Safety Matters with Airport Parking

I typically fly out of the small regional airport that is six miles from my house. Occasionally, flight times or fares make flying out of Boston Logan the better option, despite it being an hour’s drive away and having super expensive ($20/day!) parking.

There are a number of private lots around Logan that offer slightly cheaper rates, and I had used one before without issue, so I went that route again. This time, I found a lot through a company called Way.com that outsources parking to third-party business in areas around the country.

The website reviews were great, the lot had more than 500 parking spaces, and the best part was the valet aspect of the service:

“Our friendly employees help with your luggage and ensure that when you come back your vehicle is warm in winter (with snow removed), and cool in summer!”

I would be getting back at midnight when temperatures were forecast to be well below zero, so the idea of having my car warmed up and ready sealed the deal.

I was confused and a bit apprehensive when I arrived because the lot only fit maybe 20-30 cars. But there were other customers awaiting the shuttle with me, and I figured the staff probably moved the cars to a bigger lot for storage and back for pickup. No big deal. That’s what “valet” means, right?

Upon return, my flight got in at midnight as scheduled. I called the shuttle and the driver picked me up in a marked van within minutes. So far, so good. There were other customers in the van with me. I texted my friend to let her know I was safe.

Then, it got weird.

As we were heading to the lot, the driver asked for our claim check numbers so he could call to have the cars warmed up. Which is great, except he started calling in the numbers for four tickets while driving the van. I didn’t love that he was not focused on driving as he kept shuffling the tickets around and shouting numbers into his phone.  

Search results. 

Then, we arrived at a huge, dark parking lot. This was not the same lot where I left my car. I looked around inside the van for a sticker or notice with an address for our destination. There wasn’t one. One of the other guests and I exchanged nervous looks. It was midnight, it was dark, it was cold, and we had no idea where we were.

Cars for two of the other parties in the van were warmed up and ready for them. My car and that of my fellow shuttle passenger were not there. The driver got out of the van, yelling into his phone to someone about our missing cars, while my fellow passenger and I got more and more nervous.

Finally, the driver gets back in the van, and said he was going to drive us to our cars. Except, he didn’t actually know where our cars were. We drove around the lot, row by row, looking for our vehicles. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw mine. The driver hit the button on the key fob, my lights flashed, we knew we had the right car. I grabbed my suitcase, handed him a tip, and got in my car as quickly as I could.

I did opt to tip him because at that time, the reality of my situation hadn’t sunk in, plus, I didn’t know the operations and whose fault the mishap was. If it wasn’t the driver’s fault that my car wasn’t ready, I didn’t see why he should be penalized. After all, he did drive me to my car at midnight on a frigid

Actual photo of where I brought my car.

night, right?

As I scraped the windows and warmed up the car, I looked around. It was dark. It was cold. I still had no idea where I was. The driver had zoomed off with the other passenger to look for his car. I was alone.

How would I have called for help when I didn’t know my location? There was no where to walk to that I could see, and even if there were any businesses around, what would be open at that hour? If I needed to call Roadside Assistance for a jump start, or even the police, where would I tell them to go?

My car started, I scraped the windows, and drove the hour home. I was safe. I was sound. I chalked this up to life experience and vowed never to use that lot again.

It took about 24 hours to really sink in just how unacceptable this situation was.

How hard would it have been for the company to post a sticker in the van with the drop-off address? Or better yet, include that information on the contract at time of booking? And is it really not possible for them to have a better system for getting the cars warmed up and ready than having the driver shouting into his phone, reading off tickets while driving (which clearly doesn’t work, seeing as two of the four cars were not ready when we arrived)?

The contract included an email address to use to request redress in the form of a full or partial refund in the event of any issues, so I sent an email with the details and requested a refund.

The response:

We would like to express our empathy for the shuttle troubles and will forward your experience to our parking management team.

I wrote again, pointing out that I had requested a refund.

The response:

I do apologize, but because the reservation was used in full, we are unable to refund this reservation.

Because the reservation was used in full? They had to be kidding. This is a non-reason for refusing to address my concern. Of course my reservation was used in full! The issues were upon my return

So, I turned to Twitter.

I tweeted that I would like an actual response to my concerns, and that I was not okay with paying for being abandoned in a dark parking lot at midnight.

Within hours, the company messaged that they would have the customer service representative who had emailed me give me a call.

When she called, the situation got even weirder.

“First, I would like to start by telling you that that was not me who sent those emails,” she said.

“It was not you who sent emails from your account with your name on them?” I asked, bewildered.

The online reviews were great.

She explained that they were very busy, so to alleviate some of the workload, a colleague had sent the emails.

Opening by passing the buck is an interesting customer service strategy.

