Why the greatest province in the world is not more populous then it is, has long been a mystery. After all, what could have possibly caused past immigrants – having just landed at Pier 21 – to have a good look at all our pewter and still decide to leg it to Manitoba? The answer, according to recently unearthed historical documents, was parking.

Take for example the story of Anton Huber who, in 1919, arrived on our shores from Germany with his lovely wife Birgit in tow. According to records, the Hubers popped down to the nearest Hertz horse rental, were given the keys to a lovely two door convertible carriage, paid the necessary insurance, recorded all the scratches and dents on the horses, then headed downtown for a spot to eat.

Recent archaeological excavation conducted under Barrington street unearthed the unfortunate couple. It appears that both of them, along with their horses, starved to death. Clutched in poor Anton’s hand was a small note, onto which his last words were scrawled : ”Ach, wäre es schön gewesen, wenn wir ein Plätzchen für unsere Kutsche gefunden hätten“, which roughly translates to ”No Parking. May these streets be cursed forever”

And they are, as I found out on a recent trip to our lovely downtown. The whole thing started quite innocently. Like the poor Hubers, she-who-never-looks-fat-in-anything and I decided that the best home-cooked meals are found elsewhere, and thus headed south with stomachs grumbling in C major.

Driving down Argyle Street on a nice summer evening is always a pleasant experience. Tourists in brown sandals and white socks mingle with the local intelligentsia, all two of them. Meanwhile, drunken sailors can be seen hitting on would be movie starlets , themselves busy trying to catch the eye of the 3nd Assistant Director, who in turn is boring an innocent extra to death with a frame by frame description of his award winning short film about Stalinist architecture in Zimbabwe. Add to this a few hundred drunk students doing their best to imitate a swarm of mating mosquitoes, and voila: you have Halifax nightlife in a nut shell .

Such was the scene that we encountered when we started our search for a parking spot. It was lovely, both of us agreed. Even as we drove by it a second time we still enjoyed it. By the third time we picked out hitherto unnoticed details, and by the fourth time we had started to give names to some of the regular attractions: “Hurling Heidi” - perched precariously on a bench in front of the Seahorse tavern - was our favourite.

Still, even the Mona Lisa can only be viewed so many times, before her gentle smile transforms into a sarcastic grin. Thus, by the time we started our 15th lap of the Tour de Downtown, our appreciation of the tableau in front of us was drowned out by the noise of our stomachs, who had decided to voice their discontent in fortissimo. Even the sight of “Hurling Heidi” attempting to French kiss a passing platoon of German cadets could not cheer us up . The scene had lost its charm. We simply had to find parking!

And then it happened: we found religion. Many conservative critics of contemporary society have bemoaned the fact that churches have seen a rapid decline in attendance over the last few decades. This, they argue, is the cause for all of our malaise, be it the increase in murders, thefts, swarmings or incidents of athletes foot. What they had not considered, however, is that this trend has one great advantage, namely a marked increase in empty parking spaces for the heathens.

Being a card carrying member of the godless hordes myself, I hesitated only slightly when She-who-is-often-spot-on pointed excitedly to some empty spaces belonging to St. Mary’s Basilica. Hunger clouded my judgement as I turned into the lot and sped frantically through the debarking faithful who were hurrying to mass. I might have hit one or two of them if it were not for the fact that Moses all of a sudden appeared and pointed politely but sternly towards an empty spot close to the main entrance.

Here, I must confess that my biblical knowledge is not up to snuff. It is, therefore, quite possible that the towering and bearded figure who suddenly appeared in front of my car was not the prophet of old, though I seem to remember that his breed usually lived to a very ripe old age. He might have been a cousin or something, for the family resemblance was unmistakeable. Still, whoever he was, he certainly knew his parking spots and with our stomachs now belching out something in C flat we hurriedly disembarked with the intention of heading towards the nearest eatery.

Moses , however, had other ideas. Maybe being a prophet or son thereof, he guessed our intentions, for, as if possessed by one of those very fast and Olympic trained holy spirits, he suddenly reappeared in front of us. Having successfully barred our escape, he firmly guided us towards the main entrance of the church. Resigned we entered.

It only took two hours for the two of us to be baptised, confirmed and re-married in the Catholic faith. Next week, I am scheduled to teach Sunday school while She-who-is-always-a-Saint seems to enjoy her stint as the new organist. While it is true that being religious brings with it certain inconveniences – Sunday mornings, for example, are completely shot – one is rewarded with two spots: one in heaven and another one conveniently close to the best restaurants in Halifax. If only the poor Hubers had known this. Still, that’s what you get for being Protestant , I guess.