Boston, you money-grubbing whore of a city *UPDATED
Let’s talk street parking. Meter maids. City ordinances and whatnot.
Instead of me writing a “I wish you would all be subjected to watching your own children die by wolf attack” entry to all of Boston’s meter maids, I’ll take the high road and just offer some tips to my fellow motorcyclists who, like myself, park their bikes in Boston’s financial district every day.
Don’t park at an angle. Park parallel to the curb.
Don’t park in a metered spot. Only two hour.
Don’t park near a crosswalk even though it’s in a two hour spot.
Don’t park at a corner where there’s no clear signage. They’ll whack you.
Stay away from loading areas. Even three inches of your rear fender past the sign post will get you a hefty ticket. You will also probably take a few years off your life with the resulting bloodlust you’ll feel upon finding said ticket.
Stay away from commercial spots even if you’re only running into a store real quick. I got nailed for that recently. It was awesome. I got so mad I broke a blood vessel in my eye and my ass. Bad riding.
Don’t try to calmly ask a meter maid the rules. They usually get people who are hostile approaching them. As a result they’ll be defensive and percieve your questions as instigation for a moral debate on parking laws. They also don’t want you to know the rules. They have quotas to fill. Money to make for Boston.
Don’t park for two hours in a spot and then move across the street for another two hours. Their computers count each stretch of street in between cross streets as one zone. If you have to move every two hours, which I do recommend, move around the corner or down the street beyond a cross street.
I know that having a bike seems like having a key to the city. In a city where you’re lucky if parking is $28 a day you are riding a machine that can nestle into corners and not bother a soul all day. But there’s money to be had. In reality you are riding a “motor vehicle” that is no different than other “motor vehicles”. The Denalis. The Minis. The Escalades. The Civics.
Don’t give them more money. Park smart. Ride safe.
*I got downtown and when I was a few streets away from the one I work on I noticed I was behind the BTD van chock full of dude meter maids. I went and parked my bike and then strolled over to the now-parked van and walked around to the open side doors where four of them were chatting.
“Excuse me guys…. I was wondering if you could settle a debate for me. Earlier today a chick scolded me for using the term ‘meter maid’. Said I was stuck in the 50’s.”
“AHHAA! Stuck in the 50’s!” one of the dudes laughed.
“I know. I was born in 1980. I blame the Beatles. I mean no offense.”
“Nah we’d rather ‘parking enforcement officer’. Don’t call us maids until you see us wearin’ dresses out here.”
We had a chuckle and that was that.
I bet I have a ticket now:
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5/24/07
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CORNER OF WATER AND BROAD
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$55
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CALLING US METER MAIDS
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There’s this spot near my work downtown, it’s a small loading zone for a department store and has about eight metered spots on the side. It has tons of other room to park (areas that look designed to tuck your car or bike) but the signs all say NO.
Ever since a Starbucks went in at the department store, the lot is always jam packed with SUV drivers desperate for their hit of Grande Triple Shot Non-fat No-foam Chai Latte with two different artificial sweeteners. The parking bylaw officers just hover, waiting for someone’s meter to run out (25 cents gets you six minutes, and what if the barista is having a slow day?) or for someone to think “I’ll only be here a minute, why not just park in this little area clearly WANTS to be a parking spot?”
BASTARDS.
I was there to pick up a dehumidifier from the department store loading zone and in the space of twenty minutes I saw the guy ticket five cars and get one towed away. I joked with him “You must love this spot, eh?!” but he just glared.
Please stop with the “meter maids”. What are you, stuck in the 50s? Demeaning people doesn’t help anything but your smug superiority sense. They are meter readers - many are male, and they are NOT your servants!
I agree they are often clueless - like the one I found ticketing my car with time still on the meter and a “time” set 15 minutes in the future - lazy? Presumptive? Taking a long lunch and covering his arse? Perhaps. But he was not my maid or I would have had him clean out my car wearing a little french uniform.
Blame the Beatles I guess. They are called meter maids by average joes.
I don’t take an air of superiority to them. I know they’re just doing their meter maid job.
I’ve never heard “meter reader”. It’s got a nice ring to it, but we call ‘em ‘meter maids’ here and it has nothing to do with serving, cleaning or gender.
This reminds me of the time my sister (who used to work at an ice cream shop) got reamed for asking someone if they wanted “jimmies”, which according to this particular ice cream eater is a racist term (it’s not. do the googling).
Until recently, I routinely walked along the alley that cuts between New Chardon and Sudbury Streets, passing by the entrance to Channel 7. Every morning, there are about 8-10 motorcycles, usually Suzukis and Hondas, parked ON THE SIDEWALK smack-dab in front of the station. Maybe they are employees?
It’s a crapshoot. That might be the worst part of it.
I’ve chatted with many meter maids both on and off duty. They either say “oh nice bike. You know I always leave bikes alone” or “Hey rules are rules, man. This is why we ticket…etc.”
Some are hardasses, some are not. Some follow the rules, some bend them. Some get complaints from people who drive cars or pressure from their higher ups. I just want to know the rules so I can obey them and not wonder if I’m going to walk out to see the orange slip of death.
my one experience with this was in DC almost 20 years ago. I parked down on the mall and the meter wasn’t working - it wouldn’t take my money. I even left a quarter in the meter slot. When I got back to the car, I had a ticket and the quarter was gone.
I mailed the ticket in with a letter of explanation and in the end I didn’t have to pay it.
I drove for an archive company in Boston a while back, of course I didn’t ride a motorbike but rather a boxtruck but the same parking madness applied. One time I had the ass end of the truck sticking so far into the street that a city bus couldn’t get by. The driver laid on the horn and I had to run down from the 20th floor to move it. Man, that bus driver could swear with the best of them.
“Lovely Rita, Meter Reader!”
That woman looks a lot like someone I work this. Incredibly unpleasant, crabby, totally miserable person that she is.
Anyway, come to Hubbardston. We will party!
I meant “work with”. Geez, I should proofread.