3 posts tagged “america”

Politics has always be en one of those things that I've shied away from.

I was still in high school when this war started. I was only 16 when the Twin Towers fell.

I knew I was angry. I knew I felt sick to my stomach what was happening. All of the sudden that crap that went on in the mystical, frightening "middle east" was on our soil. I didn't understand it, and mostly, I think I still don't understand it.

In 2001, I was thankful that George Bush was our President. He was our savior. Our cowboy. He stood in front of us all, and said that he'd get the bastards that did this to us. To our people. To New York. To all of us. I wore MIA dog tags for a missing New York firefighter. His name was Peter Lagone. My mom wore one with his brother's name on it, Thomas Lagone.

In my simple, young mind, I though that we should just trust the President. I was angry, we were all angry. Bomb the bastards. I truly felt that way. Bomb them. They can't touch us. Better them than us.

We went to Afghanistan. The Taliban. Osama Bin Laden.

Then, almost two years later, I remember sitting in my Economics class, and our teacher turned on the TV so we could all watch the Shock & Awe. The song "Bombs Over Baghdad" popped in my head. The bright, lime green flashes of light reminded me of when I was 5, watching what was happening in the Golf War.

I tried not to think of the people that were dying in all the fireworks. Then the bell rang and I was over it. We walked out of the classroom, more concerned with how many credits we needed to make up so we could graduate.

When I was 18 I registered as a Repuiblican at the same time I signed the petition to get Gray Davis out of office...outside of a Target.

After we had been in Iraq for over a year, and it became clear that maybe there weren't those WMDs after all, I became a little suspicious.

We were at war. I wasn't quite sure why anymore. The anger I felt because of 9/11 had faded away. I supported the troops. I knew that much. It wasn't their fault, they were doing their job.

Come 2004, it was time to vote for Bush or Kerry. I felt like we needed to be out of Iraq. However, Kerry was a jackass. Edwards seemed like an overpaid weather man with bad hair. When they spoke, I didn't believe them. Was it the Republican in me that hated them, or did I just not trust them?

I voted for Bush. I voted for him on the notion that this was his mess, his war, and he was going to have to fucking clean it up. I didn't want Jackass and Weatherman coming into office with their fake hair and lies, and try to clean up something that was far greater, and had far more secrets than they knew about.  

Slowly I really began to wonder about Bush. The troops. Rumsfeld. I got tired of being a Republican.

I think was really did it for me was the gay marriage issue. How in the fucking world did they not see that denying gay people the right to marriage was unconstitutional? It still blows my mind. How, HOW do you DENY someone ANYTHING because of WHO THEY LOVE? Do you really care THAT MUCH where someone's dick goes? How they get off? Who they cuddle up to at night?

And why do you care about that?? OH. That's right. Some mythical guy who can turn water into wine and wore Birkenstocks. Sure, he was a lovely guy, but I thought he taught people about love, and peace. And I'm also pretty sure that old ass book that tells you one man is not suppose to lay next to (or in) another man is just that: OLD AS FUCK.

Don't talk to me about being Green and Global Warming and tell me that the "state of the union is strong"  and expect me to take you seriously when you still tell people who they can and can't fuck. Or try to tell me what I can or can't do with my uterus.

I eventually registered as "Decline To State".

After moving to London, and after really getting involved and realizing how much I cared about feminism, and just equality for everyone (except stupid people) I realized what a fucked up mess all this Republican, Democrat, Bill O'Reilly, Ann Coulter bulllllshit is.

On my way home from the fucked up Feminism conference I went to in Newcastle, I started really thinking about politics. I was on fire. I didn't agree with everything those hardcore, ridiculously hardcore feminist said...but I knew one thing. We need a change.

Desperately, desperately need a change.

I walked into a bookstore at the Newcastle train station. I looked for any magazine or book that wasn't about Britney Spears or the confessions of a hooker...and then I saw Hillary Clinton's smug little smile staring at me from across the aisle.

