Parking is one of those unfortunate tasks that accompanies the fun of driving. Whether it’s circling for open spaces, dealing with ornery/incompetent drivers, paying exorbitant prices, of fending off door dings, parking is fraught with peril. Yet we have no choice but to endure any number of indignities that come with securing real estate for something that’s dear to you but seen by the majority of the public as a nuisance at best. This QotW was inspired by a garage that checked your entry and departure by license plate, yet failed to read ours, sending us on a Sisyphean side quest of negative net value.
What’s your craziest car parking story?
The most entertaining comment by next week will receive a prize. Scroll down to see the winner of last week’s QotW, “What’s the greatest Japanese luxury sedan?“.
Not surprisingly Toyotas took the, uh, crown when it came to top luxury sedans. That doesn’t mean other marques were shut out. Nissan held its own with Lupus‘s ode to the C31 Laurel, Taylor C.‘s fond memories of a Nissan Maxima, and Kyuusha Corner‘s reminder of the Prince Royal’s existence.
Mazdas also had their supporters, with daniel selecting the tech -laden Eunos Cosmo and Franxou showing us how his pic for the Mazda Type-GA is all about context,
Toyota has strong pull and it’s no surprise the Century was nominated by BlitzPig and Alan. TheJWT opted for its smaller brother, the Crown. Even the Corolla got an excellent shoutout from dankan, who interpreted luxury as the securirty in knowing it’ll start every time.
The winner last week was KMMinLaPlata, who detailed the differences in the Camry sold abroad:
The definition of luxury has changed over the decades. After 1930, mass produced luxury takes over as coachbuilt luxury cars were viewed as gauche during the Great Depression so you see factory bodied Cadillacs, Lincolns, Packards and higher trim Buicks and Chryslers taking over. They had power and technology, luxury, space and cigarette lighters in every ashtray because everyone smoked, making that the US luxury market from 1935 to 1985. German cars were about performance and vault like build quality and British cars were leather and wood and lambs wool carpeting (nothing smells as good as a Rolls Royce leather interior- that scent should be bottled and sold as a cologne).
Japanese luxury cars took all of that to heart but each manufacturer took a different path. Acura was all about Honda racing performance while Infiniti was the zen experience. Nissan had the 4 door sports car in the Maxima, Honda had the V6 Accord, Toyota had the Avalon, Mazda had the Millenia and the 929 while Mitsubishi had the technology laden Galant and then the Diamante. Lexus is, perhaps, the quintessential luxury car as the LS and the ES embrace the quiet, comfortable, technologically advanced climate controlled ride that we expect from a luxury car so you would think my answer would be the Lexus LS sedan. It meets all that criteria. However, the eccentric side of me would argue that quintessential luxury car is the Asian Market Toyota Camry. Power rear sunshade in the back window, shades in the rear doors, a reclining rear seat, and a control panel to adjust the rear climate control or change the music on the sound system and the boss seat buttons on the front passenger seat to give that rear seat passenger more room so you ride in discrete, chauffeur-driven luxury through the streets of Kulala Lumpur, Ho Chi Minh City, Jakarta, Phnom Penh, or Bangkok. If only we could get those features in US Market Camrys but I suppose one can dream.
Image: Wikimedia Commons
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In 1990s my friend had a 2nd generation of Toyota Camry, it was a silver color. He was at the local supermarket parking lot, open a door of a silver color Camry and drove home, After he pulled in his home driveway, he recognized that was not his own Camry. He went back the supermarket parking lot, left the car and drove his own one home. My other friends often insisted this would never happen. But it did happen on this guy.
Parking for our teeny smart Car cabriolet was always simple, not even a BMW Isetta (the Urkel-mobile) was a match. Nevertheless, when my wife and I drove to Charleston, WV to attend a hunting and outdoors expo that had displays of wild animals, including an American Eagle and other examples. We didn’t get up there quite in time to get parking, the attendant said the lot was full. Spying a blank area between lamp posts, I asked “If I get my car up there (there being no curb but a dip on both sides), can I park it?” “Buddy,” he said, “If you can park it there, It’s free!” So, without much problem, I parked our little smart Car on that strip of concrete, locked up and, we enjoyed the expo … seeing an American Eagle in flight, inside the arena was breathtaking! So was the saving of $35.00 for parking!
