The final NOLA parking story by Pat

We planned an early departure for Tuesday morning. I have to drive 550 miles to San Antonio today and I wonder why I scheduled three nights in New Orleans followed by a 550 mile drive. I step out into the noxious New Orleans morning miasma and begin the familiar trek to the lot. Let's just say that at 7:30 am, NOLA is not as pretty as the city I went to sleep with. Without the neon and the music and the revelery, she looks pretty tattered. To be fair, she would be entitled to say the same about me. I have been eating crawfish, oysters, crab, and shrimp in any and all forms for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for three days straight. When I overdo the shellfish, my face gets purple and a little swollen. So maybe NOLA thinks the radish head isnt so pretty his own self. We can both be adults about it.

I have been trying to figure out what the final play will be at the parking lot. Maybe the Owner, Mr. Big, will be there with two corrupt New Orleans policemen. They will have booted my car and will demand $60 per day for three days, plus $5 for a half day, plus $3,000 in late fees, less payments already rendered. I have in my wallet all of the cardboard receipts they have given me with meaningless numbers stamped on them. They don't have any evidenciary value, but I plan to wave them around as I make my arguments.

I walk up Conti, past Burgundy (pronounced BurGUNdy in the Quarter, not BURgundy as in the wine. It is the unwritten border line past which tourists should not go). I get to Rampart and enter the lot. Not suprisingly, the van is sporting a brand new yellow penalty card. I look towards the far end of the lot where the attendant booth is, and there is a man closely resembling John Lee Hooker dressed in black, with a broad-brimmed bluesman's hat sitting on a cafeteria chair in the middle of the drive aisle. How many different damn people can possibly work for this outfit? I know John Lee is dead so maybe this is Mr. Big, showing up for his big payday from the Yankee with the fancy van.

But as I get closer, I see that the attendant booth is occupied by none other than the black lady from yesterday. The man is just hanging out, staring at a mostly empty 40 car parking lot in the hot New Orleans sun. If all these vice- loving New Orleans natives get sent to hell, they are going to love the weather there.

By my count, based on most recent pricing, I owe the lady $15- $5 for the second half of yesterday, $5 penalty for not showing up yesterday afternoon to render said $5, and $5 for the current half day which began at 4:30 am. But who knows what Ouija Board schedule will be used to calculate my final bill.

I greet her and she does not seem to recognize me right away, perhaps because of my purple head. But I tell her I have to pay her for the van and she remembers. "You leavin' today?" I tell her yes, unfortunately, although I would like to spend the rest of my life walking back and forth to this lot, duty calls. She says "Five dollars." I hand her a twenty waiting to see what other miscellaneous deductions will be subtracted from the Jackson. But there are none. She hands me back $15 and wishes me a safe trip. I give her a $5 tip and jog toward the van before anyone does any more math here.

The drive to San Antonio was long. I thought well, all I have to do is drive the same 400 miles it took me to get here from Memphis, and then add on a drive to Ocean City. But that made it seem longer. There were strong crosswinds so it was two handed driving most of the day. We refueled in Baton Rouge and it was so hot you could hardly breathe. It was 102 degrees by the time we got to Houston. We refueled again in Sealy, Texas. It was still 102 but there was a strong breeze and it was actually pleasant. When we finally pulled into San Antonio it was 103 at 6 pm but again comfortable with the low humidity and the breeze. I pulled into the porte cochere and we began the check in process. There was no bellman so the boys started with the bags while I looked for the valet for the van. Finally I went into the front desk and inquired about a valet for an oversize. "We don't valet oversize" said the front desk manager. I began to object but he pointed to a large sign that said something like "WE DO NOT VALET OVERSIZE VANS FOR ANY REASON WHATSOEVER, EVEN IF IT COSTS US YOUR BUSINESS". That kind of took away my next argument. But the front desk manager smiled and said "Don't worry! I can direct you to a surface lot that is only a few blocks away. I am sure they can help you!"