Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Where the heck is my........

One fine Sunday afternoon, I found myself at the Hartsfield Jackson International airport in Atlanta, giving a friend a lift. She'd spent the weekend in Atlanta, having flown here to celebrate her birthday with friends. As she hopped out of the car, I noticed something on the floor where she'd been sitting; some leather-backed cleaning pads I usually keep in the glove compartment.

Why would they be on the......never mind.

Hugs and kisses later, I'd said my goodbyes and departed the airport on my way home. Good and comfortable on the I-85, I remember taking a moment to put the cleaning pads away where they should have been in the first place. But in the few moments it took to open and close the glove box, something didn't look right.

Where the heck had my cheque book run off to (that would be checkbook you American readers)? Odd, my sunglasses were missing too....WTF?!  Mother of God, where's my GPS?!

At this point, I did a quick window check, none broken yet someone has obviously broken in. Come to think of it, the car was locked when I'd opened it that morning. Why exactly is shit missing from my................ooooooh, the mutha fuckin valets, gawd damn.

As it turned out, my friend had stayed at the W Hotel Downtown Atlanta during her weekend in Atlanta. Saturday evening, I'd parked the car over there, one of those asshole valets fleeced the car while it was parked (and had the nerve to charge me $10 plus tip for my trouble). There were no obvious signs of forced entry, no broken windows or anything of that nature and as had been my custom, I hadn't left anything visible in the vehicle or on the seats that would tempt someone to break in. These fools clearly had time to sit in the car at their leisure looking for shit to take, very neatly replacing the shit they didn't want.

As a trinidadian, I'd never quite warmed up to the concept of valet parking, I've always seen it as an unnecessary and annoying burden that we as trinbagonians don't have to deal with back home. What exactly is so wrong with my hands? What's the problem that prevents me from parking my own car? Learning to drive on Wrightson Road, Port of Spain was a harrowing enough experience that I think I've very fairly earned MY right to park MY own the right to not hand a total stranger the keys to my hard earned investment.

I like the concept even less when I'm given no choice but to use valet service; at the W, it was either valet parking or valet parking. The option to park your own vehicle simply wasn't available, you either use the valet or find somewhere to park down the street. Don't get me wrong, some people see this as a valuable service and I'm okay with that; I'm just not okay when I'm not given a choice in the matter.

When I pull up, point me in the direction of the nearest parking deck, I can drive. I did a pretty decent job getting the car this far buddy, I'm willing to bet that I know how to park. I don't need anyone else parking my chariot nor should I be forced to allow a total stranger to drive (and subsequently rifle through) my shit.

It's funny that with all the Bentleys, Aston Martins and Rolls Royce Phantoms parked outside the hotel, someone would pick the lowly '04 Honda Accord to steal from. Lesson learned, I'll be using the special valet key from now on whenever the car gets serviced or I'm forced to use the valet car park bandit services.

Anyways, rant dun, I out.


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