It wasn’t the worst example of me leaving behind something important in a cab. But it is in the discussion.

A few months ago, I left my wallet in the cab driven by our regular guy, Leonard. That made for a few minutes of panic before we got him on the phone and he said, yes, he could see it on the back seat, and he drove right back to the newspaper office. My wallet and I, separated for about 10 minutes.

Back in 2002, at the World Cup in Seoul, I got out of a cab at the hotel/massage parlor/cat house where I was staying … and left behind my laptop. It was huge and weighed about 15 pounds, and how I could have not taken that as I got out of the vehicle, I have no idea … But in that case I knew immediately I wasn’t holding enough junk, and I waved at the cabbie, to no effect. For the final few days I had in Korea, I borrowed the machine of a colleague. A reporter without a machine … a pitiful and desperate thing.

(I filled out a lost-item report, and three months later the machine showed up at my home in SoCal. Those efficient Koreans and their honest cabbies.)

This time? On Monday I left behind, again in Leonard’s cab, my one semi-heavy coat. Which is a problem when your destination is Tashkent and it’s still winter. In this case, I didn’t even notice I was missing the coat until after I had finished renting a car at the Abu Dhabi airport terminal.

So, what to do?

I don’t have Leonard’s phone. Leah does. I called home … and she was still snoozing and didn’t answer. It was 8:30. Every minute that passed, Leonard was closer to being back in Abu Dhabi, and I was had lost another minute to renting a car and getting up to Dubai, in the other direction.

I didn’t have time to go back to Abu Dhabi. Leonard couldn’t reach me, and vice versa.

I decided to go without the coat.

So, the moment the Uzbekistan Airways attendants opened the rear door of the Airbus 320, and the cold air of Tashkent blew in … I knew this was going to be a problem.

I went without a coat that night, and on Tuesday, but it was quite cold last night and I was walking around in a T-shirt, sweater and ball cap, and I knew that sitting in the open-air “press tribune” for three hours tonight … I would be frozen.

So, today, I decided to buy a coat locally.

I had not seen any clothing stores near the hotel. I asked at reception, and the woman recommended the Parkentskiy Bazaar, only 10 or 15 minutes away.

I had her write out the name in Russian and Uzbek, on a card, so I could just hand it to a cabbie, and a few minutes later I was dumped out in front of a warehouse-like area with all sorts of shady characters hanging around. Most of them looking to sell money. (Money speculation might be the No. 1 form of employment in the country.)

I just ignored a dozen people offering me who-knows-what and headed into the open-air area of the bazaar, and it was basically just a food market. I hoped it was more than that … and as I continued walking I came to another area of small stores selling junk but also clothes.

I picked one place that looked a bit more professional than the others (and also had what clearly were men’s coats hanging, and in some numbers), and in I went. Neither of the guys there spoke English. I speak no Russian or Uzbek.

I tried on a few things. Medium: Too small. Large: Too small. Extra large, Uzbek style? Just right. I’ll take it.

It’s a cheesy sort of thing that I hope doesn’t melt in the first rain.  Which could come at the UAE-Uzbekistan football game here in Tashkent tonight.

But it seems fairly snug, fairly warm (it’s a sort of pleather to look at, but it’s made out of something nylon), and heck, it’s made in Turkey, according to the salesman, and apparently that’s considered a good thing, in Uzbekistan.

(Turkey, fashion arbiter in the “stans.”)

Now I have a third layer of clothes, and the coat is waterproof, and it zips up to my chin … and I’ll just deal with whatever happens in the open-air press tribune.

Oh, and payment. I had asked back at the hotel how much a men’s coat should cost, because there would be bargaining involved … and she said “about 800,000 som.” Or about $80.

I figured I would put it on my credit card. Everyone takes Visa, right?

Wrong. Not in the Parkentskiy Bazaar. “Uz-card!” the salesman barked at me. (A lot of barking here; not a lot of conversation; I blame it on the Soviets.) He walked outside the door of his place and pointed to the sign over the door.I’m sure it said “Uz-card or nothing!”

As if. How many people outside Uzbekistan carry an “Uz-card”? Anybody?

We hadn’t even begun to barter at this point. But without a credit card, I was limited to cash in my wallet. I certainly didn’t have 800,000 som (I would need a wheelbarrow), or even 100,000 … but I did have $50, 15 in euros and about 1,000 UAE dirhams.

I counted out the $50, and the guy seemed interested. I think I might have gotten the coat for that price … but he was peering in my wallet as I pulled out the dollars and noticed the 15 euros. He indicated that if I gave him the 15 euros, in addition to the $50 (total, about $70), he would be OK.

And that was that. He didn’t ask for the dirhams. Thank goodness.

I now am the owner of a cheesy, dark-brown coat, not particularly well-insulated, but something I might (might) wear again after I leave Uzbekistan.

About to go to the stadium, and test out my new purchase. One I wish I didn’t have to make.

And the coat back home? Leonard returned it to the apartment, of course — 1,450 miles away, in Abu Dhabi.

Forgetfulness. It can be expensive.