A funny thing happened to me in the parking garage today

WARNING: The following events are true, but the names have been changes to protect the innocent, and the ignorant.

I was stuck in the parking garage near the Convention Center today for a needlessly long time. I had to show up for an interview at for the Summer Art Institute. I came out holding my portfolio, and there is this guy sitting on the hood of a car. Usually, this sort of thing wouldn't bother me, but, motherfucker, it was MY car. No one sit on MY car. So I said at this guy, "Get off of Jackson!"

You see, my car's name is Jackson. He's a black car. Trust me, if you've seen him, you understand.

This guy just gives me this look like I've gone crazy. I talked at him some more, and eventually he answered, but he answered in Italian. Now, I don't speak Italian, and this guy did not speak English, yet somehow he became convinced he could make me understand him by talking at me louder.

People in the states do the same thing. At my last job, we had a bunch of FOBs show up, and they would ask a question in their native tongue, and one of us would try to answer in English. Seeing as the employees didn't understand what was being asked of them, I don't understand how, but that is life. Of course these people don't understand English, so my fellow employees would simply talk louder, as if shouting would miraculously make them understand the answer. It didn't.

Right, so we sat there for about twenty minutes talking at each other loudly, and some office workers came by, saw what was going on, and thought we were fighting, so they called up some of the security people. I tried talking at him in German, but he didn't understand that either. It was worth a shot.

When the security people got there, I explained this guy was sitting on my car, and wasn't getting off because he didn't understand English. I guess the security guys thought they could help make him understand English, so they tried talking at him. His understanding of English had not improved in the last five minutes, so it did not work.

Finally, one of the guys who owned the parking garage showed up. By then the Italian guy and I were surrounded by three burly security men, a group of bystanders, and one police officer who had been patrolling down town, and was called on scene by some of the security guys. Mr. Parking Garage Man pushed his way through the crowd, and wanted to know why we were harassing his nephew. I explained the situation, the guy just told his nephew to get up in Italian, and everyone else was just really let down by the situation.

The security people were upset because there was nothing to secure, the police officer was upset because there was no one to arrest, the bystanders were upset because nothing really interesting had happened, the parking garage guy was upset because he had been looking for his nephew the entire time, the nephew was upset because all he had wanted to know (as Mr. Parking Garage Man translated for me) was my name and if I'd like to get some coffee, and then he ended up getting harassed by 30-some odd Americans, and I was upset because there was now an ass print on my car.

What's a trip to Washington, D.C., without encountering a mysterious figure in an underground parking garage?

It's worth mentioning that centrally-located hotels in Washington often lack parking, so one needs to make arrangements with a local lot. Cheap prices can be had, provided one books well in advance, and for the duration. Booking upon arrival? You might need to take out a mortgage.

We booked in advance.

We arrived to street chaos. Washington's Chinatown at night plays like a scene from William Gibson: red lights and scooters and contemporary street-level framed by the ornate Friendship Archway, designed by Alfred H. Liu to reflect the styles of the Ming and Qing Dynasties. Crowds of trendy people with electronic devices milled about. Don Omar was playing the nearby Capital One Arena. Nicki Minaj was scheduled for the next night, and a questionable rumour claimed she was somewhere in the area.

I had to wind down the underground parking garage to a lower level before joining my wife at the hotel. I moved the car later to a spot near the exit, alongside some cycle rickshaws. It turns out someone guarded these at night, so I suppose he looked out for our car as well.

We finally got to meet Ernest Champagne, an affable man with a troubled past who has made his home in a place underground. One of the rickshaws belongs to him. He rode it to the U.S. capital and earns his living ferrying tourists about. He has found access to facilities, so that he can shower at the end of every day. I do not know if he pays for his spot in the lot. The staff at the hotel identified for us a pedestrian shortcut into the parking garage. A car couldn't get through it, but a rickshaw could.

He projects a positive attitude. He makes enough that, every once in a while, he can spend a night in a hotel. But he has no idea what winter will be like.

At least two others park their 'shaws with his, and Ernest provides a kind of security as he sleeps beneath the street, about a twenty minute walk from the White House.

That wasn't the start of our road trip, of course, nor the only interesting person that we met along the way.

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