Brian Slattery Photo
So much for driving down Chapel Street …
The offending vehicle, retrieved, safely back home.
It is something of an achievement that for 75 years I had avoided some of life’s common pitfalls, including having any of my cars towed. This long streak of excellent fortune ended under the glory of a full moon when our 2008 Swedish import disappeared from a lot.
Even so, what you will read here is not a typical Saab story. It is, instead, a New Haven revelation.
We were to meet friends from Essex at Skappo, one of our favorite Italian restaurants, on the evening of Sept. 13. Though sometimes when we leave East Rock heading for downtown we hire an Uber, on that Friday night I wasn’t in my right mind. I thought: Hey, despite the return of faculty and students to Yale and paucity of metered spaces in Ninth Square, I’ll choose to do the stupid thing — drive and leave myself at the mercy of the God of Parking. That way, I’d save a few bucks and, based on previous experience, postpone learning more about the history of Pakistan, Colombia or Lithuania (which I should know anyway, because two of my grandparents emigrated from Vilna).
The problem began around the intersection of Orange and Chapel. Inch by inch, we impatiently rued the fact that our city is so exciting at night. As my wife Suzanne and I spent many of our years in Hartford and its un-electric downtown, we still haven’t adjusted to the idea that New Haven sidewalks don’t roll up at night.
As I suspected, all metered spaces were taken. Aha, I decided: There is a private parking lot near Skappo, usually unguarded at night. We’d often parked there without incident on Monday nights when we took Italian language lessons from co-owner Anna Sincavage. Wasn’t I clever?
Other drivers had been just as brilliant. At least 15 others. I figured there was safety in numbers.
The dinner was, as usual, a joy. Skappo specializes in Umbrian dishes and good wines. On this night, we pressed Anna’s daughter, Yvette, to show us pictures of the new member of the family, her son Sebastian, eight months old. Our friends from Essex were only too happy to enjoy the warmth of a place they hadn’t been, particularly when Anna emerged from the kitchen with her usual embraces and good cheer.
Over scrumptious meatballs and eggplant, we learned that our friends parked in a public lot for $10. I thought: Well, the naivete of out-of-towners.
After dinner, we said our goodbyes, and before retrieving our car stopped for a moment next door at Firehouse 12 bar to gawk at the great number of young people out on a Friday night.
The parking lot still had a few cars in it, but not our blue Saab.
This was of course a disquieting moment. There were only two possibilities: The car was stolen or towed. We noticed a sign at the entrance that said something like: “If you park here illegally you will be towed at your own expense, Lary Bloom.”
I called the police department, and the dispatcher reported that our car indeed had been towed – the towing companies must report the details of their victims immediately.
As I often rely on my wife when in a tight spot, Suzanne called the number, and a woman answered. Suzanne, believing that being straightforward with a touch of absurdity is the best practice, asked, “Can you bring the car back?”
The woman laughed, and gave us the location of the lot, 388 Crown. At that point, I was relieved that the usual rules of urban science would apply. Rule 1: The one-way street you need to take is the wrong one-way. Rule 2: If your car is towed on the lower end of Crown Street, you will need to retrieve it at the upper end, a 20-minute walk away.
However, Suzanne and I were cheered by two things. The first was, as she reported, “The fine we’ll have to pay might be cheaper than in Manhattan, where I’ve heard it’s $450.” Oh, joy, I thought. The second: We were mesmerized by our city’s Manhattan impersonation — people everywhere, restaurants full, sidewalk and motor vehicle traffic aplenty. Even Louis Lunch had become Louis Dinner, some people, presumably, learning for the first time there’s no ketchup in the place.
Two women dressed to the nines and holding hands walked ahead of us while a fellow clearly impaired from some unsavory substance walked up to them and made some indecent proposal to which they demurred. (As I said, this is city life.)
We walked past College Street, where the entrance was blocked off by barricades. We thought, perhaps, one of those hugely popular rock bands we never heard of was performing at the College Street Music Hall. But a policeman explained, “It’s the Grand Prix bike race, and a street festival, too.”
If we had been paying half-attention, we’d have been aware of this. But there is too much to know in our city. When we first moved here from tiny Chester, we rushed to see and hear everything: concerts, lectures, theater. Yo-Yo Ma? You could hear him at Woolsey Hall for $25. Then, exhausted from it all, we retreated to our nights-around-the-fireplace evenings, relying on CNN to bring us into political despair.
Happily, though, a tow truck reminded us that we are alive and well in one of the most eclectic small cities in America.
And no, it didn’t cost $450 to be sprung from Crown Street Auto. The tab was $112 hard cash. What a bargain, I thought.
We drove our Saab away, and, at the corner of York and Elm, found ourselves stuck in a 10 p.m. traffic jam as authorities removed barriers from the bike race. And we sat there, in a state of contentment.
I love this. Thank you. And you should know that in addition to the bike race there was a band at College Street that night though likely one (the Gipsy Kings) that even aging cable news watching non-hipsters like you and I have heard of!