My Annual Tax on Stupidity is Helping to Pay for the Olympics
Yesterday morning I changed my routine just slightly. It was enough. My automatic pilot, the part that gets me to work at the right time every morning, signed off. When that part came to, I found myself driving along 88th Avenue toward the morning rush hour bridges. What I should have been doing was putting the car in the parking lot and getting on the train.
I could blame Wade Davis. Listening to the CD of his 2009 CBC Massey Lectures, ironically titled The Wayfinders, was really enthralling. But to be fair, I think I just had a mental blip. For a moment, I panicked, but then I realized that the traffic wasn't bad. I decided that instead of doubling back to the train station, I would drive in to Vancouver.
As I drove, I listened to Davis describe the devastating rate of loss of cultures and languages that is going on while we barely notice. Half the languages being spoken today are not being taught. They will likely be lost within a generation.
I was still pondering this when I pulled up by the building. Was this space big enough? The car was sticking out a bit over a driveway, but who would come up this little back street? Who would need this driveway? Who would care?
A part of me knew the parking spot was too small for my car, but I didn't feel like finding another. I definitely didn't feel like going to the trouble of dealing with parking machines. Decided to take a chance.
At the end of the day, I finished my final tasks quickly. I was determined to leave in good time to beat the rush hour. Still, I was aware of feeling a little drowsy, and wondered: Should I have some coffee? Or some water? Am I sufficiently alert for the hour's drive home?
Turned out it didn't matter. When I came out of the building, I blinked once and looked again. My car had vanished. Could I have misremembered where I parked it? No, impossible. It was definitely gone. Towed away.
Apparently the time had come to pay my annual tax on stupidity. Or was it now just a two-yearly expense? It seemed like a long time since I had last allowed this to happen. I sighed and wondered how much it would be. Towing charge and parking ticket: a double whammy.
But who had the car, and where was it impounded? When I called Security, the guy gave me the number of Buster's Towing. The same company that towed my ancient but still serviceable 1954 Austen Somerset Coupe de Ville away from Wreck Beach all those years ago. Sadly, I still had not learned.
I dialed the number and waited. A woman came on the line and asked me for my license plate number. Recalling the mnemonic my daughter and I had cooked up together, I rattled it off. "Sorry," said the woman. "We don't have your car."
Then came the moment I am proud of. My next reaction showed me that even though I haven't learned to avoid getting my car towed, I have changed my outlook. I didn't panic. Instead, I thought for a moment.
To the woman on the phone, I said, "That number must be wrong. It's probably my daughter's car. I don't know my plate number. Is there any other way you can find out if my car is there?"
"You'll have to call ICBC," she said, and gave me the number.
After choosing an option, waiting on hold, hearing faux-soothing music, and then answering the standard security questions, I got my plate number from the insurance company and called Buster's back. Yes, they had the car. For just sixty bucks, I could get it back. I took the address and set out for the train.
Strangely, I didn't feel the least bit tired any more. I was quite philosophical. Obviously I was not meant to be driving through traffic at this time. Rush hour would have set in by the time I got my car, I knew, but I would hole up somewhere and wait it out. This would be an adventure, I told myself, a change of routine.
I rode the train downtown, intending to catch a bus. And at the precise moment that I stepped out of the station, I ran into a friend, almost literally.
"What are you doing downtown?" she asked. When I told her my car was in jail, she insisted on driving me to the impound lot under the Granville Bridge. We had a pleasant visit on the way.
I paid Buster's, making a point of being pleasant to the clerk, then looked at the parking ticket I'll have to pay in a day or so. I'll think of that as my personal contribution to the Olympic Games, I told myself. Then I got in the car, and headed downtown to pick up my library holds. I found a parking spot easily, and as I was getting out of the car, I picked up a dime. In the library, I met another long-lost friend, and enjoyed another visit.
Books safely stashed in my backpack, I put more change in the meter, then strolled across the concourse to the place where they have the single slices of really good thin-crust pizza. I was breathing in the heady aromas of the shop when the clerk said to me, "Would you like to have this piece free? I need the space for something else. Don't worry. It hasn't reached it's best-by date yet."
Having dined on free pizza, I still had a little time, so I stopped on Commercial Drive and had a coffee and a creme caramel. By then the traffic had abated. I drove home at a relaxed pace and watched a DVD with my husband.