She asked me to recount my experience, and I did. She confirmed that she had called the valet lot, which was a third party vendor that her company contracted to provide the service, and they had corroborated my experience. The manager there said that they do not explicitly state that customers’ cars are moved to a different lot for storage, because the word “valet” in the title implies this.

I agreed with her on that, but pointed out that nowhere was it stated that I would personally be

returned to a different physical location.

I then explained my concern with being left in an unknown location, at night, in the dark, alone. She agreed that that was not a good experience, and offered to provide a refund for half of my fee. She then said that she could not refund the entire fee because “the third party vendor still has to get paid.”

Valet services were enticing.

In other words, she expected the customer to pay the vendor regardless of quality of service, so that her company would not be financially penalized by their bad business practices.

Granted, this customer service rep had established from the start of the phone call that her company had no intention of taking responsibility for their contract.

I persisted with my request for a refund. She again said that because the contract was fulfilled, the third party vendor still needed to get paid. I explained that the burden of paying them needed to be on her company, and not at the expense of my personal safety.

She finally agreed to refund the full amount, but not before saying that doing so would likely get her in trouble with her manager, because they were supposed to reserve full refunds for “really serious” situations, such as when a car is broken into, or – get this - when a customer was run over by a shuttle driver.

That’s right – they have a policy in place for awarding compensation to people who get run over by cars.

I was speechless. I am still speechless. I was further stunned when, after our conversation ended, the customer service rep emailed me to confirm the refund, and then said:

Also, a small request if not too much to ask. If you could remove your social media posting regarding your recent experience, this will help scale our team for future growth. Our team appreciates your feedback and will work diligently to make sure this doesn't happen in the future.

“This will help scale our team for future growth” ?!?

I do not understand a company that is more concerned with hiding its bad business decisions than it is to work to correct those bad decisions. There are so many ways this situation could have been handled better. It’s really not hard to treat people with basic respect and take responsibility when things don’t go as planned.  I, for one, will not use this company again. I have already found a reputable source for airport parking options that has been vetted by a colleague. I’m embarrassed that I put myself in this situation, but more than that, I am angry that this is a business that feels that my situation was relatively minor because, after all, it wasn’t like my car was damaged or I got hurt.

Christmas Really Is All Around

As I write this, I am standing in Boston Logan airport, grinning like a damn fool.

Preparing for this trip, I was … not nervous, exactly, but definitely apprehensive at booking a trip that involving flying in and out of Logan right at Christmas. I’ve gotten rather used to my small, regional airport in New Hampshire that is all of 6 miles from my house. Traveling from that airport involves all of half an hour to get from my front door to the gate. And that includes parking, walking to the terminal, and security screening.

I have traveled for Thanksgiving in and out of major airports before, and it wasn’t so bad, but Christmas can bring out the best in people, or it can bring out the worst. I wasn’t sure which to expect at Logan.

Despite the airport itself being huge and somewhat hard to navigate, it somehow didn’t seem crowded. My TSAPrecheck status helped me breeze through security, but even without it, the line at security wasn’t that long.  I did my usual routine – find my gate and then wander to find food and get some steps in. With 7 hours of sitting ahead trapped in a metal tube, I wanted to make sure I had both sustenance and exercise.

I stopped at a Hudson News shop to buy a postcard for my friend, L. She has been in the hospital for some time, and has some time of recuperating yet ahead, so I have been having fun finding new cards to send her in an effort to brighten her days. I found a Boston post card in the shop,  and then asked the newsagent if there is a post box within the terminal. I told her I had a stamp, and I was hoping to mail the card today. There is no post box within the terminal, she said, but she offered to mail the postcard for me from home, when she got off work.

Really? I asked.

Sure, she said. If it had been a letter with a sealed envelope, than she would not have offered. And she said she wouldn’t be able to do it until she got home, because she couldn’t leave her post.

Of course, I said. I understand completely.

I wrote out the card, stamped and addressed it, and handed it back to her, again with my thanks. She placed it in the clear plastic bag that she had to use as a purse (given her cash handling position), and again assured me that she would mail it tonight, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

I headed to my gate, and as I did, a TSA agent walked by wearing a Santa hat. I looked around. I started seeing Santa hats all around me. Passengers at my gate wore them, people walking by had them on. There were wrapped packages peeking out of some people’s carry on bags. I noticed more smiles than usual, and less stress. Even a call from the gate agent for volunteers to take an upgraded emergency exit row seat was met with courtesy and civility by all, as everyone queued up politely.  

The flight was overbooked by two, and how the flight attendant managed to find room for everyone, I have no idea, but he did it. Airline personnel there, and at my connecting airport, were friendly, and fellow travelers seemed relaxed. It was as if everyone was in a good mood. 

Sometimes, to find a little Christmas, one just has to look around. 

Which forest is new? You decide.

