Tea Party in Central Parking

I am a huge advocate for the city of Boston. I come to her defense quickly when someone puts her down (similar to my endless support of iceberg lettuce. What? This lettuce isn't good enough for you? Not fancy enough for your distinguished palette? ). I had the pleasure of living with a transplant who beat me over the head incessantly with the fact that the city is racist. I have gone to great lengths to unveil all the remarkable work that anti-racist groups have done in the city and I've cataloged these findings not just for him, but for myself. To remind myself that this city has come a long way. I mean, just because you live in a diverse community, doesn't mean it isn't riddled with racism and suffering from great economic injustices. It just means that there are fewer white people. (I am not absolving Boston of racism. It's here, like everywhere - alive and well.)

Then, there's the driving issue. I know that driving in Boston is a challenge. I've dealt with this and I've overcome it and I'm pretty darn proud of my ability to seamlessly navigate around the city. No one ever said life was easy. So, if you aren't here often, you might want to repeat this to yourself a half a million times as you work yourself up into an uncontrollable fit of rage. When you get to your destination, a little part of you will feel good that you succumbed and that you were victorious. You earned that mother f'n parking spot.

I have always wondered how some Red Sox fans can embrace the team, but hate the city so.

I was Logan Airport's biggest cheerleader. I have been on the receiving end of countless bitter complaints about this airport. From getting there to parking, the list is endless. Legitimate 911 criticism aside, I really find no difference between Logan and other airports, except for a little less signage. And seriously, who needs a playschool-style airport? Are we infants?

All this changed on Saturday morning. I had to pay the airport a visit to exchange a voucher for a ticket to California so that I can attend a post wedding party in November. I zipped on to the artery and flew down the lower deck like a knife spreading butter cream frosting on top of a cake. I sang and tapped my foot along to the White Stripes CD and relaxed with a fresh cup of Dunkin Donuts hazelnut. I sashayed into central parking with no problem whatsoever. This is where the story takes a drastic turn. The lot was packed. And when I say packed, I mean PACKED. Where there weren't cars nestled against each other, there was caution tape and cones and orange and white barrels. I went up ramps and down dead ends and could not find a spot at Terminal B. I had to venture into Terminal C. Nothing. Then, finally, I was afforded a space I could barely maneuver my car into (I affectionately dubbed it the "reject spot.") at Terminal D. After squeezing in, I was wise enough to write my location down on my garage ticket. I then left and tried to figure out how far I was from Terminal B and how to get there.

I found the elevator and pressed both the up and down buttons. They each lit up, and then, after 30 seconds, the lights turned off. The elevator made no sound. I looked at the sign next to the elevator and it clearly said "Pedestrian Walkway, Level 3." So, I decided to take the stairs. I got to Level 3, and started walking in the opposite direction, toward where I thought the walkway might be. That's when I encountered a scary looking white tunnel, like a covered wagon had mated with that thing at the end of E.T. There were men on ladders in front of it, but I decided not to ask them for assistance. I walked through the tunnel and took a left, following a sign that said "To All Terminals." This lead me to another elevator with buttons that didn't work. I fled this area and went back down to Level 3 (listening to Vincent Price laughing in my head). I swear, I went to all the corners of the level and saw no way into the airport. Eventually, I ran into a guy with a suitcase and thought: He just came from the actual airport, so the way in must still be fresh in his mind. I asked him. He instructed me to go back to the covered wagon walkway and take a right instead of a left and keep walking. So, I did as he told, shielding my face from the construction workers on ladders in sheer embarrassment (I may have gone past them a few times at this point). Finally, I got into the airport at Terminal C. I was able to get to Terminal B easily from there, but I was pretty annoyed by this time. So, if anyone from Massport is reading this: PLEASE IMPROVE THE NAVIGATION IN CENTRAL PARKING.

My mood was mellowed by the Mayor's sweet voice welcoming me to the city of Boston (and telling me about all her offerings) as I descended the escalator stairs. Long live the Boston accent. If you don't like it, don't listen.