No wonder everyone eventually moves to the suburbs.
I’ve clocked in three weeks as a South Boston resident. The verdict? There’s nowhere to park.
Yes, I complied with all the necessary red tape. Switched my residency, my registration, my license, my plates. Many-a-tax later and I have the highly coveted South Boston Parking Permit.
Still. There’s nowhere to park.
I partially blame the remote workers who keep a car for…well, I don’t know why. But really, I blame the city’s progressive policies that have removed hundreds of perfectly fine parking spaces across the city for bus lanes, bike lanes, etc. Tried to find a space on, say, Boylston Street lately, just to name one major thoroughfare.
As it is, I have to take a morning hike to reach my vehicle. When I finally get there, I’m sweaty and disheveled.
Understand, I’d be willing to rent a parking spot. That would probably add years to my life due to not having to deal with the anguish and angst and adrenaline spikes every time I need to inch out from the tiny space two other yuppies have pinned me into.
But with the rising cost of, well, everything, you won’t find a monthly rate below $300. So this winter, watch me pulling the old folding chair trick after I arduously dig out a nearby rectangle of asphalt.
By now, I know the location of every fire hydrant within a two-block radius so I don’t get my hopes up when I see the hint of empty space. I know where the driveways are. I know where the bus stops—which, in my humble opinion, does not necessitate that large of a permanent “No Parking” zone, if it necessitates one at all.
But I also know on which corners The Man has placed those oppressive flimsy white cylinders with the sole purpose of making the after-work spot-search excruciatingly miserable for hard working individuals like you and me.
Think about it: Boston bureaucrats hired public workers with your tax dollars to install devices bought with your tax dollars into the street you pay rent to live on (a lot of rent, too, thanks to their astronomical property taxes) so the quality of your life would decline—or maybe plummet or plunge are more accurate descriptions.
Local business owner? Congrats, your potential customer rate is lower by one-per-stupid-pole.
Perhaps, though, the scam only reaches its ultimate height in the grueling search for a spot. The more yuppie gas that’s burned, the more tax revenue heads straight to the state’s pension funds upon fill-up.
At least, I thought to myself in my early September naivete, I have a nearby strip mall with plenty of parking to complete every grocery-getting, errand-running task of my dreams. “South Bay Center.” Sounds promising!
My innocent trip to Best Buy quickly taught me to keep my windows rolled up when I drive by drifters from “Mass and Cass” strolling by. All I wanted was a cart for Stop & Shop, but the fella keeling over the corral after shooting up motivated me to skip it this trip.
Boston doesn’t have a drug problem, they said. Safe-injection sites are totally awesome, they said.
I guess I’ll need to drive farther for milk, eggs, and bread.
Even with all the bothers and burdens of my Boston experience, I know, deep down, I’m one of the lucky ones. My commute doesn’t involve the possibility of spontaneous combustion, I mean, the Orange Line. I’ve never had to dive into the Mystic River and be rescued by a State Police boat after a conflagration between Oak Grove and Sullivan Square.
If you were excited for less traffic and fewer busses after a month of T reconstruction, I’m sorry to inform you that the T is still facing delays due to mechanical issues like doors that don’t open.
Oh, and the city will be keeping the designated bus lanes. And the added BlueBike docks.
Enjoy your Boston driving experience! We’re the Hub of the Universe, don’t you know. The Athens of America. Will the last American leaving please turn out the lights?