Parking and Providence --Cart Weiland

Every morning at about ten ‘til 9, I drive into downtown on Poydras St., swing a left on Camp, another left on Common, and finish my commute by turning right into the Pere Marquette Parking Garage located a block from my office building. There is nothing ostensibly remarkable about the car park: my coworker and I just happened to stumble upon it on our first morning of work, liked $8 daily rate, and have been going back ever since. In fact, we were never really supposed to park there. Our boss had recommended that we park at a cheaper garage on the 6^th floor of some other building we never actually found. A little lost and a little late on our first day of work, we decided we had better cut our losses and park where we could rather than drive around aimlessly and waste the precious few minutes we had until we were due in the office.

I don’t want to invoke the supernatural just yet, but I’ve got to say, I’m pretty glad we happened upon this particular parking garage that first morning five weeks ago. It’s not just the friendly, prompt service the valet staff supplies every day; it’s not just the hard time that one guy gives me every morning I’m running a couple minutes late, and it’s not just that I no longer have to ask for a receipt every afternoon because all the valets know me as “that guy.” No, I’m especially happy with my parking garage because last Friday, it might have just saved my weekend. After a day spent geo-coding data in the office, I walked down Common St. to retrieve my car only to find that it wouldn’t start. Before I even had to ask, two of the valets came to my rescue with a pair of jumper cables. The three of us struggled to jump the car for about 15 minutes, and I soon began to think about the impending disaster: I would have to call a tow truck and wait for it to arrive. I would have to tell the other kids I was scheduled to pick up that they no longer had a ride home. I’d have to find a Volvo dealership, wait until Monday to have the car looked at, and pay to have it fixed…

For such a relatively minor inconvenience, the future looked terribly grim. The battery was dead, or the alternator or…something. I thanked my valet friends for trying and was about to pick up my cell phone when I heard that sound…the key turning in the ignition, and the car finally starting! The valet Manuel had the magic touch, and suddenly, my Friday—and most likely, the rest of my weekend—was saved.

Part of me doesn’t want to blow this event out of proportion, but I’m starting to think that appealing to Fate isn’t entirely out of the question. If I had chosen another garage that first day; Who knows? Maybe there wouldn’t have been any jumper cables or friendly valets with magical hands….Really, who knows? I may very well have spent my weekend having to deal with the type of annoying chore that everyone hates. Instead, Manuel started my car, I drove it home, and I had an awesome weekend.

I know I’m taking a while to make my point but here it is:

Coming to New Orleans, like happening upon that parking garage, was entirely an accident. If I hadn’t gone abroad last fall, perhaps I would have been better organized for my job search that started last January. If I had been better organized, maybe I would have narrowed my interests a little more during the application process. Maybe if I had done that, I would have received a job or two in New York or D.C. If I had received offers in other cities, maybe I wouldn’t have been so apt to bring up summer job prospects with my friend Sam over a few beers at a party as school was ending in May. Maybe he would never have mentioned the program in New Orleans that he was a part of, and maybe—no, quite probably, I would not be here right now.

As we were sitting around chomping down pizza the other night, someone in the group asked, “So, could you guys see yourselves coming back to New Orleans after this summer?”

Interesting question, I thought. If coming back to NOLA is anything like ending up here in the first place, I certainly can’t rule out the possibility. Accidents are meant to happen, and for that, I am very grateful.