For nine months after arriving in this small Spanish colonial town I parked my car wherever there was an available space on the street. (There are no parking meters in San Miguel, so all street parking is free.) Now, some of those spaces were legal parking spaces; but many other times they were spaces clearly signposted with a circled 'E' slashed with a red line, which is the local way of saying 'estacionamiento prohibido' (no parking).
I didn't park in front of people's garages and I didn't park too close to street corners; these practices too easily encourage either deliberate vandalism (from the garage owner) or accidental fender damage (from a passing delivery truck). Either way, the responsible party will most certainly never be identified. You can count on it.
In those nine months I never received a ticket. And I never had my license plate impounded.
Not until, that is, a couple of weeks ago, when my wife and I decided to go to the American-friendly Saturday organic food market near the Allende Institute in town. I parked in a convenient parking space a few steps away from the market. And even through I could plainly see the sign with a circled "E" with a red line slash just ahead, I figured I'd be okay for two reasons: one, I'd parked there many times before and had never gotten into trouble; and, two, my car was stopped behind a line of shiny cars and trucks all sporting various shiny American license plates. What could be more reassuring?
An hour later, our shopping done for the week, we toted our goods back to the car. "Looks like you got a parking ticket," noted my wife, who like most wives, basks in my uncomfortable moments. My gaze shot from the piece of scrap paper she held in her hand (yes, a parking ticket) to the front car bumper, which was missing my car's New Jersey plate.
Yo, mama!
Luckily, I just then spotted the transit cop. He was rotund little man in a light green uniform and a military-style cap. He was just in the process of ticketing a car and impounding its front plate a few paces behind us. He was bent over using a little screwdriver to remove the plate (being extra careful to replace the screws in their holes in the bumper). I noticed he was holding a stack of other car license plates in his free hand. I was in luck.
My mind worked fast. I somehow knew that I would certainly be able to convince him to return my plate without any fuss (it's just the way I am). Now, some Americans believe a kind word and a hundred peso note go farther than just a kind word--but I am not one of those Americans. And there are other Americans who think the best way to get your way with locals is by yelling at them with a strong Texas accent. I'm not one of them either.
No, I figured I could get him to return my plate by simply explaining.... by pleading... by telling him whatever I could think of that made the outcome a win-win for both of us. I would speak slowly and logically and, most of all, courteously.
The round officer in the nice hat spoke no English. So, I asked him to talk with my wife because she speaks Spanish like a native Englishwoman. We both gesticulated operatically. We both pleaded for mercy in American and British and Spanish. We both made helpless faces. Please, por favor....
Unfortunately, he didn't have our plate anymore. Our impounded license plate had already been picked up by a fellow transit policeman and taken back to the main office. (Great system, I thought!) What could he do? Nothing. What was done was done.
He instructed me that I could pick up my license plate when I paid the fine at the transit authority office, to which he graciously gave us directions.
His directions were perfect. An hour later, after I'd paid my fine and had my license plate courteously returned to me, I had a little laugh with myself. This place is extraordinary for so many reasons that one could never think of before one actually resides here. And logical parking is only one of them.
© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com
Great story I probably would have done the same thing you did.
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