Our guesthouse sat near the courthouse, on a street that was closed to traffic. The nearest parking lot was $35 till eight o’clock, at which time it moved to another price I didn’t register because my mind was still focused on the first one. I found a spot blocking a driveway and left Hania inside with the keys while I took our bags to the guesthouse.
I asked about parking. The receptionist told me of a lot a five-minute walk away, and the system of payment that sounded somewhat complicated. I envisioned a modern parking machine designed by a graduate of MIT. But the price of $15 a day seemed worth the effort of trying to figure it out.
The lot belonged to the old school on Southard Street, and was only about one quarter full. I parked in front of some tall bushes and followed the signs to the pay station, which was on the school’s old porch. There I found envelopes, each one printed with lines asking for my license number and the number of days of my stay. I filled in the blank spaces – a pen sat on a desk for those who didn’t have one – put a twenty and a ten inside the envelope, sealed it, and then dropped it through a slot in the door. Short of an attendant, it was the simplest and most old-fashioned payment system one could imagine. I had an extremely pleasant stroll back to the guesthouse.
