Apparently looking like a lost, stupid, female American tourist makes you an easy target for muggers

Until yesterday, I never had really had a horrible, "It is so difficult being in another country." moment.

In England, everyone speaks English. (Or something like it...)

Everyone seems fairly patient. (Or is just too British to speak up and tell you to fuck off.)

And I've somehow never managed to get lost. Or not really not known where I was.

After a year of settling, I felt that I had managed to get myself to a point where I can just blend in with the rest of the Brits and as long as I kept my mouth shut, nothing about my appearance or my actions screamed:

 HI Y'ALL! I'M FUCKIN' AMERICAN! AND AMERICA IS THE BEST FUCKIN' COUNTRY IN THE WHOLE GOD DAMN WORLD! YEEEEHHHHAAAAAAWW!!

In fact, more often than not, I get the:"Where abouts in Canadia are you from?" question, more than I do anything else. A question to which I've finally stopped cringing at.

Now listen (MOM) I'm not saying I'm ashamed to be an American. (Where at least I know I'm freeeee). I'm proud of it. I'm proud of our "We ripped off everything from everybody else and call it our own", fast-food nation, bomb us and we'll bomb you back, cowboy-ed, jazzed, country music-ed, cry at NASCAR races, deep-fried culture. I really do.

And I'll have you know, SACRAMENTIANS, er , SACRAMENTO-ians that I defended your honor last summer, in a pub, against a big fat guy who said PSHAWED at me when I said I was from Sacramento and I didn't like Liverpool because when I was there, amungst many other reasonst, there was a GIANT PUDDLE OF BLOOD on a train platform that was surrounded my police.

I was all, "What's your problem? Did you just make that noise at Sacramento or Liverpool?"

Big Fat Guy: "How can you not like Liverpool?"

Me: "Did you not just hear me say GIANT PUDDLE OF BLOOD?"

BFG: "But you're from Sacra-MEN-TO?"

And he said it like I had just announced I'm best friends with Jade Goody. Or K-Fed's new girlfriend. Or like, "Yeah, but you're A BIG STUPID HEAD. What do YOU know?"

Me: "Um, excuse me?"

BFG: "Sacramento is horrible."

Me: "Have you EVEN BEEN THERE?"

BFG: "For like a day."

Me: "Fuck off, then. I didn't say I LOVED it there, but that's where I'm from. You can't fucking say that to me."

BFG: "Yeah, well, then like don't talk shit about LIVERPOOL."

Me: "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU FROM?"

BFG: "....Wales."

And that was the end of that. But I digress. All of this warm and fuzzy, "Oh, I'm like, soooo totally adapted to England." shit got blown out of the fucking park yesterday.

I started being big-girl-type-adult-person this Tuesday, and have paid a whopping £165 for a monthly travel card, so I can go in to my company's offices four times a week. I have big-girl desk and a big-girl chair, which I sit in and practice making the occasional sigh, pounding on the keyboards for a few hours, and then popping to Sainburys for lunch.  YOU FOOLS!!! (Hi, by the way.)

So, I'm now a real live commuter. I'm an Uptown-Girl. When people ask me where I work I can say, "Oh, you know. I work in town." I really do like it. Standing on the platforms, waiting for a tube, and before you can even hear the train you know its coming because of the gigantic wind that starts to pick up.

However, while I'm pretty good at getting on the correct tube and finding out where I need to go, the overground trains still confuse me. So, when Iain asked me to come meet him in BUM-FUCK-NOWHERE-TON yesterday, I was hesitant. I figured, hey, I'll get there. He'll tell me which train to get on there, I'll call him when I get off the train, and he'll explain how to get there.

So, after missing the 18:13 train that I was supposed to get on because of the FUCKING CENTRAL LINE which had "major delays" due to a "signal failure", I gave Iain a call.

"Where do I go? I missed my train."

"Just get on the one for BUMFUCKNOWHERE-TON-PART-DEUX."

"What? There's no trains for that! Not one...Fuck...Okay, should I got to Clapham?...No? HELLO? HELLLOOO?? CAN YOU HEAR ME??"

Despite charging my phone, it decided to die. Dead. Dead. Dead.

I could feel the hives forming.

Was I over reacting a bit? Sure. I had money. I had cash. I knew which train to take to get me within a cab ride home.

But I knew Iain was worried. And I didn't know which train to get, and even if I did find BUM-FUCK-NOWHERE-TON, how could I find where Iain was? And what if he left to come and find me? Would he go back home? To a different train station?

