Independent woman....

I am a strong and independent woman. London is a perfectly civilized city.

I am a strong and independent woman. London is a perfectly civilized city.

I am a strong and independent woman. London is a perfectly civilized city.

I am a strong and -- WTF?!?! -- is that man eyeing me? Is he noticing I'm all alone? No one around to protect me? Is he going to rape me on the stairwell? Where the heck is my attack alarm and why, oh, why is he looking at...

I am a strong and independent woman. London is a perfectly civilized....

Oh, feck it, I thought, clutching my Samsonite suitcase so hard my knuckles practically bulged under the pressure.

I am not a strong and independent woman. I am a tired, terrified, and insanely over-aware American toting a suitcase of travel phobias and a pocketbook of anxiety.

And why oh why, I thought, is THAT MAN STARING AT ME?

Needless to say, I was a bit overanxious about my triumphant - solo - return to London.

I made it to the airport just fine on Tuesday, even leaving enough time to meet Mike in Belfast for some Carie-I'm-such-an-idiot-but-I-swear-I'll-make-it-up-to-you coffee, during which he let me listen to an apology ballad he'd composed for the occassion. (Hilarious and not of lick of rhyming among the lines, I let him temporarily off the hook at its delightful conclusion.)

From the airport, I caught the Tube easily enough and then found myself standing in the misty cold on a darkened platform outside London Bridge station, waiting (and praying) for the last train to Greenwich. If I missed it, I knew I'd be toast, forced to wander the deserted streets of London inspecting bus schedules and shiftlessly transferring from double decker to double decker.

Luckily, a stout young Englishman noticed my distress. He pointed out which train I should take and then proceeded to chat about how "dangerous" this section of town was and how careful I should be with my baggage.

Oh fabulous, I thought as he inched closer. Mom is going to love this.

Then, as a strong whiff of alcohol and BO floated past, double fabulous.

He continued to urge vigilance right unti the train pulled into the station. Then, as I looked the other way, he grabbed my suitcase and jumped on board.

Are you serious? I thought, eyes turned heavenward.

The very man that urges vigilance then hops on board with my stuff?

Are you serious?

Luckily, however, he was only trying to help and he safely deposited my goods back at my feet when I darted on board.

I made it to the hostel without incident (luckily, it's right next to the station) and then lugged my stuff into my home for the week: Room 7 of St. Christopher's Village Greenwich.

As I fidgeted with the broken lock, I couldn't help but remember the last time I walked the halls of a St. Christopher's hostel... even the cleaning liquid smelled the same as I thought of my warm, cluttered room of Americans and gay Australians and old men named Gerald. I smiled, optimistic about what people luck might have dropped in my room for this trip.

Only one, apparently.

At least only one when I opened the door. A slightly bewildered Japanese man, scratching his head and scrunching his eyes at the bubbly American now struggling to wheel her baggage though the door, alst while looking fabulous for whatever audience lay across the threshold.

Hi! I chirped, extending my hand. My name is Carie and I'm an American. Oooh, I think that's my bed. Are you the only one here?What aretheothers like?Are you a student?I'mastudentinNorthernIrelandstudyingIrishHistory.IjustloveLondon.Don'tyou
AreyousiteseeingtomorrowI'msiteseeing.Myfriendwon'tbehereuntilTuesday.
Wow,it'snicetomeetyou. What'syournamegain?

Grunt.

Right then, I said, I think I'll go check out the bathrooms.

With that, I left Ach or Choo, I only remember it was a fragment of a sneeze, to crawl back onto his bed.

I checked out the bathrooms - not fantastic, not revolting - and then did the same, ready to collapse after a long and emotionally taxing day of travel.

And I would have done that... had not.. at 3 a.m.... I been jolted awake by a shot of light in the eyes.

"$%()*&FOY," I mumbled at the shapeless black blog at the other end of the flashlight. "Hello?"

Without saying a word, he flipped off the switch, surveyed me again in the dark, and then climbed into the bed underneath, leaving behind a cloud of sweat, alcohol and marijuana. As best I could tell, he was a giant man, perhaps 7 foot, and mountainlike in stature. Probably Russian, I decided. Probably doesn't speak a lick of English, just grunts and mumbles and paws women with his bear-like hands.

Jaysus, I thought as I repositioned myself, how rude. Checking me out like he's the bloody SS.

Then, to add insult to inury, he proceeded to climb into bed - and this is the only way that the resulting earthquake makes sense - by grabbing the bars of the bunk bed and violently thrashing back and forth. In that instant, he became known for the remainder of my journey as, "Guy who shakes the bed guy."

My last thought as I drifted off to sleep was... Mike bloody Solomon... get here soon.