I picked up several friends in my 1990 Civic to go out to eat. Finally found an open spot on a packed side street, and according to the days and times posted on the parking sign, it was okay to park. However, when we left the restaurant I couldn’t find my car. This never happens, as I always remember where I parked. Then I noticed. There were no cars on any street… anywhere! That’s why I felt so lost. I walked up to where I parked and looked at the parking sign once more, and that’s when I noticed. In tiny 12-pt font there was a line of text that read something like “Except for September 14th”. I guess on one very specific day every year, they tow all the cars to a lot to extort money from people for a sign with text that can’t really be read while you are inside your car. Cost me $400 to get my car back, I’m still pissed about it, and I’ve never trusted parking downtown anywhere ever since.
Which city was this?
Going back many moons, I sold books to the bookshops for my parents’ business in a Toyota Lite Ace van – small, but perky, solid and reliable (which coincidentally kinda also describes yours truly).
Late one afternoon, I was a tad late for my last delivery to a shop within a central arcade in Perth city and made it there with the minimum spare time to make the delivery. The car park was directly beneath the arcade and apart from a rather narrow and steep entrance ramp down into the dimly-lit cavern, its daytime custodian was a very officious looking chap in uniform, with associated attitude and a more-than-passing resemblance to a certain British actor from the 1950s who had a tendency towards playing the role of men with extended sharp teeth after dark. He told me in no uncertain terms that it was “close to closing time”, to which I pleaded with him that I’d only be five minutes and I’d be right out again. He nodded “ok” – and off I zipped, heavy box of books in arms. True to my word, I was back to the van in FOUR minutes – but upon my return, I noticed the carpark looked even more spooky than when I entered, that being due to the fact that the accommodating fellow had bolted, turning the lights down to a minimum and locking the considerable steel roller door at what was now the very top of the exit ramp in the process (probably laughing his head off, to regale the hilarious episode to his mates at the pub he was possibly so desperate to get to that evening). I staved off my rage and started thinking….. I walked up the ramp and exited through the staff exit door next to the roller door and looked around outside. Spotting a switchboard door, I was very glad to see that it wasn’t locked so perused the array of switchgear on the board. As a qualified electrician, I soon recognised the correct switch, but also noted that it was secured by a locking device to deter tampering. Not to be deterred, after returning from my van with tool kit in hand, I proceeded to remove the whole switch box from the board and from behind shorted the correct terminals – and Lo and Behold, the door rose to fully open. From there it was drive out, park, close the roller door again and return the switchboard to original state, thereby leaving one helluva mystery for this chap the following morning! Would just LOVE to have been a fly on the wall when he walked down that ramp!
My wife and I, when we were dating in the early 2000s, went to a Padres game at Qualcomm stadium on free parking night. We took her beloved light blue on blue ’86 Camry LE.
After the game, the car was gone, so we flagged down a disinterested cop who drove us around the lot a few times, repeatedly asking if we’d been drinking – “no sir, we’re underage.” He finally, reluctantly filed a report and dropped us off at the trolley station. They found the car the next day, abandoned and stripped of valuables, including her high-end Alpine sound system, her very expensive viola, my Canon AE-1 and several lenses, and literally all the clothes I owned besides the ones on my back – we had been at the laundromat earlier in the day.
The cops told us they must’ve used the infamous ’80s Toyota master key, as the car was entirely undamaged, both locks and ignition cylinder.
Moral of the story: if you have a Club and you drive an ’80s Toyota, use it.
I was based in Frankfurt, Germany. I commuted back home to the U.S. I reached the employee parking lot & realized I left my keys with in Frankfurt. With a pending snowstorm, I turned around & went right back to Germany.
Probably not the craziest, but I would say I am very lucky when it comes to parking in Boston’s Chinatown. For those not familiar, Boston parking is pretty challenging, and with the parking garages / lots charging an arm and leg, I refuse to cough up for the convenience.
Glad I haven’t, because I have always been able to find a parking spot within three minutes of entering the neighborhood. Upon exiting MassPike, I will take a deep breath and channel my energy onto the streets of Chinatown so that some low-hanging fruit who’s’ about to leave will perfectly time it with my arrival. I usually turn from Kneeland onto the ultra-narrow Hudson Street, and take my time to go extra slow, scanning both left and right. 75% of the time I’ll find someone walking towards their car, and DING DING, there’s my spot.
