When I saw the yellow jacketed cop standing next to my car and speaking into his cellphone, I knew I'd parked where I wasn't supposed to. But it wasn't the typical Romanian not-a-spot-spot; like on a sidewalk or a crosswalk, or blocking an intersection, or just abandoned in the middle of the road.
I had parked by a restaurant on a small, cobble-stoned street with no traffic. In their infinite wisdom, City Hall had suddenly decided to get tough on parking in the area, even while the kind of traffic violations I described above routinely occur elsewhere in town without ever bothering the local police. I mean, it's fine, but let's just be a little bit more consistent about the standards we're applying.
"Don't worry," I told the cop, who'd put the phone away and was studying the car, "I'll save you the trouble and just drive off."
"Is this your car?" He looked at me like he didn't exactly hear what I'd just said, but he had a beard and a pretty decent demeanour to go with it. Didn't seem like the backward type of Romanian local police who'd use regionalisms and treat me like a second-rate citizen for a minor violation.
"Yes it is."
"I've just called to have it towed..."
"That won't be necessary, we've just come from my uncle's wake at the cemetery and we're leaving now." He looked at me dubiously.
"I'll still need to write a citation," he said, "let me see your license and ID."
I paused, weighing whether I should just argue because that's basically tradition here. Then I thought, it's just as well, I'm in the wrong after all, and he's just doing his job. But I had offered to drive my father and aunt home, who were trailing slightly behind, and I was more concerned about the open-air bureaucracy we were now faced with.
"Will it take long?" I asked, handing over my documents.
"Oh about seven minutes."
I sighed and shrugged, a la c'est la vie.
Then my father came into the picture and said, "Look, we were at the cemetery, my brother's just passed away, maybe we could get a pass this time." He must've been more eloquent saying basically the exact same thing I had because the cop instantly handed back my papers. He almost looked sheepish.
"In that case you can go, but please don't park here anymore." He'd stopped writing the citation and returned my documents so fast it was almost as if he'd been waiting for an excuse to do it.
We all piled in and drove off, pleased and surprised with the outcome, and reflecting on the cop's display of basic humanity. My sister contrasted our situation by recounting our cousin's misadventure with a Toronto parking enforcement cop who wrote him a ticket as he sat in the car waiting to pick up his daughter. The guy knocked on the window and handed it to him instead of telling him to move and wait elsewhere -something he could've done before ever writing the ticket.
Some people right?
I had parked by a restaurant on a small, cobble-stoned street with no traffic. In their infinite wisdom, City Hall had suddenly decided to get tough on parking in the area, even while the kind of traffic violations I described above routinely occur elsewhere in town without ever bothering the local police. I mean, it's fine, but let's just be a little bit more consistent about the standards we're applying.
"Don't worry," I told the cop, who'd put the phone away and was studying the car, "I'll save you the trouble and just drive off."
"Is this your car?" He looked at me like he didn't exactly hear what I'd just said, but he had a beard and a pretty decent demeanour to go with it. Didn't seem like the backward type of Romanian local police who'd use regionalisms and treat me like a second-rate citizen for a minor violation.
"Yes it is."
"I've just called to have it towed..."
"That won't be necessary, we've just come from my uncle's wake at the cemetery and we're leaving now." He looked at me dubiously.
"I'll still need to write a citation," he said, "let me see your license and ID."
I paused, weighing whether I should just argue because that's basically tradition here. Then I thought, it's just as well, I'm in the wrong after all, and he's just doing his job. But I had offered to drive my father and aunt home, who were trailing slightly behind, and I was more concerned about the open-air bureaucracy we were now faced with.
"Will it take long?" I asked, handing over my documents.
"Oh about seven minutes."
I sighed and shrugged, a la c'est la vie.
Then my father came into the picture and said, "Look, we were at the cemetery, my brother's just passed away, maybe we could get a pass this time." He must've been more eloquent saying basically the exact same thing I had because the cop instantly handed back my papers. He almost looked sheepish.
"In that case you can go, but please don't park here anymore." He'd stopped writing the citation and returned my documents so fast it was almost as if he'd been waiting for an excuse to do it.
We all piled in and drove off, pleased and surprised with the outcome, and reflecting on the cop's display of basic humanity. My sister contrasted our situation by recounting our cousin's misadventure with a Toronto parking enforcement cop who wrote him a ticket as he sat in the car waiting to pick up his daughter. The guy knocked on the window and handed it to him instead of telling him to move and wait elsewhere -something he could've done before ever writing the ticket.
Some people right?
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