Worst of all: I DON'T KNOW HIS PHONE NUMBER BY HEART.

I know. How fucking lazy and dependent on my phone is that? SHAMEFUL.

So, even if someone let me use their phone, I was fucked, because I only know MY phone number, and then a whole bunch of people I don't talk to in the States.

Don't panic! You're fine! It's all good in the hood.

Waterloo back in the day

That's when I remembered I had my laptop, and the USB cable to my phone which didn't seem to charge my phone before, but maybe it would now. Plus, if I have my laptop I can go online, and then I can use Skype to either get Iain's number, or text him. It would be okay. I WOULD BE OKAY.

So, I bust out my laptop and try to charge it, to no luck. And it certainly didn't help that I didn't have my fucking power lead for my laptop with me, which means I had a whole 8 minutes of battery life because the old fucker is 453 years-old in laptop years.

There OF-FUCKING-COURSE were no Wi-Fi connections available upstairs at Waterloo Station but it said that there was a T-Mobile Hotspot near by, which automatically makes me think STARBUCKS!!! I knew where a Starbucks was in the station so I hauled my panic-stricken ass downstairs, and managed to find a corner to set up in.

I was GENIUS. I was so RESOURCEFUL. I was nearly at MCGUYVER status, I felt. Sure I had broken out in a rash, but I WOULD BE FINE. Eat it, Sydney Bristow.

Well, apparently the Starbucks in Waterloo Station is the only one that's NOT a fucking Hotspot...so there goes that plan.

After smacking my phone on the table, removing the batteries, removing the SIM card and then putting  it all back together again, I still couldn't get the damn thing to work.

That's when I rememberd I had my USB memory stick on me, so I plugged that in, hoping that anywhere, somewhere I had saved a document with Iain's mobile number.

Nope.

So then I went rummaging through my purse, I checked my passport and my Visas to see if was written on there any where (it wasn't), and then finally remembered I had Iain's business card that had his Skype number on there. If I could call that number, then it would go through to his mobile and then I would be SAVED! SAVED I TELL YOU!!!!

But, before I could rejoice in how FUCKING SMART I was, some tall, skinny foreign man came up to me, and threw down a map over my laptop and phone and started pointing dramatically at a unnamed location on the map.

"BLACKIN-FLACKIN-DOOKIN-RAH-HA-"

It really freaked me out.

"Um, dude. I have NO CLUE what you're saying. Where? Where did you need to go? WHAT?"

"DOOOKIN! FLACK! BLEKINDOCHIN! RAMAMAMA!2

"Seriously, I can't help you, I really-"

And then, looking like a Super-Hero on his off day, some man rushes over to my table:

"NO! TELL HIM NO! Go away! Go away! YOU LEAVE HER ALONE!!!!"

Now, my first thought -naturally- was that clearly, this man was trying to put a religious voodoo curse on me, and that this kind man was concerned for my karma, and was protecting me.

Why I thought that, I'm not sure.

Why it didn't occur to me that this man was actually con-man / thief / mugger who was trying to steal my laptop, memory stick, and mobile phone I DON'T KNOW.

The guy quickly left, empty-handed, and I was freaked the fuck out.

The Super-Hero's girlfriend was like, "Oh my god, he was trying to take your stuff!"

And then, as the guy was like 50 feet away from me, THEN it sank in and I started to get mad:

"YOU SHIT!!!" I yelled. As if that scared him

I looked at the couple, and was so angry, pissed off, panicked, scared, and just wanting to be able to call my husband, that I started to cry.

Cry like a woman who just had her purse snatched by a masked man in a bad soap opera.

"Thank you so much. Thank you. Thank you. I had no idea."

Then, barely looking at me, they started talking to each other,

"I've never seen that happen before! Not like that!

"Did you see that! I can't believe him!"

"Holy shit! I can't believe that!"

"I've never seen that before!"

So then I rudely interrupt them and, through tears, was all,

"Fuck. What's funny is that if he stole my phone, it wouldn't have worked, because I think it's broken. That's why I'm sitting here. I'm basically stranded and my phone's broken and I can't get a hold of my husband."

"He totally left when you said something."

Not, "Are you okay? Did you need to use our phone?"

Furious, embarrassed, and still panicked, I quickly packed up my stuff and got the fuck out of there. I hate people seeing me cry.

But as I was sniffling away trying to get to the escalators, I was intercepted (like a football) by two rather, um, manly looking women who flash me their tits badges and are all:

"Metropolitan Police!"

And my first thought was, "Holy god. I have a Visa! DON'T SEND ME BACK!!"

