(My friend and I are traveling together through Mexico. We are sitting in an outdoor cafe on a square in a beautiful Mexican city when I am approached by a young woman. She engages me in conversation. I am nervous. She does not speak English, and I only speak basic high school Spanish, so the conversation is going slowly.)

Woman: “¿Cómo te llamas?”

Me: “¿Me llamo [My Name], y tú?”

Woman: “Gabriela… ¿Y cuantos años tienes?”

Me: “Tengo 23 anos.”

(She leaves quickly. My friend starts laughing.)

Me: “What did I say?”

Friend: “You told her you have 23 a**holes.”

(I teach advanced classes at a fine arts school. The building is old, and it shows, but since it’s state property, it takes loads and loads of paperwork to get anything fixed. We’re left with buzzing lamps, cracked walls, and mirror-smooth floors and stairs with no friction whatsoever. One day, as I walk to the classroom, I find one of my students sprawled across the stairs, not moving.)

Me: “Oh, God! [Student], are you okay?!”

Student: “Yeah, doc, I’m fine. Just thinking, y’know? This place has been here for quite a while… Imagine how many scholars and artists walked on these stairs, how many other people must have been here before them, paving the way for us…”

Me: “You slipped and fell, didn’t you?”

Student: “I slipped and fell, doc. And it really hurts, so I’m just chillin’ until it passes.”

(I am a kindergarten teacher when Pokemon cards are hugely popular. They grow to be a distraction in class.)

Me: “All right, put all your Pokemon cards away. I don’t want to see them out in class again.”

(Five minutes later, I see a kid messing around with his cards.)

Me: “What did I just say? Didn’t you hear me say, ‘No Pokemon cards out in class.’?”

Kid: “But Mr. [My Name], these aren’t Pokemon. They’re Digimon.”

Me: *pause* “You got me there.”

One day, when I am little, my mom misplaces her keys to the house. This is pretty bad because she doesn’t realize this until we get there, and the taxi has already left. This is the age before cellphones, so we can’t call a locksmith, nor my dad, who is currently on the other side of the city with our only car.

There is no public transport nor open shops nearby, and since it’s getting dark, my mom is scared. It’s just her and her daughter on the streets at night.

She decides to go with her raised-Catholic instincts and carries me to a church. There’s no one there but the Sunday school teacher, who’s just finished tidying up, and her husband, who’s come to help her. My mom explains our situation to them and, as it turns out, they live a mere block away from us! They invite us to their house to use their phone, call my dad, and wait there until he arrives.

Everything turns out all right. I only vaguely remember this incident, but my mom still gets choked up thinking about the couple who helped her when she was a scared young mom in need of help.

(I go to the restroom between classes. Thanks to the humidity, my hair is a mess, and I say so out loud without thinking in front of the mirror. Suddenly, someone speaks up from an occupied stall.)

Random Girl: “Aw, don’t say that! I’m sure it looks lovely!”

(Guerrilla compliments seem to be a thing now. Nice.)