MANHATTAN MADNESS

I love long weekends in New York City.  World class restaurants, Broadway plays, and afternoon tea at the Plaza.  It's 72 hours of urban delight.

But this weekend my husband, Duncan, and I visited our son in Manhattan, and things went a bit awry.  In the wee hours on Saturday morning, our car was towed.  At 9 AM, the three of us found ourselves staring blankly at the pavement where our car used to be.  So much for brunch.  Instead, we were issued an invitation to the municipal tow pound.

Upon arrival, a rusted sign said we could "redeem" our vehicle inside.  I laughed out loud.   You redeem prizes, not a vehicle dragged away under cover of darkness.  But, then again, the sign couldn't say, "Beyond this door is a mind-numbing maze of inefficiency that is designed to fleece you."

Inside was an explosive cauldron of frustration and anger.   One poor soul was trying to regain custody of his rental car.  He had an email from his insurance company showing proof of coverage, which was a prerequisite to the car's release. But the woman behind the (hopefully bulletproof) glass told him, "the email lady is not in yet."  Who could argue with that?  Any employee with such cutting edge and irreplaceable skill shouldn't be expected to show up during normal business hours.  A woman of her caliber no doubt also maintains custody of the bathroom key.

It was all very entertaining, until a young man got his turn at the window.  He was upset that his car had been towed, because he'd told the officer he wanted to sleep in the car instead, thereby incurring only a fine, rather than the higher tow charge.

Duncan didn't hear most of this because when he got to the front of the line, he was asked for the car registration.   Can you imagine the stupidity of a system where the process begins by someone asking you for a document that's in the car you're trying to retrieve?   He was treated to a paramilitary escort to the car to get the registration, then returned to the end of the line where he started the whole ludicrous process all over again.

Even my dogs could have figured out that everyone would be exponentially better off if the near-priceless strip of Manhattan waterfront where my family was being held captive (referred to as the "tow pound" presumably because "Gates of Hell" was already taken) was sold.  Tow charges are no match for revenues from luxury condos.  And, with a little effort, an even uglier, more dilapidated building could be found to house the impounded cars.

Ultimately, the three of us were sprung.   But we were one of the lucky ones.  We picked up right where we left off and went for New York's best bagels.  Throughout the day, however, I thought about the young man who might be sleeping in his car that night.  I hoped he was outside the clutches of the parking patrol zealots who slither onto the city streets when no one is looking.   For him, that would be finding the extraordinary in the ordinary.   And everyone deserves the extraordinary.  Especially in Manhattan.