Plain Escape

It used to be I could walk downtown to City Hall, fill out a form, and receive a parking permit to stick on my windshield — allowing me to park anywhere in town and ignore those pesky parking kiosks.

But then about a month ago, I received a text from City Hall telling me to renew my permit with their new quick & easy phone app.

So I spent the next few minutes squinting at my phone, fighting auto correct, and entering the info for my annual parking permit.

Next, I was instructed to upload various forms of identification onto my phone, which (predictably) refused to be uploaded. I groaned and gave up.

A couple weeks later, I noticed last year’s parking sticker had officially expired, so I took my various forms of identification to City Hall to apply in person.

“May I help you?” asked the friendly lady at the information desk in the foyer.

“I just need to see the clerk about my parking permit.”

“Not the clerk’s office,” she said. “Third door on the right.”

I was confused. It was always the clerk’s office.

As soon as I opened the third door on the right, I saw that I was the youngest person in a room full of “mature” adults clutching papers in their mottled hands… with the exception of a few cheerful teenagers sitting at a long table.

Apparently, all of us (including dozens of others every day for the past two weeks) had failed to install the new parking permit app, and the teenagers had been employed to help us.

“Do you have email, sir?” I heard one of them yell at an elderly man, who had a small stack of manila folders in his lap.

“Yes,” he replied. “My daughter made an email for me. But I don’t use it.”

Sigh.

I don’t know about you, but these scenarios are becoming more and more common in my life…

While I love bits & pieces of our digital world – like keeping in touch with old friends on social media and facetiming with my adult children – for the most part, I feel overwhelmed.

Just last month, I attempted to buy an annual pass at a State Park at (you guessed it) the automatic kiosk. Of course, I forgot my reading glasses and bought the wrong kind of pass. And when I finally did select the correct buttons, the machine froze and refused to complete the transaction. I walked over to the office to get help.

The person in charge was unable to reboot the machine, so he told me to either call the state headquarters to report the problem or bring my credit card statement to his office as proof of purchase.

A few weeks later, I tucked the bill (showing the charge) into my purse and headed for the park. However, a sign was posted on the front door saying the office was temporarily closed (for grounds maintenance) for who knew how long.

Days later, I made another special trip, only to find the same sign.

So I called the office to make an appointment, which was now several weeks after the great kiosk freeze.

When I finally sat down face-to-face with the same person in charge, he looked at my bill and changed his mind.

“You need to file for a credit with the headquarters in Boston and reapply all over again.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t help you here,” he said and handed my credit card statement back to me. “Not without your voucher from the kiosk.”

I started to grind my teeth.

“But you told me I could come back here with proof of payment on my statement to get my pass.”

“I know,” he agreed, “but now I think it would be a lot ‘cleaner’ if you put in for a refund and start the process all over again. Just call this number right here and…”

I stared into his eyes.

“No,” I said, surprising us both. “You call the number. I’ve spent so much time on this, I refuse to waste one more minute.”

“Well,” he hemmed and hawed, “I doubt I’ll be able to get through. The line is always busy.”

“Then how do you expect me to get through?”

He called the number and, miraculously, got through immediately.

After listening to him explain the situation to the woman at the state headquarters, I heard her voice through the phone.

“Just give her the pass.”

I don’t know what my point is exactly, except that these soul-sucking situations seem be happening with increasing frequency. And I know they will only get worse as I grow older.

For me, the cacophony of our digitized world has grown exponentially with each new app and kiosk in my life. Every time I encounter a television set with four remotes or attempt the required self check-in at the airport or navigate purchases online or update this website, pangs of frustration return. And I find myself craving quiet and simplicity more and more.

So it occurred to me, Amish communities should consider opening a branch for those of us looking to escape this new reality. I’d be happy to pitch in and gather eggs and till the soil… just as long as I’m allowed to keep in touch with old friends online and facetime with my kids.