Under a parking garage on 8th Street at Filbert, there is a storefront with big glass windows and the Philadelphia Parking Authority logo all over it. I have passed it by many times, usually walking quickly because there’s nothing much else to look at – the entrance to a parking garage, I think, a fast food place maybe, and a manicure shop. Yesterday, though, the PPA office was my actual destination.

There were signs all over the windows, and, as usual, the double door was a Norman Door. That is, one door was locked (the one with the “pull” sign and the good handle) and the other door had a sign saying, “Use this door.” As I walked up the street, I saw a woman pulling repeatedly on the locked door, of course.

When I got there, a man sitting at a desk uncomfortably close to the front said quickly, “Welcome! What are you here for?”

“I live near Lemon Hill and I need guest passes,” I said just as fast, and Cerberus let me pass.

He stopped the person right behind me when they answered the same question wrongly. “Parking tickets are down the block on the other side,” he said to that person. “Be careful of traffic.”

I took my place behind nine other people. There were five windows, with people at four of them, and I had plenty of time. The woman in front of me was there for the same reason I was, and we chatted politely.

“Down the block on the other side. Be careful of traffic,” repeated the door guard cheerfully ten times more, alternating it with “What are you here for?” Once, a woman who had come in launched into a long explanation about all the things her son had asked her to do, including a question about what documentation her son needed, and they chatted for some time until the woman left. More people wriggled past her as they spoke. I hope they were in the right line. They would know soon enough.

The rest of us were in the right place. We were there for two possible reasons. First, to obtain the standard residential parking permits you have to have if you want to park in your own neighborhood on a street where the residents had organized to get “permit parking only” for anyone who wants to leave their car there. I had one of those for a couple of decades, and they are very handy for the bewildering task of trying to find a legal parking spot in Philadelphia, because it means you can leave your vehicle in a spot in your neighborhood for more than two hours. I sometimes didn’t move my car for weeks.

I was there for the second reason today, and so were half of the other people in line. I finally got to the window. The young man said, “How can I help you?” with infinite patience.

“I live near Lemon Hill. I don’t have a car, but I need guest passes,” I said and handed him my driver’s license. He left to go to a computer in the back of the office, and after a couple of minutes he came back with two hang tags and a printout. I left, thanking the door guard, who looked bewildered when I did it.

My immediate neighborhood is going to be under a Parking Authority version of martial law until mid-July, you see. There will be enforcement agents patrolling everywhere, and tow trucks cruising around, because Philadelphia decided to put a “FIFA Fan Fest” on the stretch of park around the corner from my house and they don’t want visitors parking in our already strangled, narrow streets. If you don’t have a special permit you will get towed. The permits are free to residents, but poorly advertised and hard to obtain.

This would not be a problem for me, because I sold my car a couple years ago, but I’m going to the Jersey Shore in early June and I have a cat-sitter coming twice a day. She won’t be able to find a parking space, and will probably have to park at a corner or by a hydrant like everyone else around here, but at least she won’t be towed immediately.

I had already applied for guest passes two weeks before, but I never got a confirmation, and I suspected my application had disappeared into the chaotic miasma that is city services. Instead of complaining about it, I just went to the office and waited in line, because I have lived here off and on for many, many years. One learns. Talking to an actual human being in Philadelphia is often necessary, frequently repeatedly, if you want to obey the law, because confusion is inevitable.

That’s the key word: inevitable. People complain all the time that human beings don’t follow directions, but that’s because the directions are confusing. They are not obvious. You need nice sentinels at the door, and patient people behind windows to help people navigate bureaucracy, no matter how many leaflets you hand out on the street, how many websites you put up, and how many signs you have in your window and taped to your door.

My adult kid informs me PPA has a table at the weekly farmer’s market near me for anyone who can’t make it to 8th & Filbert, too. But boy, am I glad that neither one of us has a car. My next door neighbor, who hasn’t lived in Philly very long, already had his car “courtesy towed” from the street where the Fan Fest is being set up, even though I sent him all the information. He’ll learn.