Growing up, I was taught to hate Bill Clinton, and to hate Hillary even more. I remember thinking that he was slime after the whole Lewinsky, cigar incident, and thinking that Hillary was a moron for staying with him. Now, I realize that I don't give a shit. I don't care about who people fuck or what their relationship is like. I think in politics people tend to care too much about that stuff. ("I FUCK MY WIFE!"...5:45 in the video. The rest of is is Bill Maher being a misogynist asshole.)

I started to read Hillary's book, and realized that she was much more human than everyone thinks. I read about her family, how she grew up, her time in law school. I read about her views on Medicare, and how involved she was in Bill's presidency. I'll be honest and say I haven't finished it, I'm about half way through Bill's first term, but I had read enough to know I believed in Hillary.

I decided to vote for her back in July.

I had to ask myself if I wanted to vote for her because she was a woman, or because I thought she would be the right person for the job. The answer is both. As I said before, we need a change. A big one. It's absolutely RIDICULOUS that we haven't had a female leader yet. Hillary is the closest we're going to get for a very long time, and I know that she's the right person for the job. I feel it in my bones.

On the contrary, if Condi Rice was running, I would NOT vote for her. Yes, she's a woman. No, I don't think she's right for the job. But, you probably just think I'm racist, and that's why I'd chose not to vote for her, right?

My politics have changed dramatically., but I changed them on my own. There are things that I care very much about. I care very much about womens rights, and you know there's no way in HELL Hillary is going to reverse Roe vs Wade.

I know she made some lame voting decisions in the Senate. I've been told everything about Hillary from the fact that she's a criminal and a fake, to a communist. For the record, I'm not a moron. I know politicians are dirty, and I don't expect any less than that from the Clintons. They've probably killed people and hid their bodies somewhere at Camp David. To be honest, I don't care. I suppose this even gives them street cred. Maybe they even have their own gang signs.

I've been told Bill Clinton was a horrible president, granted I was very young while he was in power, but I don't recall any wars, any drastic financial crisis...only a stain on a blue dress.

At the end of the day, I trust that Hillary is going to go in there and kick ass. It's the best of both worlds for me, she's going to tackle the issues I care about (universal health care, civil unions -not the same as gay marriage I KNOW-, getting our troops out of Iraq, stem cell research) and she'll be breaking the highest glass ceiling there is by doing it.

I'm sure Obama's a great guy. I'm sure he's a great politician. I'm sure he'd probably do well as the President. But just not now. Not where our country is at the moment.

I've seen him talk, and I just don't believe him. I don't get excited by what he has to say, or how he says it. Call me stupid, but I need to feel something when someone who wants my vote talks to me. Obama talks...I feel nothing.

On the contrary, when Hillary talks I get goose bumps. I get excited. I BECOME SEXUALLY AROUSED at the thought of her giving a State of the Union speech.

I suppose the bottom line for me, is that I've made up my mind who I want to be my President.

I don't feel the need to swap statistics, or voting histories, or secret facts with you. I don't want to hear about some book that was written that proves why Hillary is a commie or why Obama is inexperienced. I don't care. In politics, I really don't believe there is any truth. I don't take anything for fact. I go with my gut, and take in as much information as I can understand, and try to form an opinion about something, which I feel is as close to the truth as I can get.

This is why I am voting for Hillary Clinton in 2008.

This is why I'm Decline To State.

I am not Democrat. I am not Republican.

I am simply an American, who has seen and experienced how the rest of the world sees us. It's not pretty, at the moment. We're in a bit of a mess. We need a clean up crew. We need a change.

We need some ovaries. Women get shit done.

 

For those of you who may not know, I was born and raised in California. I lived in the US for 20 years and 10 months. That makes me an American. (Say it with me now: AMMMEEERRRRIIIICAAAAN.)

I have lived in the UK for about a year and a half. I work here. I play here. My toes get really cold here.

Moving to another country isn't the easiest thing in the world, especially when you get the sneaking suspicion that every time you open your mouth and reveal the fact that not only are you foreign, but your from one of the most judged and hated countries in the world, that people are thinking, "Ugh. An American."

Before becoming an Expat, I had only ever experienced sexism, ageism...never racism.

