The first time I got groped was in London, at the
airport. I was a fresh nineteen. It was the first
time I went to see dad. I was still mad at him for
leaving me with mom after The Divorce. He
wanted to pay my way over, but I was like, "No, I
got this."
So I got on Travelocity and they cooked me up
this itinerary that sent me to Atlanta, Chicago,
London, Paris, and then to Nice by train. When I
got to Heath Row I had missed my connection to
Paris. It was like midnight, but I was totally
lagged, it was like 4 in the afternoon for me. So
I ate the last of a soggy sandwich, tossed my
backpack on a sort of bench, and curled up next
to it.
I mean, there were guards everywhere. I didn't feel
unsafe, but sure enough, about 3am, I woke up
and this GUY was FEELING my ASS! Well, my leg
really, kind of groping my thigh. Back then I
usually wore a hoodie and sweat pants and
flip-flops on the plane. My hair was shorter then
and I probably looked like a street waif. Anyway I
was half-awake. I pushed his hand away and he
muttered something like "Gwore limey og odda
ritty glassa anchee"---some foreign language,
Completely unintelligible--and put his hand back.
I pushed him away again and he shuffled off
muttering.
So then I had the munchies. I had one pound and
a few ounces, I mean shillings. I mean, I was so
hungry I would of fucked a dog right there in the
airport for fish and chips and a pint, but
everything was closed, so I ate the rest of the
peanuts left over from my flight from Chicago
and then licked the salt off the bag.
My flight to Paris left at 6 something. I was petty
trashed by Paris and I got lost trying to find the
shuttle to the station. Fortunately I speak French.
Unfortunately the locals could tell right away I
was American. Then they wanted to practice their
English. I finally got to the right train station in
enough time to smoke the rest of my roach. After
that I felt much better.
So I finally got to Nice after about 24 hours on the
road.
Love,
Jamie