Every Fall, a local nonprofit called the Five Rivers Conservation Trust hosts a short hike in Concord, NH, to highlight the great trails and opportunities to get outdoors and enjoy some of the wonderful, free outdoor spaces we have right in our backyard.

The hike is free, though a $5 donation is gratefully accepted. Our friendly hosts hand out tart, crisp apples at the start (along with the okay to toss the biodegradable cores into the woods once we finish them), and lead us along a pre-chosen tour. About halfway through the hike, we meet up with an educational interpreter who shares some great information about the natural space surrounding us.

Last year, we met a fire fighter who talked about the effects, both good and bad, of forest fires. This year, we learned that age is relative, because what constitutes a "new" forest vs and "old" one is very different from what might be new or old in human years.

The weather mostly cooperated. It was a bit drizzly and cool, but still quite pleasant. I always enjoy getting out in the woods, and the guided hikes are a great way to get to know some local hiking trails as a novice. Hiking can be a great activity, but it's important to be prepared and know where you are going, as getting lost in the woods is no joke.

Our interpreter on the left, explaining the differences between a new forest and an old forest. 

New forest. (Note lack of abundant green)

Old forest. (note established greenery)

Enjoying the scenery!

Where I need to be

My recent trip to Italy was for two weeks, which was glorious. My friend C got to stay for a month. I was jealous. After I left, she spent her mornings happily wandering with her camera and then spent her afternoons and evenings at her computer, working East Coast hours. This made for somewhat upside-down days, but it got her a month in Florence, so who's complaining?

Leading up to the trip, I really thought that re-entry into my regular life would be hard. I had prepared myself for being a bit depressed, as my regular life involves a desk job, lots of meetings, being indoors all day, and then going home to a comfortable apartment yet one that is in an area where cars are a necessity for everything.

To my surprise and relief, that is not how I felt at all. In fact, coming back to work felt even better than before because no matter regular life threw my way, I had just spent two weeks in Italy.

Coming back to a crazy-busy inbox? I just spent two weeks in Italy, so I don't care.

Covering for a coworker while odd situations happen in his area? I got to go to Italy. Bring it on.

Having to drive to get to every single stinking thing I might want or need? At least I had two weeks of wandering in Italy.


Likewise, while I thought I would feel even more jealous of my friend who got to stay, I was happy that she was still there. I enjoyed living vicariously through her. I actually felt a bit more sad when she came back than when I did.

I mentioned this to my friend Tim, and mentioned how perplexed I was by this. "Well," he said

thoughtfully, "as long as she was still there, you were, too."

He was right. Every time C posted a new photo, I could think, I was there.

I understood the cultural references. I was happy she got to eat the food.

Pondering this, I decided to get outside this past weekend and enjoy some of the renowned New England Fall weather. I did have to drive to get to talk my walk, but I didn't go very far. There is a lake only about ten minutes' drive from where I live, and it's an easy spot to go when I have a hankering for the out of doors.

Just as I pulled in to a parking space, I was startled by a shadow overhead. I looked up. There was a bald eagle circling the sky right over my car. He came close. He was gorgeous.

I had never seen a bald eagle that closely before (in the wild). It was magnificent and startling at the same time. I jumped out of my car and grabbed my phone in the hopes of getting a picture. The bird did not disappoint. He spent several minutes swooping and soaring right over the shoreline of the lake. After probably five full minutes of staring at the sky, I looked around. The lake area was crowded with people, and we were all doing the same thing: watching this bird. It was as if time had stopped. We stood there, transfixed.

After the bird went on his way, I grabbed my water bottle and my apple, and set off on the trail. I was happy, even if I wasn't in Florence. There are many things about the European life that I much prefer to American life, but the eagle swooping down for a quick visit reminded me that, for now, I am exactly where I need to be.

Portland in the rain

I seem to only visit Portland, Maine when it’s raining. On my recent visit, it was flat-out pouring. My friend T and I persevered. No rain was stopping us. We spent two hours driving the route that normally took an hour and a half, overpaid for parking, and set out to get wet. 

With my new pirate friend.

We wandered in and out of cute boutiques. We walked down to the water and took a few pictures. We marveled at the historic feel of the town and our mutual love of all things nautical. We enjoyed art in several galleries, and ogled the handcrafted pieces of glass blown by artisans at Simon Pearce.

When it was time to warm up, we stepped into a distillery for a tasting. We enjoyed samples of rum, gin, and vermouth. My personal favorite was the gin that had a light blueberry finish. I enjoyed the rum so much that I bought a bottle, even though I generally don’t think much of rum one way or the other.

After leaving our purchases in the car, we wandered in search of lobster rolls but were distracted by Duckfat, a place with poutine on the menu. Poutine is just the thing when you’re wet and cold and dreary of body but not of mind. It was an hour wait. We didn’t care. We took the proffered pager, wandered into a nearby bakery that had racks and racks of pies along with signs that said, “Please do not touch the pies.” All day long, people walk in there and start rummaging amongst the pies. 

