She asked if she could start a fitting room for me. Something about her stilted accent seemed very familiar. I sensed a glimmer of recognition in her eyes as well. I looked at her name tag. “Paolina.” Could it be?

Hesitantly, I asked if she had a son. I mean, it’s kind of a weird question to ask a stranger. She paused, then answered, “Yes.” “Is his name Mike?” I asked. “Yes,” she answered, cautious. “I was his first grade teacher! At Argonne!” I exclaimed excitedly. I could see her recollecting. My hair is much shorter now, hers much longer. I’ve gained a few pounds over the years, as has she.

“Ah! Yes! Yes!”she proclaimed. “Mike, he’s, he’s on the break now.” I wondered what break he could be on. “What do you mean?” I asked. “The spring break.” I pondered, not remembering that San Francisco schools had a spring break. “He’s in college now, in the San Diego. He studies the mechanical engineering.”

It was the first time I’ve ever felt old.

The last time I saw Mike was when he was in second grade. He was big for his age, very tall and solid. He had penetrating dark eyes and translated for his mom, who didn’t speak English very well. He had a large gap between his two over sized front teeth. He loved spending summers in Bulgaria, his home country. That was just, what, a few years ago? I tried to calculate when I taught him, and couldn’t figure out the math. A child I taught, in college now? That can’t be right. Maybe this was all a mistake and this was another woman named Paolina who had a son named Mike and it was just a crazy coincidence.

“So, have you been back to Bulgaria recently?” This would confirm that she wasn’t the Paolina I knew.

“Oh, yes. We go. We go this summer. We love the trip. Mike, he take the summer school classes, so we go for one month, not two.”

It was as though I had been punched in the stomach. I took a deep breath. A child I taught in first grade was now in college. Yes, that was possible. I mean, I had left teaching ten years ago. Wait, thirteen years ago. Oh. And I left teaching the year after teaching Mike. So that meant the children I had taught earlier in my career were out of college. As I thought about it, it made logical sense. And it confounded me.

I remember so well teaching Mike’s class. I remember the children who needed extra attention, those students who just didn’t thrive in a traditional classroom. So we created stations, and games, and alternative schedules, and buddy systems. I remember the field trips we took to the Academy of Sciences (and more than one lost child – panic!). I remember the crafts and projects we made on the different holidays, some successful, others not. The “game” of choosing rubber gloves and seeing who could pick up the most pieces of trash on the playground. I remember thinking, at the time, that I was not old enough to be trusted with the education of such amazing children. It felt like just, well, if not yesterday, then maybe a few days before yesterday.

But it wasn’t. It was three careers, one divorce, one international move, three domestic moves, and countless countries traveled ago. In my mind, though, I still see my 24 kindergarten and first grade students as that – delightful five and six year olds learning to read and write and play and live together.

Paolina had just said something and was waiting for my response. I smiled. “Yes, it’s so nice to see you, too, Paolina. Please tell Mike I said hello and have a wonderful trip to Bulgaria this summer.”

As we were walking home, my parents were sharing about their day in the city. They had gone to MOMA, then to the Asian Art Museum. And they had walked from museum to museum, which was quite a long distance. “Why didn’t you take BART, like I suggested?” I asked them. At which point the homeless man walking beside us said, “It’s not safe to take BART at night.” I nodded and said, “Oh, but this was during the day today.” He nodded, pleased that we were safety conscious.

As I was standing outside of the restaurant, waiting for my parents, two somewhat disheveled, perhaps inebriated, men approached me. The first one said, “Tell him it was 1971. 1971 I say.” Not able to resist what might be an interesting conversation, I looked at him quizzically. He continued, “The year Janis Joplin died. She was 27 and it was 1971. The same year I was born.” I’m not great with dates. I shrugged and said, “Sorry, I can’t help you. I’m not sure when Janis Joplin died.” And at that moment I took out my phone to call my parents to see where they were. The other man said, “Hey! Look! She’s calling someone to find out when Janis Joplin died!” Except that I wasn’t. I was calling my parents. Who, now that I think about it, may have known when Janis Joplin died, but I didn’t think to ask them. “Can you call Jimi Hendrix? Jim Morrison? They would know when Janis died.” I looked at them and said, over a ring tone, “No, they died as well. I can’t call them.”

They continued to banter back and forth, arguing about the year Janis Joplin died. A friend came out from the restaurant to wait with me, probably wondering what I was doing talking to these two gentlemen. And they peppered him with the same question. They were determined. They wanted to know if Janis Joplin died in 1970, or 1971. My friend didn’t know either, but was amused by their antics. My parents arrived and we entered the restaurant.

Out of curiosity, I looked it up. 1970. Kind of glad I didn’t look it up while on the sidewalk. The first guy would have been so disappointed.