er their luggage and dive into my passenger seat as I slow, but barely stop, in fear of the armed and aggressive airport police, who, besides repeating over and over the recorded warning not to leave your car at the curb for any reason for any length of time, also patrol the area intensively and look very mean while they do it. My husband travels frequently for work, and as we have


been married 11 years, I no longer drive him to or from the air- port or park at the airport for his sake. That’s a job for the nice yellow-taxi driverwho never sleeps and never needs to feed small children or apply deodorant. In our life before parenthood, my husband and I lived and


worked in the Dallas/FortWorth area and had many occasions to park, travel to and from, and retrieve visitors at theDFWInterna- tionalAirport. Like any airport, once you’ve made it in or out a half dozen times, you pretty much know your way around, no matter how convoluted the roads and terminalsmay be. Our relocation to the Lone Star State made us geographic


orphans, and we had no one to count on for a ride to the airport except a rattling old Honda.Wheneverwe traveled together, we’d park at an offsite lot for what seemed like $100 per day, take the shuttle to the terminal – a procedure that seemed to add three hours to our journey – and trace our steps upon return, which always seemed to occur during themiddle of the night. Oncewe’d lugged ourselves and our luggage through a semi-


dark 3-acre parking lot, we’d load up and pray the old Honda would start.Most of the time it didn’t. It ran great until we left it sitting for days and then tortured us by making an already long day even longer. These days, we have a few friends with whom


we can exchange favors like rides to the airport, if needed.We’ve come a long way. I actually haven’t flown anywhere for a couple of years now,


because the thought of paying for four tickets to anywhere is daunting. Flyingwith kids is not a vacation of any kind.But that’s OK, because I get airsick really easily and I get tired of visiting my in-laws. It’s a 17-hour drive to their house, and that’s not real- ly an option, so if I can’t afford to fly, well, then I just don’t have to go. I’mnot crying about it.You seemy point. I’ve driven into LAX about a hundred times now, so I know


where I’m going, despite my father’s doubts. I know where to park, where to pay, how to get out of the parking structure, and how to get back onto the freeway from the six-lane maze that weaves in and out of the airport. I took my nieces back for their return flight, and we made it


fromthe parking structure, by way of two elevators and a bridge, into the terminal, through security, and to their gate, where I had to wait until their plane lifted off and flew out of sight. We sat around the lobby for nearly two hours making small


talk about their visit. They conned me into buying them ice cream.We hugged and they boarded without a backward glance. And there I stood fightingmy tears,missing themalready and so anxious to get out of that airportwhere I could pretendwe hadn’t said goodbye.My car started just fine. Parking costme $7.


Melissa Bean Sterzick is PT’s amateur parker and proofreader. She can be reached at Melissa@parkingtoday.com.


PT


APRIL 2009 • PARKING TODAY • www.parkingtoday.com 47


Page 1  |  Page 2  |  Page 3  |  Page 4  |  Page 5  |  Page 6  |  Page 7  |  Page 8  |  Page 9  |  Page 10  |  Page 11  |  Page 12  |  Page 13  |  Page 14  |  Page 15  |  Page 16  |  Page 17  |  Page 18  |  Page 19  |  Page 20  |  Page 21  |  Page 22  |  Page 23  |  Page 24  |  Page 25  |  Page 26  |  Page 27  |  Page 28  |  Page 29  |  Page 30  |  Page 31  |  Page 32  |  Page 33  |  Page 34  |  Page 35  |  Page 36  |  Page 37  |  Page 38  |  Page 39  |  Page 40  |  Page 41  |  Page 42  |  Page 43  |  Page 44  |  Page 45  |  Page 46  |  Page 47  |  Page 48  |  Page 49  |  Page 50  |  Page 51  |  Page 52  |  Page 53  |  Page 54  |  Page 55  |  Page 56  |  Page 57  |  Page 58  |  Page 59  |  Page 60  |  Page 61  |  Page 62  |  Page 63  |  Page 64