A couple months ago, i spent a recuperating-from-cleaning Sunday on the couch. Even with the 100 channels that we now get with our cable tv, I could find nothing to watch. I finally settled on a “Parking Wars” marathon. After watching what people have to go through to retrieve their towed cars, I vowed to never park my car anywhere unless I was absolutely sure that I was allowed to do so. And that the meter worked. And so on.
When I saw how complicated parking was on Tybee, I was happy to leave Evie at the campground and walk and ride bikes during our weekend there.(But, really, no bike racks at the beach? I don’t understand. We chained our bikes to the “Pay for Parking” signs.)
On Sunday, after we packed up our campsite, we decided to try out another beach, further south on the island. We pulled in, and I managed to park Evie, bikes and all. First thing we did was figure out the machine that prints parking receipts, pay six dollars and put our crisp three hour receipt on the dashboard as the machine told us to do. After we gathered up our beach gear, we decided the sun was hot and we should close the curtains on the van. And put up the window shade on the windshield. So we did. And thus, covered up the receipt we had so carefully purchased five minutes earlier.
Of course, when we got back to the car 2.5 hours later, we were greeted with a parking ticket pinned by the wiper.
I looked around to see if I could find a meter maid to ask if I could appeal the ticket, but I saw no one.
And then, on the way out of town, I burst into tears. Tears! I was crying over a parking ticket. Why was I crying? The fine, $35, would hardly make a dent in my finances, especially since we spent little money over the weekend — we camped, cooked our own food, and bought nothing but some ice cream, a boogie board and admission to the light station.
I still don’t know why the ticket brought me to tears. I think I was embarressed about having not folloed the rules properly and having been called out on it. I didn’t want to deal with it. Watching “Parking Wars” had me convinced that I would have an uphill barttle to fight. But the perfectionist in me wanted to fight it. I *did* pay to park! I *did* put the receipt on my dashboard as instructed. It simply was just not visible (mea culpa).
I resigned myself to writing a check and mailing in the ticket along with the receipt to “prove” that I had not been trying to “get away” with something.
But Monday, in a moment of courage, I got my nerve up and called the number on the ticket. I figured I’d get a machine or have to press numbers or a busy signal or a long time on hold. But no, a woman answered on the first ring with a very friendly greeting. I rambled on about what had happened if only just to “prove” that I had really done what I was supposed to so I could ease my sense of guilt.
Surprise, surprise. She told me to send in the ticket and receipt and they would forgive the ticket. “It happens ALL the time!” What a sense of relief. I’m not the only one who made such an idiot mistake — the meter maid figured I was just absent-minded, not a law breaker (the ticket mentions the window shade…).
So I’ve mailed off the ticket and parking receipt. Fingers crossed, knock on wood, that’s the end of that. And that I now will take more care in the future to ensure the parking receipt is *visible*.
