Private - Handwritten - MARCH 16, 2006

Thirty-six slices of bread. One hundred and fifty crackers. A block of cheese. A bottle of water, refillable. Two boxes of cereal. A jar of peanut butter. Anything that won’t go bad. Anything you don’t have to cook. I took it. As much as I could. It looked like a lot of food. It didn’t even last me a month. One sandwich is two pieces of bread. That’s eighteen peanut butter sandwiches in eighteen days, and then you’re down to crackers and cheese. Then all you have is the cereal. I remember the day it ran out.

There is nothing worse than eating moldy bread for the first time. I only did it once and then decided I'd rather starve. It never came to that. There are always people willing to feed you, for a price. There are also times when you're willing to beg. I found I'd rather beg. I also found, I'd rather steal. Some prices are just too high. All that begins to matter is food in your stomach and a warm place to sleep.

I preferred churches. They're always open and you're less likely to get mugged the minute you close your eyes. The trick is hiding so they don't throw you out. Those with pews were the best, as I was small enough to lay beneath them. In the worst part of winter, I could hide there until everyone had gone to bed, then move to the confessional, where heat built up easier. Staying warm was never easy, at least in the winter. I only stayed one winter before I followed him away.

They always say 'don't talk to strangers'. But I was the stranger, the pretty little gypsy waiting to steal your wallet. If I bat my lashes, you don't watch my hands. But he did. He caught me, and then bought me dinner. With my life in a duffle bag, I followed him throughout Italy. Then I followed him back to England. Because what could be worse? A country where I didn't speak the language, but that didn't matter to dance, and that paid well enough to buy me dinner. A few months later and he was gone, but I had a life again, a roof over my head, and a second chance.