Can women parallel park?

Cape Town has the mountain. But Joburg has parking.

Ja, ja, scenic splendour and all that, but do not underestimate the significance of the fact that living in Joburg generally does not require the ability to parallel park. Sure, there are suburbs like Greenside and Parkhurst (why is there never parking in Parkhurst?) where parallel parking is an inescapable fact of life. But mostly it’s a case of reassuringly vast swathes of tar and concrete, which must surely be among Joburg’s most appealing features, along with the jacarandas and the summer storms.

Most of the women I know aren’t fans of parallel parking and haven’t attempted it since they passed K-53. Apparently there’s a whole body of research which indicates that women are more verbal but don’t score as well on spatial perception, which means that we talk a lot about how we can’t park. Parallel parking is one of those essential tests of manliness, like running with tractor tyres or clipping your toenails in bed.

So it always amazes me when women parallel park in front of an audience, which is what happened the other night when a Clio squeezed in front of a black X5 with personalised plates in front of George’s on 4th. Earlier a Jeep Patriot had abandoned the attempt, but this was a car designed to be parked on the pavements of Paris. Even so, my male dinner companion wondered aloud whether he should help, before deciding that the offer would only embarrass the driver.

She was brave. I’ve been known to walk for miles in heels just to avoid having to park in front of people. I’m even too embarrassed to park in front of car guards. (I wish I could park like this.)

You can imagine my consternation this past weekend when I was forced, not only to parallel park between a Mazda bakkie and a Peugeot, but to do it in a vehicle the size of the Gobi Desert compared to my sensible Korean hatchback. I was in the Joburg CBD to attend TedxJohannesburg at Arts on Main and this was the only parking space available. Arts on Main is even cooler and more south of the shooter curtain than Stanley Avenue, which is why the coffee shop here is entirely justified in charging R14 for a Coke. Where else can you see hipster Goths riding bicycles? (It’s possible, though, that Main Street Life may have been superseded by 70 Juta, which is so impossibly trendy that I have not attempted to see it for myself on the grounds that the cool police would probably not let me near the place).

I’d been driving the Freelander for less than three days when the car guard whistled me into that terrifyingly small space on Fox Street, so it really was a baptism of fire. Nonetheless, I surprised myself by not making a monumental stuff-up of the manoeuvre. It wasn’t perfect by any means — I should have reversed in deeper to begin with — but it was good enough. Who needs park distance control when you can employ the services of a Congolese economic refugee instead?

Funnily enough, I found it easier to park the Land Rover than my Hyundai i20, so perhaps that’s why suburban moms love SUVs so much. My theory is that because there’s so much less room to get it wrong, it’s easier to aim straight. Now that I have proven myself capable of parallel parking the Freelander, I intend never to do it again. Instead, I do something that women can manage every bit as well as men if they put their minds to it: mount the pavement like all the other 4x4s and feel superior to the schmucks with their normal ground clearance — just like a real Joburger.