THE PARKING GODS OF SAN FRANCISCO -San Francisco Chronicle Magazine

There are two kinds of San Franciscans: Those with parking and those without. If you’ve ever spent the better part of a paycheck fending off the Department of Parking and Traffic, you, like me, fall into unfortunate latter category.

Join me then, my oppressed brethren. Accept Asphalta as your personal savior now!
Bear witness to my tale of redemption from the depths of parking hell. It was the year of our Lord 1999 – the year every college graduate in the country packed up their SUVs and drove into to town to claim their piece of the dot.com pie. Street parking dried up overnight, like the maize crop in Ethiopia, leaving those of us without a parking space of our own to circle for hours looking for ever smaller pickings. Riding Muni to work from my Inner Richmond neighborhood, I began seeing real estate signs for garage spaces at rents that would bag a nice one-bedroom w/vu in most other cities in the country.

Overnight, my carefree, exciting life in the city turned into a relentless obsession with parking. Every invitation to every party, every gallery opening, every film festival, was weighed carefully against whether I could get there without moving my car. When the numbers didn’t add up, (and is two hours on Muni worth an Oscar party in Protrero Hill?) I stayed home instead. On Saturdays I wouldn’t move my car for any reason that didn’t involve my baby daughter and visible blood. And yea, I was sorely bitter.

Then my karma really tanked, and the Department of Parking and Traffic began hunting me down in their cockroach-like jitneys. I got a ticket standing in line to renew my parking permit. I got a ticket for blocking the street in my own building’s driveway. They dinged me at broken meters; for being half a foot into a red zone; for double parking while returning library books. I’d stand outside at 7:05 a.m. on street cleaning day in my bunny slippers, shaking my fist, and ranting at each new flapping insult: “I live here, damn it! I pay taxes! I have a parking permit that’s paid up through next year!”

And then I started hearing about the Parking Gods.
Some say it is Judy who governs the clogged streets of Cole Valley and the Haight. They say if you call to Bruce, three times, in a clear voice and with no expectations, you will be granted parking within five blocks of the Castro. And on a Friday night. And it will be good. Xochtli has the Avenues. In Berkeley they know her as “Squat.” Over them all, however, is Asphalta. Show her the proper deference, they say, believe in her totally, and you shall be rewarded. Displease her at your peril.

The dark, rainy afternoon I came home from work to find my car clamped into an orange boot, I knew it was true. There were higher powers at work here.

At a bodega deep in the Mission I bought the tallest votive to the Virgin Guadalupe I could find. All the new gods are based on older gods, anyway, right? I brought it home, cleared a space on my dresser. I lit it. Finally, I wrapped an extra key to my car in an old parking ticket and set it before the candle. Overkill is never lost on the gods.

“What’s the candle for,” asked my husband.

“Aromatherapy,” I lied.

The week progressed. And lo! The Department of Parking and Traffic ticketed me not!
I kept the candle lit. I added a second votive in thanks. The intervals between parking tickets grew longer. Having been advised not to take advantage of their blessings, I invoked the Parking Gods only in the most dire circumstances; the rainy nights. The Mission burrito runs with the baby in tow. I once found parking half a block from Mama’s in North Beach one Sunday morning and danced around my car, singing Asphalta’s praises for all in the long brunch line to hear. Many nodded. They knew. “We know her as Curbetta,” said one.

I was prepared to become a novitiate to the Parking Gods when my husband got into graduate school and we crossed the bridge into Berkeley, where our small apartment came equipped with a fully-loaded parking spot included in the price of rent. Before we left the city I’d begun work on a comic novel inspired by the parking woes of my class. It’s about four friends without a tech skill among them and what happens when the dot.com scene goes nova in 1999.

The Parking Gods, it seems, are not without vanity. For every time I have to drive into the city these days, I am granted parking boons that border on the divine.

Parking in front of Le Video in the Sunset on a Friday afternoon. Parking around the corner at Lovejoy’s Tea and Antiques in Noe Valley! In the Marina one weekend, I only had to circle the block once before a lady in a Range Rover pulled out, offering me a gleaming parking spot, as wide and open as Minnesota. Verily I tell you: Asphalta is great!

Alas, my newfound parking karma doesn’t extend to the East Bay. I get a parking ticket every time I patronize a business on Solano Avenue in Albany. Lake Merritt is closed to me. Apparently there’s a whole different set of Parking Gods over here, and they’re ignoring my prayers. I’m hoping they notice me soon or I’ll just have to move back to the City. Rents are down, but my parking karma is still up. Russian Hill might be nice.