It began early.

The awkwardness did, that is. Here is one of my most terrifying (and hilarious) memories. I grew up in the Netherlands, where my often sent me to the grocery store, Albert Heijn, on my own, because we lived in a safe, quiet suburb, our house was walking distance from the only grocery store (quick side note, I grew up going to a butcher and poultry shop and a cheese shop and a baker and then stopping at the grocery store for canned or packaged good or American imports... to me, Costco and Wal-Mart are mind blowing. Albert Heijn grocery stores are the size of a large CVS), and I was such a cute little kiddo that I was automatically forgiven for butchering the language. This independence and responsibility resulted in me one day bringing home green ketchup... don't ask.

On this particular day, though, my mother and little sister accompanied me to the grocery store. I was about ten. It was one of those rare sunny spring days in Wassenaar (that's pronounced Vah-sin-r, folks, it makes me cringe every time I heard wass-in-r). It literally rains and it cloudy and miserable for about eight months out of the year in the Netherlands, so I decided not to go into the store. I was left alone, sprawled out lengthwise on the bench in the square across the street from the store, with me eyes closed, shoes kicked off, every inch of my milk skin absorbing the vitamin D.

Then, I felt it.

Someone was tickling my bare feet. I grumbled, without opening my eyes, "Knock it off, Sarah."

But it wasn't my little sister. I heard a deep, throaty chuckle. A man chuckle. I sat up so fast I probably pulled something, my eyes not only flying open but expanding to the size of saucers. A little old Dutchman wearing a bowler and leaning on a cane was standing at the end of my bench, tickling my bare feet.

"Bent u genieten van de zon, kleine meisje?"He asked in one of those creaky old voices.
(I realize a fraction of the worlds population understands Dutch, so here's a translation: "Are you enjoying the sunshine, little girl?")

Even at that innocent age when I trusted anyone and everyone, I knew a dirty old man when I saw one. But I couldn't bring myself to run. At worst, I could have been sold into international child sex slavery. At best, I could have been force-fed kaas and koekjes in his living room. I'll never know. My mother emerged from the grocery store and he ambled off, leaving me with a deep dislike of people touching my feet.