I've had the occasional comment calling me a Yank that should go back to my own country. I was got into a drunken confrontation where I told some little boy to fuck off, and I was immediately shot with, "Where are you from?  WHERE ARE YOU FROM? You should GO BACK TO WHERE YOU'RE FROM."

But other than that, the type of racism I've experienced has been the passive agressive, off-handed comments made by anyone and everyone. Comments that if were made about Africans, Muslims, or Asians, would be branded as offensive and disgusting...but when made about Americans, no one seems to think: "Thats racist and that's not okay."

Watching Have I Got News For You last night, I ignored all the California jokes the presenters made while talking about the horrible fires that are burning up The Sunshine State - but I couldn't help wonder if the same jokes were made about the victims of Hurricane Katrina, would people be outraged?

However, I was pissed off when the host of the show made some off-handed remark like, "Now, I don't hate Americans. I have two initial reactions when talking about them, and that is: the first half of me has this natural hatred of America...and well, the second half of me is exactly the same..." *insert roars of laughter from the audience here*

Sometimes I wonder if people really don't like Americans, or if they're just hopping on the I Hate America bandwagon because they need to get their racism out somehow, and hating the usual suspects just isn't as PC any more. But hey, why not hate America! We sure seem to hate ourselves, so why not? Come on! It's fun! You can mock us with slow southern accents and quote something stupid the President said! Shit, there are books, calendars, and dolls to help perpetuate the hate!

And it's the thing to do, isn't it? Some people dislike Bush, and exercise their freedom of speech because that's what they truly believe. However, it seems like others just buy in to it because, "Hah, we hate Bush! That makes us better than all those other Americans...right?" Sure, there are some jokes that are funny, but I think I at the heart of most of the jokes, it's not just a Bush joke, it's Anti-American joke. And it makes me want to scream.

Scream because somewhere along the line, some parts of the world have now chosen to look at us like we're all a bunch of bumbling, bombing assholes.

Scream because we are so much more than a Fast Food Nation and rednecks and bombs and war and two fallen towers. We are more than obesity and Wal-Mart and Los Angeles.

However, when I ask myself, "Well, then what IS America?" all I can do is get frustrated and cry and grunt and drool and point because I have NO IDEA what America is. How can I even articulate that?

All I know, is that I love country music. I love women like the Dixie Chicks with all my heart. I like McDonalds and the Fourth Of July. I love cowboy boots and my freedom of speech and the fact that when I go back home the girls at Starbucks UNDERSTAND HOW TO MAKE MY FUCKING DRINK, and the waiter at Applebees refils my drink without asking and the cashier at the Safeway looks me in the eye and says THANK YOU HAVE A GOOD DAY MA'AM and when a bunch of Americans are standing in line together, WE TALK.

It's so hard to articulate why I won't apologize for being American, and I think Diablo Cody actually said it best:

Seriously, I don't want to hear any more apologies or red-faced admissions. Stop hating yourself because of where you were born, or the fact that you think putting cookie batter in ice cream was a good idea. Stop hating yourself for taping All My Children or preferring Dean Koontz to Proust. You're a product of your culture like anyone else, and it's not a reflection on your intellect or self-discipline. To me, the phrase "ugly American" is as offensive as "ugly Asian." It's called STEREOTYPING and it's gross.

When I read people stereotyping Americans and dismissing what somebody says simply because they're a fat American, my head practically explodes. When I hear other Americans in the UK talking about how they're "embarassed" by American tourists, it strikes a cord with me. It does. I like to think that I'm better than that...

But then why do I cringe whenever I'm walking through London on my way to work, and I hear some guy with socks and sandals and a bright red Jansport backpack with a University of _______ hat on yelling in his loud-ass American accent,

"HONEY!? Where in the HECK is LIE-CESTER SQUARE!? IS THAT NEAR THAT CON-VENT GARDEN PLACE?"

It's the strangest feeling, staring at someone that could so easily be my Uncle or your Dad or your Grandfather who is by one culture's standards making a complete ass out of himself, and by another's, he's simply just trying to find out where the heck that gosh darn Leicester Square is so he can take a friggin' picture ofthe Odeon theatre.

