This place is just like the airport, except on a smaller scale. The amount of curb space and standing room would have been perfectly adequate back in 1950 when taking a bus was big deal and only the most upstanding citizens could afford a bus ticket. But should there be any real traffic like you might get in say, 2013, there isn't a fraction of what you need. We have room for grass and flowers and all kinds of other useless stuff, but room to wait for an arriving train? Go fly a kite.
I can understand parking enforcement when there is a big demand for parking, but Sunday afternoon down the street from Union Station is not one of those places. Around the corner is an entire block of empty parking spaces. I drive a pickup truck, and if parking was at a premium I wouldn't even bother trying to squeeze into some econo-car sized space, I would just drive around until the bus showed up. Giving the horrible traffic management system in downtown Portland I doubt whether I would have been able to drive around the block twice, even if the bus was an hour late. But it wasn't busy. The place was practically dead. I was able to pull into a spot because it was open on the end. You never find situations like that when it's busy.
I got angry, at least on the inside. Meter man could probably tell I was madder than a wet hen, but I didn't yell or cuss or make any other overt signs of pissed-offed-ness. I wished, nay, devoutly prayed that John Cleese would drop a sixteen ton weight on this turd of a person.
Alas, that did not happen. The worst part of all this is that this episode is now indelibly engraved in my memory and will continue to pop into my head at random times and make me angry all over again.