PapaWasabi

We live in a bad part of the city for parking. And since any part of the city is bad for parking, that makes my neighborhood real bad. We have a small beach and a small fishing/yacht port on one side, no parking at all there. There's a forested hill park to the other side, no parking there. If my house were in the center of a pie graph, the actually slice of the pie with residences and, more importantly, parking spaces, would be about 25%. And those spaces, being rare, are as expensive as spaces in the busiest commercial districts in town.

What to do? Luckily, after some inquiries, I discovered that the elevated expressway that runs along the beach (the bureaucrats must have thought that beach was in need of a little concrete facelift), had cheap parking in the space under the road. Not a cheery location to be sure. There's no view of the beach, as it's blocked by a walkway on the seaward side. It's desolate, dark, and musty, with pigeons roosting under the roadway and depositing their crap on the car every few days. All accompanied by the sound of urban expressway traffic overhead. But cheap. My wife is afraid to go there at night alone, and fair enough - it's that sort of place. So I make the trek across the road and under the expressway to get the car each day.

What has this got to do with food, you say? Nothing. I haven't felt like eating much this past week, let alone writing about eating. It has to do with sex, the thing I said I wouldn't write about way back in...er....in my last post. Nature and bloggers abhor a vacuum...

So, as I said, sex. And plenty of it. None of it mine. Most of it in the desolate wasteland under the elevated roadway. If there's one thing that can make you pine for the days before getting married....on second thought, scratch that. Any number of things can make me pine for those days. I might see a dead squirrel on the road, and it would remind me of the last dead squirrel I saw, before we jumped out of the car like mad rabbits and indulged in epic debauchery just behind a "Welcome to Des Moines" roadsign. Let's just say that one of the MANY things that can make one pine for bachelorhood is seeing a happy young couple having sex in their car. (Even an old couple is OK. I once saw a middle aged tryst being consumed on the street on top of a pile of garbage, in the clear non-burnable garbage bags that the city government requires. It was disgusting, pathetic and wonderful, all at the same time. The only thing that could have improved on the spectacle was if one of their spouses had stumbled across them while emptying the last of the trash.)

Despite the ascent into a leading economy, Japanese houses haven't gotten much less crowded as a result. Now, with everyone looking to save a bit of money, the lustre is off of love hotels as well.

Besides, during peak hours it can be daunting to even find an available room in a love hotel district. All those expensive cocktails you bought your date, so she could squeal: "Ah, look. He's got a grapefruit tree behind the bar, and he's freshly picking and squeezing each fruit as we order! And did you see the women's toilet? Each stall has a Japanese garden and a hot spring." (All of which leaves just enough space in the men's room to combine the urinal and the sink into one multi-purpose unit where you can wash your hands and piss at the same time. But guys don't go there for the toilet. They go there to make their date want to have sex with them).

All of that goes to waste when you have to spend two hours trying to maintain the mood while trudging from hotel to hotel only to find no vacancy signs. The alcohol wears off, her feet start to hurt, she gets sleepy, tired and cranky, and even starts to forget about Alhambra-in-the-toilet-stall and the freshly squeezed Salty Dog.

Why risk it when you have an available bit of privacy under the highway? You will have all the privacy you need. Hardly anybody wanders down there at night. Except, occasionally, me.

Which brings me back to my problem. When I wander into the most desolate and decrepit urban wasteland in the city and find it teeming with steamy sexual encounters, I feel a bit left out. I am married, and I am faithful. I could almost forget what it was like to be otherwise if I didn't have to park my car every night and navigate my way home through feet pressed against steamed windows , bouncing cars, and the occasional stunningly beautiful young woman looking up from between those feet to give me a guilty smile as I walk past. (All unavailable women in steamy cars are stunning). What is she doing down there? I know, but I still wonder. Usually they are nice enough to slow the full-on action until I am well passed. I still can't help looking back when I am far enough away, sad bastard that I am. I come home, and am the proud father once again. But a part of me is still back there wishing it were my feet against the window.

And so, we need to move to a place with more parking. With lights and no privacy.