My car got stolen from the French Quarter this past weekend. Every time I penetrate yet another aspect of New Orleans bueracracy I learn something new. Every time something unexpected happens (a person who fancies herself unafraid of honest dialogue runs from it; a bird appears outside the window carrying tinsel; my friends down the street get their car shot up by a gang of roaming teenagers) I learn something new.
The police station in the Quarter is really creepy. I have dear friends who love me unconditionally. Public transportation here is in a horrible state. And though I didn't need my car stolen to make me aware of this: I really really loved my little Mazda 323. And my Saints fleur de lis that Drew Brees handed me from the Saints Mardi Gras float hanging from my rearview mirror. And the cow bone in the back seat. And the stuffed bunny in the glove box. One thing I know is this kind of shit happens to everyone, everywhere: I'm not special. And that, my friends, is the secret to not acting like a baby, carrying pain and misery around for your whole life.