Other times I’ll catch a sloppy driver who just can’t parallel his / her big SUV into the spot (the street is one lane, and extra narrow). I’ll V-shape my eyebrows just a little harder at them to give that driver some added pressure, and they’ll eventually abandon their spot for me. I am a pro at this, and don’t bother to use the rear camera; it’s all about dipping the sideview mirrors just a little and waxing on and off hard (but not locking the steering wheel, as it puts added strain on the power steering), almost kissing adjacent cars as I utilize every centimeter available.
I have set up lunch outings with colleagues, ones who will rarely drive into Boston because of this exact reason. I will stand on the corner of Kneeland and Hudson so they pick me up, and as we turn in, I close my eyes, channel that energy, and tell my colleague to go extra slow. We crawl along, checking the rearview to make sure we’re not holding up traffic behind us, and just as we thought our luck runs out, there’s a grandma walking to her ubiquitous silver RAV4.
In the ~8 years I’ve lived in Boston Metro now, I think there’s been, maybe, 5 times total where I’ve struggle to find a spot. When that happens, it seems like all the timing is off, and I just see other cars snatch a spot that I was 5 seconds behind them, or that it’s better to just doublepark and get takeout.
How I “Lost” My Brother’s Car in Moscow
I borrowed my brother’s Kia Rio to do some shopping at a big mall in Moscow. Public transport? Not an option — too many bags, too much hassle. I parked on this enormous parking lot in front of the mall and went inside.
Throughout the day, I returned to the car a couple of times to drop off shopping bags. No issues. By around 3 PM, fully done, I headed back to where I knew I had parked.
The car… was gone.
Total shock. Then denial. Maybe I just parked a little further? I wandered the lot. Then wandered some more. After 30 minutes of pacing between identical-looking rows, it hit me — the car was stolen.
I went to mall security, asked if my car had been towed. They said: “No tow trucks here. If your car’s missing — it’s probably been stolen.”
So I called the police, filed a report, took a lovely ride in a police car to the station. I called my brother to share the great news. His reaction was… predictable.
Closer to 7 PM, he joined me after work. We returned to the mall with the police to check the cameras. And there it was. Sitting exactly where I had left it.
Turns out this glorious Moscow shopping center has two identical giant parking lots — front and back. I had simply exited from the wrong side.
Everyone — security, police, my brother — looked at me like I had just reinvented stupidity. And honestly, fair enough.
Lesson learned: in Moscow, always remember which side of the mall you parked on. Or pick smaller malls.
My Wife Can’t Tell Cars Apart — My Story №2
I drive a black Toyota Land Cruiser Prado 120. Solid, recognizable, reliable. You’d think it’s pretty hard to mistake it for anything else. Unless, of course… you’re my wife.
You see, my wife has a truly remarkable talent: she absolutely cannot remember what car I drive. Specifically — any big black SUV looks like ours to her. Doesn’t matter if it’s a Toyota, a Mercedes, or a lunar rover painted black. If it’s large, dark, and vaguely shaped like a rectangle, there’s a 90% chance she’ll try to get in.
This has become such a routine that I’ve developed standard protocols:
Either I walk up to meet her and guide her to the car,
Or I start honking until she finally realizes which black SUV is ours.
But one particular incident stands out.
One day, I was waiting for my wife and my mother outside a mall. (Fun fact: my mother shares this exact same “talent.”) They spotted what they thought was our car: a black Mercedes-Benz GL parked nearby. Confident as ever, they opened the doors and sat down, one on each side.
As my wife later told me, the driver was inside, talking on the phone, and didn’t even notice them at first. He casually started the engine, seemingly ready to leave — probably assuming his own passengers had arrived.
My wife said she only realized something was off when she looked around and thought:
“Why does this interior look… weird?”
(It wasn’t weird — it was just beige leather. Our Prado has a beige interior too, but theirs was that fancy calfskin color. Apparently, that’s where her detective instincts kicked in.)
Realizing they were sitting in a stranger’s Mercedes, both women made a stealthy, hasty escape before things got too awkward.
When I heard this story, I couldn’t just let it go. I walked over to the Mercedes driver to apologize and explain. At first, he looked pretty stunned — two random women just climbed into his car like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Thankfully, he laughed it off and said:
“Don’t worry, my wife does this all the time too.”
Still, sometimes I wonder…
Is my wife just hinting that it’s time to swap my Toyota for a Mercedes?
After all, how can you possibly mistake a Land Cruiser for a GL-Class?