I was sort of shocked because I had no idea they actually flashed their badges like that. Well, that and I was just stopped by two undercover cops after some man just tried to mug me.

"Are you okay? Did you get a good look at him?"

And then I remembered I was crying and got really embarrassed because I didn't want the tough lady cops thinking I was just crying over some guy trying to steal my stuff. I needed A PHONE. I WAS LOST! I'M AN AMERICAN LET ME IN!

One of them ripped the sticky pad I was holding out of my hand and started taking notes, then kept asking if I got a good look at him, and then handed me off (like a football) to a proper uniformed police man, complete with the phallic looking helmet.

He looked at my boobs and asked me for a description while everyone within a mile starred at the crying American tourist girl being interviewed by the cop.

Strangely, aside from trying to give him the correct information, I was incredibly worried about being PC in my description:

"He was um...God. I always told myself I would make such a good witness..ha..."

"What did he look like..."

"Um...he was, um...how do I say...middle...um, middle eastern."

"Like Eastern European?"

"No....more east."

"Arabic?"

"Yes. Sure."

"Was he tall?"

"Yes. Ish."

"Like, as tall as me?"

"Yes."

What was he wearing?

"A shirt. I don't know. He was really skinny though."

"I love you, Jim." "I love you, too, Mark."

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And then he let me use his phone to call Iain...which went straight to the Skype voice mail I didn't' know we had, so I left him some awkward message that was like,

"Hi Iain. It's Cate. Um. My phone died. Then some man basically tried to mug me. I'm here with the police, now. He's letting me use his phone. Pick me up where you usually do. Thanks!"

Then, the police man was like, "Do you need anything else? Are okay? Are you shaken up? Do you need anything?"

"Um, is there a phone booth up stairs?"

"Yes, to the left. But are you sure you're okay? Do you need anything?"

And I was like, "Um...No. I'm okay."

And then he did the thing all police men like to do whenever I've had something happen that involved the police (aside form being arrested):

"Okay, well here. Here's my number in case you change your mind."

Not, "Did you need to use my phone again? Do you need a ride home? Can I call someone for you?"

I'm pretty sure he just wanted to hear that I wanted a naked hug. Or a sponge bath.

I went upstairs, and found the phone booth. Sadly, I couldn't figure out how to use it. How embarrassing is that? They weren't straight forward American phone booths where you put in god damn quarter and dial the number. There were OPTIONS and CREDIT CARD SLOTS and graffitied instructions.

But then Pervert Police Man and his Penis Hat showed back up. Perhaps he wants to let me use his phone? Or give me a pound? (Pun intended.)

"Is this your pen? Did I steal your pen?"

"Um...no. That's your pen."

"Oh. Okay. Then. Right."

And then he left.

I finally decided to just get on a train that would take me the closest to home as I could.

Which turned out to be a train with technical difficulties as well, and it got stuck 1 minute away from the station I needed, for 15 whole minutes.

Then when I got off the train, I realized I had travelled outside my "travel card zone" but some nice man let me exit the station anyway,  despite me ACCIDENTALLY BREAKING SOME BULLSHIT TRAIN LAW.

I got a taxi driver who charged me out the ass, but I had enough change to pay to get me home.

And when I got home, I realized I had keys, but that they were copied keys and it took me 10 minutes of crying to get the door open.

Then I realized the alarm was on, and because it's Iain's brother's house, I don't know the alarm code.

So, I had to go in, set off the alarm, and try to get online as fast as I could to get on Skype, call Iain, and get the code to turn it off.

15 minutes of the alarm going off, I finally call Iain. It took 15 minutes because none of the phones in this house work (?!!?), and I had to search around for a Skype handset or headset or ANYTHING THAT I COULD USE TO CALL HIM.

Keep in mind, this entire time I'm SWEATING and breaking out in 24 different kinds of hives, and CRYING LIKE A MOTHER FUCKER.

Iain raced home, we bought pizza, and I made myself a PINT sized Cosmopolitan.

I was home. I was safe. I was away from Waterloo.

However. It was the first day that I was SICK AND TIRED of not being surrounded by people who talked like me, and looked like me, and were loud like me.

Why no one actually comforted me, or offered their phone to me, I'm not sure.

And what pissed me off even more, is that the mugger guy picked ME because I looked like a fucking American tourist.

A young, female, American tourist. And what better target than that??

It was just very frustrating, but I'm just glad that the mother fucker didn't steal anything...and that I'm safe.

Safe, at home, and with a phone full of battery life.