I used to live in an apartment in San Diego near Mission Bay, where the jet boat races used to be held. The area was always lively, but during events like the races, it became pure chaos. Parking was already bad, but on the 4th of July weekend, it was an absolute nightmare.
That weekend, I flew in on a red-eye flight, landing just in time for the festivities. Tired and ready to crash, I pulled into the alley leading to my assigned parking space, only to find a family spilling out of an overloaded minivan parked right in my spot. They had everything—boogie boards, wagons, coolers, beach chairs, floaties, and several kids.
I got out of my car and politely walked over to the man I assumed was the dad. I kindly informed him that he was parked in my assigned space and needed to move. That’s when things escalated.
At the top of his lungs, he yelled, “I WAS HERE FIRST! THIS IS MYYYY PARKING SPACE! NOT YOURS!” His wife waddled over and huffed, saying they’d been searching for parking for nearly an hour and I had no right to kick them out. I explained that it was assigned parking, but they didn’t believe me—despite the bold red notice painted on the pavement, clearly stating it was for Unit #19.
I calmly repeated myself, telling them they were mistaken and needed to move so I could park, shower, and finally get some sleep after my red-eye flight. They refused. Eventually, they picked up their beach gear and stomped off, but not before the dad flipped me the bird.
As they disappeared down the alley, I told them, “You’re going to get towed,” but they didn’t listen. Sure enough, their van was gone when they returned that evening.
From my balcony, I had a perfect view of my parking space, now happily occupied by my car. The minivan, however, was off enjoying a well-deserved break at the impound lot. Knowing the family would come back soon, I decided to stay vigilant—this wasn’t my first run-in with entitled tourists.
Around 7 PM, the family returned. Dad was drunk and sunburned, while Mom looked equally sunburned but less intoxicated. Thankfully, the kids weren’t with them. When the dad saw that his van was gone, he absolutely lost it. My girlfriend Michelle, who was a law student at the time, started recording on her new smartphone.
I shouted down, “I told you I’d tow you!”
The dad, now seething, flipped me the bird again and started kicking my car—a beat-up Saturn I used as a placeholder to protect my nicer car, which was safely parked in the garage. The Saturn was an absolute junker I bought for $1,000 to use for airport parking and blocking my garage. It was covered in bird droppings and jet exhaust most of the time, so I never bothered with maintenance or cleaning.
The dad kept kicking the car until the cops showed up, which didn’t take long since the Pacific Beach area is crawling with police. He and his wife were arrested for making threats, criminal damage, and trespassing.
The Happy Ending:
Thanks to my girlfriend’s video evidence and her budding legal skills, we managed to get them to pay for the damages. The court also required the dad to drive back and forth between Phoenix and San Diego multiple times for his court appearances.
The best part? The Saturn got a new paint job from the court settlement, making it too nice to leave at the airport anymore. I changed the oil for the first time ever, sold it for $2,000, and bought another junker to use as my new spaceholder.
Moral of the story: Don’t park in someone else’s driveway—or their assigned parking space.