If I had not gone with the flow yesterday, things might have turned out quite differently. Instead of running into my kind friend Kat, I might have run into trouble.
I choose believe that the sharp break in my routine yesterday happened for the best. Looking back, I feel it was a perfect day.
I could blame Wade Davis. Listening to the CD of his 2009 CBC Massey Lectures, ironically titled The Wayfinders, was really enthralling. But to be fair, I think I just had a mental blip. For a moment, I panicked, but then I realized that the traffic wasn't bad. I decided that instead of doubling back to the train station, I would drive in to Vancouver.
As I drove, I listened to Davis describe the devastating rate of loss of cultures and languages that is going on while we barely notice. Half the languages being spoken today are not being taught. They will likely be lost within a generation.
I was still pondering this when I pulled up by the building. Was this space big enough? The car was sticking out a bit over a driveway, but who would come up this little back street? Who would need this driveway? Who would care?
A part of me knew the parking spot was too small for my car, but I didn't feel like finding another. I definitely didn't feel like going to the trouble of dealing with parking machines. Decided to take a chance.
At the end of the day, I finished my final tasks quickly. I was determined to leave in good time to beat the rush hour. Still, I was aware of feeling a little drowsy, and wondered: Should I have some coffee? Or some water? Am I sufficiently alert for the hour's drive home?
Turned out it didn't matter. When I came out of the building, I blinked once and looked again. My car had vanished. Could I have misremembered where I parked it? No, impossible. It was definitely gone. Towed away.
Apparently the time had come to pay my annual tax on stupidity. Or was it now just a two-yearly expense? It seemed like a long time since I had last allowed this to happen. I sighed and wondered how much it would be. Towing charge and parking ticket: a double whammy.
But who had the car, and where was it impounded? When I called Security, the guy gave me the number of Buster's Towing. The same company that towed my ancient but still serviceable 1954 Austen Somerset Coupe de Ville away from Wreck Beach all those years ago. Sadly, I still had not learned.
I dialed the number and waited. A woman came on the line and asked me for my license plate number. Recalling the mnemonic my daughter and I had cooked up together, I rattled it off. "Sorry," said the woman. "We don't have your car."
Then came the moment I am proud of. My next reaction showed me that even though I haven't learned to avoid getting my car towed, I have changed my outlook. I didn't panic. Instead, I thought for a moment.
To the woman on the phone, I said, "That number must be wrong. It's probably my daughter's car. I don't know my plate number. Is there any other way you can find out if my car is there?"
"You'll have to call ICBC," she said, and gave me the number.
After choosing an option, waiting on hold, hearing faux-soothing music, and then answering the standard security questions, I got my plate number from the insurance company and called Buster's back. Yes, they had the car. For just sixty bucks, I could get it back. I took the address and set out for the train.
Strangely, I didn't feel the least bit tired any more. I was quite philosophical. Obviously I was not meant to be driving through traffic at this time. Rush hour would have set in by the time I got my car, I knew, but I would hole up somewhere and wait it out. This would be an adventure, I told myself, a change of routine.
I rode the train downtown, intending to catch a bus. And at the precise moment that I stepped out of the station, I ran into a friend, almost literally.
"What are you doing downtown?" she asked. When I told her my car was in jail, she insisted on driving me to the impound lot under the Granville Bridge. We had a pleasant visit on the way.
I paid Buster's, making a point of being pleasant to the clerk, then looked at the parking ticket I'll have to pay in a day or so. I'll think of that as my personal contribution to the Olympic Games, I told myself. Then I got in the car, and headed downtown to pick up my library holds. I found a parking spot easily, and as I was getting out of the car, I picked up a dime. In the library, I met another long-lost friend, and enjoyed another visit.
Books safely stashed in my backpack, I put more change in the meter, then strolled across the concourse to the place where they have the single slices of really good thin-crust pizza. I was breathing in the heady aromas of the shop when the clerk said to me, "Would you like to have this piece free? I need the space for something else. Don't worry. It hasn't reached it's best-by date yet."
Having dined on free pizza, I still had a little time, so I stopped on Commercial Drive and had a coffee and a creme caramel. By then the traffic had abated. I drove home at a relaxed pace and watched a DVD with my husband.
If I had not gone with the flow yesterday, things might have turned out quite differently. Instead of running into my kind friend Kat, I might have run into trouble.
I choose believe that the sharp break in my routine yesterday happened for the best. Looking back, I feel it was a perfect day.