One night at a time in New Orleans

All I can remember about the night I'm about to recall is that I found my truck parked legally in front of the police station three days after I thought, or more specifically, I knew, it had been stolen. I remember the evening and drinking at a bar and I can remember riding my bike around the quarter for hours on end searching my lost truck, but I cannot recall where I drank that night. Seven hours are missing from my life and I don't think I regret blacking out. How can I ever know?

For three days I dedicated a couple of hours before my 8pm to 6am shift at Molly's to tooling around the French Quarter looking for a sign of my 1979 Izuzu Pup. I had convinced myself that it was not going to be where I parked it because it had surely been stolen, but I dedicated myself more specifically to finding the place where I had parked it, and not actually finding the truck itself.

The keys were in the ingnition and it was parked in the French Quarter. In New Orleans that means it has been stolen.

That evening I went drinking with a beautiful English girl whose name I cannot remember and her boyfriend or her husband, something like that. They were friends of my roommates whose name I chose not to remember in fear of waking the dead. (Something I should surely get into one of these posts.)

The art gallery where my roommate and the gorgeous English girl worked was having an open house and there was free wine and beer. The exhibit had something to do with birds and I love birds so I drank a shit load of free wine. Then we left.

I remember driving to the Quarter with people in the truck.

I remember parking.

I remember drinking.

I remember taking the street car home.

I remember racking my brain trying to remember where my truck had been parked.

I remember how lovely the city and weather were when I would search for my vehicle and laugh, "How the fuck did this happen?" Then I would lay by the river and watch the ships pass by, sleep and eat before work and wonder what my truck was up to.

I found her on the third day, parked in front of the frist bar I had visited which happened to be across from the police station. Being parked in front of the police station doesn't mean you won't get your car stolen in New Orleans, but it must have seemed obvious...