starting to overheat. No sudden movements here.
Eventually, after what seems like hours of a cruel game of musical chairs, a spot actually opens up. My heart leaps, and it feels like I’ve been reunited with a long lost lover. As I nestle my way in between an A8 and an H2, I wonder why numbers always seem to attribute to the quality of the car. The only number I associate with my car is 86, as in the year that it was made, and probably the equivalent to its age in human years.
Grabbing all of my belongings, I look at the time on my cell phone (because my car doesn’t have a clock). It’s 11:10, I should be in class right now and I have yet to drag myself up the thousand steps. Late again. Patricia Stark must hate me.