The poutine was as good as expected. Duckfat is tiny, and they

Outside of Duckfat

make a few things and make them well. I enjoyed my French fries cooked in duck fat and topped with cheese curds and a fried duck egg, washed down with lemon blueberry soda. Heaven. 

The drive home was worse than the drive there. The rain was a straight downpour at one point. We pulled off the highway and stopped at McDonald’s. I hadn’t eaten at a McDonald’s in years. I had my old favorite: a caramel sundae with nuts. That, plus the respite, plus the lovely day that was behind us and the lovely company in front of me made that sundae taste almost as good as the poutine.

Almost.

Eye to the Ground

Not too long ago, a friend came to visit. On her short list of requests of things to do once here was to go on a “hike.” Her quotes, not mine. What she really wanted was a walk in the woods, not an honest to goodness hike up the side of a mountain that requires hiking shoes and walking poles and a bladder full of water on your back. I knew the perfect place. There is a lake not too far from where I live that has terrific walking paths through the woods. One path in particular is a four mile loop, mostly flat, winding through the woods, with a terrific view of the water at the halfway point. We put on our hats and our bug spray, grabbed some water and snacks, and off we went.

It was a cheerful, uneventful hike. I say uneventful meaning simply that we enjoyed our walk and the weather and each other’s company and nothing untoward happened. No one fell in the lake. No one sprained an ankle. No one got sprayed by a skunk. It was a lovely afternoon in the woods.

When we were about a half mile from the car, we noticed a small group of people huddling over something along the side of the trail. It was a woman and two girls who, judging by their resemblance to the woman, their ages, and how they interacted with one another, I am guessing were her daughters. They were with a young man who we guess may have been the woman’s stepson or perhaps a family friend. He was too old to be her son and too young to be a significant other. But, whatever, the dynamic there is not what is important. What matters is that they were a friendly group who were more than happy to share the purpose of their outing: they were hunting mushrooms.

It turns out that the young man hunts for and collects mushrooms to use as art projects. He will split them in half, dry them on paper, and create art images with them. He also enjoys studying them and was a walking encyclopedia of all things mycology (that’s the study of mushrooms). 

He cheerfully showed us which one will make you vomit for days while you hallucinate at the same time. He showed us the one that smells like butter. He showed us purple mushrooms, red mushrooms, all sorts of funny shaped mushrooms. He suggested which ones you could eat in a pinch, and which ones you really should just leave alone.

After we parted ways, I kept an eye on the ground, a bit more attuned to what might be growing there than I have noticed in the past. Sure enough, little spots of bright purple, red, yellow were more common than I had noticed before. 

What a lovely afternoon to meet some kind strangers who have helped me to look at the woods with new eyes. Do I remember the names of the mushrooms and which one is which? I do not. But I have a general rule of not touching mushrooms when out and about, so I’ll be okay. The important thing is learning to look with new eyes for what has been there all along.

Providence

Yesterday, I drove an hour and a half to the Roger Williams Park Zoo, in Providence, RI. The zoo was terrific. It's a really nice facility with beautiful exhibits, friendly staff, and good signage (as a former visitors services professional at a zoo, I notice things like that).

After my wanderings at the zoo, I figured that since I was already there, I should check out downtown Providence, despite my tired legs. I drove to the center of town and found a pretty decent parking space in the arts district. Score! I thought.

Except, not so much.

I have to say, while I wasn't there long and while I am sure there are plenty of places in that town worth wandering, it didn't grab me.

At a glance, the downtown area looked really pretty, with lots of brick buildings and traditional New England architecture. But the more I walked through the arts district, the more I noticed that for every open shop, there were at least two empty storefronts. For every interesting art student who walked by carrying a portfolio, there were at least two random men sitting on the sidewalk, hollering across the street at any woman who walked by.

"Hey, pretty lady, I really like those shoes! Those sandals! You chose your shoes well!" And he just kept going, shouting to this woman as she just tried to walk down the street in peace.

One man actually walked up to me and snapped in my face to get my attention. "Miss. MISS. Can I ask you a question?" Ugh, no.

It got to the point where I realized I was walking around with a scowl on my face as a defensive mechanism. Don't look friendly and open because then you get harassed.

I found one cute shop, where going in to browse was like a reprieve. The owner was friendly and she and another customer and I chatted a bit about the art she was selling. I found a nice enough used bookstore, with "nice" referring to the selection though not the prices (which were often full price, seemingly in violation of the unspoken yet universally known Used Bookstore Code of Marking Down Prices), nor to the salesman who did not so much as look up once the entire time I was in the store, even when I stood at the counter right in front of him.

You have a lot to learn about being welcoming, Providence.