Homecoming Queen
As I approach the turn for the hotel parking lot on Commercial Street, I stop – not because the entry is barred but because, you see, Elizabeth Peavey still does not pay for parking in Portland.
“Did the reservations show if parking was included?” I demand of my friend, who is visiting from England and whom I’ve not spent time with since “Stray Cat Strut” was in the Top 40. I’d earlier snubbed the Travel + Leisure article he’d forwarded me declaring Portland one of the best food cities in the U.S. “I am not allowing you to eat a forty-five-dollar, foodie-friendly, Insta-ready lobster finger roll in my company,” I barked. Thus, our first stop had been the Lobster Shack.
He shrugs and says he just assumed we’d be paying for parking. Those Brits, so genial about queuing and making do and wrangling space on a small island. He clearly knows not the Peavey ethos. I pull up in front of the hotel and send him inside to inquire while I stay with the car. Feed the meter for five minutes? Are you crazy?
Interesting then, that while I wouldn’t deign to slip a ha’penny in a meter, I now, as of April, have decided paying for a hotel room in Portland is OK. At first, it was shocking. “I’m officially a flatlander,” I wailed to all my friends – at least those who were not sick of hearing me moan about my exile from Portland, which left pretty much only my houseplants, and even they seemed to wilt at my whinging.
But it was high time to face the fact I no longer reside in the city I heretofore called home for 45 years. After booking a ticket at the start of April for the magnificent Jane Siberry at One Longfellow, I also booked a room at the dear old Inn at St. John. Just like that, I didn’t have to deal with – a.k.a. pay for – parking. (If you are looking for any logic here, you may wish to turn the page.)
I can’t say the walk on Congo to and from the show was entirely not sketchy. I got panhandled, my path was impeded, and in one case I was yelled at, until I realized the person was yelling at the air in front of Hot Suppa, not me. The worst part was how discouragingly normal it felt. Like all the gacky new condo towers and townhouses, this was just part of the current Portland landscape.
Later that evening as I gazed through lace curtains at the neon lights of Pizza Villa, where I misspent a chunk of my youth hunched over an Addams Family pinball machine, I imagined my then-self tumbling out of the bar, looking up and seeing her future self peering down. “Eek! It’s Miss Havisham! Let’s get out of here!”
The British bloke is taking too long (which, in my book, means he’s not back instantly), and the only thing I hate more than paying for parking in Portland is waiting. As I practice my four-square breathing and intone, I am a patient person, a white van with a City of Portland parking division logo emblazoned on its door pulls up next to me. As the driver futzes with the kiosk, I approach and askhim in my teeniest, nice-girl voice (trust me, I have worked on this for years) if he thinks I might have a minute to run inside to check with the desk. He says sure, he doesn’t give tickets, and he’ll even watch my car for me. Pure Portland magic.
But wait, there’s more. No, parking is not included, but I also know street parking will be free in two hours. As I get ready to pony up and feed the meter, I spy one of those beloved green-and-white One Hour Parking signs on the street next to the hotel. I jump in my car and peel out to park. But then, lo, what’s this? I see on the other side of the street – be still my beating heart – two hour free parking. I nab the space, leap out of the car and, jumping up and down, pump my fists in the air. My friend, who has followed me around the corner, simply collects his bag and nods. “Shall we?”
The two of us thus set out for a high/low grazing tour of my design. After being turned away from seats at my (now former) favorite raw bar for oysters (“Sorry, dinner patrons only”), I Plan-B over to the Old Port Sea Grill, where – wait for it – it happens to be buck-a-shuck night. Each stop thereafter places another magical jewel in the evening’s crown, concluding with a retreat into a fabulous Wharf Street bar prompted by a sudden downpour. Narnia has nothing on our night.
Time has altered my city just as it’s altered me. But I would like to think even with all our challenges and changes, the two of us can still, on occasion, reign supreme together.
Elizabeth Peavey freely parks her carcass here monthly.
