It’s time for me to go out and see some of this place. It’s gorgeous, a winter fantasy. I’m bundled up, hiding under two jackets, three shirts, two pairs of socks, and a leather boot, but none of that is enough. I need some food, fast.

This is Market on Front Street, a cafe/organic grocery/performance venue/reprieve from the cold. I get a cup of Americano and a Hot Hippie. Good food, good drink, good music, and good people. I’ve encountered 15 or so people since I’ve been here, and everyone, everyone has been so nice. It’s a different kind of nice. Like, that’s just how the people are; it’s not a face to put on when one goes out to deal with the world; that’s just how they are.

I ate too much. I have to head back to the hostel and get ready. I’m meeting up with an old friend tonight.

I’m back at the hostel. This is my last night here. I’m going to miss it. But, I’ll be back again, I know it.

I’m ready for my friend. She’s going to take me to ALL the bars in Missoula, which is a dangerous proposition. But, I play along.

She drives a van now. We go to Stockman’s. Everyone knows her, and she knows everyone. This is her favorite place, and it shows. I’m treated to this concoction, which is vodka mixed with basil and lots of sugar. This is just our first drink. Before I know it, we are at our fifth bar, on our seventh and/or ninth drink, catching up. She’s doing well now, with some boy troubles. I meet Dan, who drove eight hours to come to party in Missoula. Dan is 68, and his wife is back home, so he’s having fun.

I think it’s time to go back. She drives me back, and I run into Dennis, as we both stumble into our quaint temporary home together, both out of our minds, but never out of wit. We drunkenly, over some grilled cheese, decide to drive to Jackson Hole, WY at 6 AM. It’s 3 right now.