I moved here from Savannah, Georgia, a very popular, charming tourist town, founded in 1733 (that’s 143 years before Colorado became a state), and complete with narrow cobblestone streets, numerous squares (read: Colonial roundabouts) and heavy foot, bike, stroller, beast of burden, car, monster truck and horse-drawn-carriage traffic.
The parking situation is as scarce as you’d expect (as a general rule, parking is generally hard to find in places people actually want to be), and regulated with a state of the art and aggressively-enforced meter system. You will probably wind up finding a space anywhere from three to thirteen blocks from your final destination — and you’d never dream of expecting a sweet spot out front. If you are downtown on business, you’ll more than likely be wearing a tie, jacket or both (it’s the South, after all), and the temperature is normally about 97º with 135% humidity. Hotter than Hades, even on a nice day. And when it rains, it’s torrential. Oh, and if you aren’t mugged walking to and from your vehicle, your sled stands a good chance of being broken into. I haven’t even mentioned surly panhandlers, roaches the size of small babies, or street corner preachers. You’ll get to where you’re going, exhausted, wrinkled, and perspiring like a woman of ill repute at bible study.
And when you return to your vehicle, you have to run the AC for about 23 minutes before getting into it. And let the steering wheel cool off for another 17. If you were two minutes past expiration, you’d certainly have a ticket. (Yes, I’ve gotten “the boot” before.) Savannah can have all the antebellum charm in the world, but it’s not worth its weight in shrimp and grits if you’re completely and totally miserable.
So when people here in Castle Rock complain about the parking, I just have to let out an audible eye roll. I will take our situation any day of the week and twice on Sundays. We don’t know how good we have it, y’all.