Hollywood Elsewhere and the rumble hog rarely pay for underground parking. In the vast majority of cases there’s enough room to squirm past the plastic white barrier gate; ditto on the way out. This is one of the many delights of two-wheeled travel in this town.
Before last night’s Irishman premiere the three of us (Tatyana, myself and the Yamaha Majesty) managed to barely squeeze past the barrier going in, but upon leaving the space to the right of the gate looked too tight. (Or so it seemed at the moment.) So I maneuvered right behind a scruffy Toyota or Honda of some kind. The guy paid, the gate want up and I followed him right out — standard opportunistic procedure in parking lots across the globe, I presume.
There was a security guy (white shirt, black tie, badge) who was standing around. As Tatyana and I sped off, I could hear the security guy express alarm (“heeeeyyyy!”) but even with my helmet on and the engine roaring I could sense he wasn’t that into it. Maybe he was amused. He gets paid either way.