The Gallipoli landing

I went back to my car and discovered another parking ticket. This, while other cars are parked over kerbs, on footpaths, across railroad tracks, and in shopfront windows. I don't own a car for reasons such as this.  The train or the bus is mindless and stress-free. I’m going to make these tickets go away by ignoring them.

An old man past the age of retirement, who wrought what meaning he could from the remainder of his life by monitoring other people's parking, sat on a stoop in front of my ticketed car, waiting for me.  He told me in Italian that there’s no parking here.  “Si,” I drew out, mildly exasperated at the obviousness of the fact.  The parking is in the port, he said.  “Yes, I know, I know,” I said in English.  You have to move your car, he said.  “Look,” I said to non-understanding ears.  “I’ve been ticketed.  What do you want?  For the carabinieri to take me out and shoot me?”  You’ll get two tickets, he said.  I looked at him.  “Lei è polizia, si?  No!  So don’t bother me!”  I wasn’t at all in the mood.  Old prick.

Parking in Gallipoli is horrendous.  Parking in shop windows and up chimneys requires a resident’s pass, and though copious free parking is provided at the port outside the island of the old city, inserting an entire car into a spot there is performing delicate keyhole surgery with a battering ram.  Further out there are more car parks.  These are also packed.  You can find more full ones if you look, and if you keep going you can park in Lecce 20km away and walk back.