I understand that when people come over to Europe and the UK, they're not exactly sure of what the hell they're doing. Put me in the centre of Tokyo, and I promise you I'll be doing the exact same thing. Minus the socks and the sandals.

Granted, there are people who simply don't care where you're from. There are some who just LOVE America and want to know everything about where you're from. There are people who treat you just like everyone else, and are smart enough to know that just because your government is run by a nit-wit, that doesn't make you one, too.

I think the cold hard truth is that there are small truths to practically every stereotype that is out there. For those of you who know the Avenue Q song Everyone's A Little Bit Racist, you know what I mean. There are red-neck Americans like Toby Keith who don't believe in freedom of speech and think that putting boots up people's asses is the "American Way". There are Valley Girls from California. There are Fat Americans. There are Soccer Moms that drive mini vans in the suburbs and pretentious Fashionistas in Manhattan.There are even racist people in the south.

And you know what? There are oblivious Americans that live in other countries. There are loud-mouthed Americans on The Tube who talk much too loudly and don't get the London Rule that YOU DON'T TALK ON THE TUBE. There a Americans that mispronounce cities and the names of Tube stops because, no matter how innocently, they don't care if they pronounce it wrong.
 
And then there are the Americans that sat next to me the other night at dinner, they didn't care how FUCKING ANNOYING they were, or how loudly they were talking.

"So, like, my Dad has a Masters Degree in Theology, but like, I've created my own religion."

"Wow, really?"

"Yeah. Like, for example, I believe that, like, Jesus was married, to Mary Magdeline."

"Wow, really?"

"Yeah, like, cuz have you seen Jesus Christ Superstar, and stuff?"

"Wow. Yeah."

"Okay, cuz like, I have the soundtrack and stuff, and it totally explains that."

"Wow. Yeah. What I don't get is, like, The Bible."

"Wow, really?"

"Yeah, cuz like, it says that men are better than women, and that's just, like, stupid."

"No. I know! And like, how society teaches us that men can't cry in public! That's like, so stupid."

"Wow, I know.Society does teach us that."

"Society totally does,teach us that and stuff."

"Yeah, what society teaches us...puh-leeze."

This conversation took place between a a boy and a girl, both probably about 22-years-old, and they took themselves, like, totally seriously.

I was dying. I kept thinking, "Jesus christ. Is this how Americans sound to everyone else?"

It made me incredibly self-conscious. I remember telling Iain, "It scares me that people will overhear this conversation, and only take in to account that they're American, and they must be so stupid and ignorant because they're American."

And that's the struggle I face. I know that the rest of the world is so eager and quick to dismiss people not because they're stupid, not because they're immature, inconsiderate or even arrogant: they dismiss them because they think that they must be that way BECAUSE they're American.

I think for Expats seeing Americans how some people in the rest of the world sees us can be very tough. I'm not embarrassed to be American. I'm not even embarrassed BY other Americans. It just makes me cringe when I see Americans acting in a stereotypical way.

I suppose the best way to describe what if feels like when I hear an American acting like a "stereotypical American", is that it's like being in high school and having your mom show up on campus wearing her ratty old bathrobe and curlers in her hair screaming,

 "SUGAR PIE! YOU FORGOT YOUR OLIVE LOAF SANDWICH WITH THE CRUST CUT OFF!!!"

It's slightly mortifying, but you're also very aware of the fact that you shouldn't care what other people think about your mom. You know her intentions are good and innocent, and that she's just being herself. You even sort of envy her blissful ignorance...however, at the same time, she's still a crazy lady screaming about olive loaf in her bathrobe.

Now, I could choose to blush and sit there thinking, "FOR FUCK SAKE, MOM! Why can't just learn to fit in! Do you have to wear that stupid bathrobe!? Can't you just keep your voice down and learn how to pronounce the cities of the places your visiting?!"

Or I could just smile, not worry about it, take the sandwich, point which direction Lie-cester Square is, and carry on with my day.

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.

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."

And then they stared blankly at me, and turned back to each other,

"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."

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.