I walked into a coffee shop in La Jolla this morning. It was a recommendation from my supervisor, and she said there were scones–two things that compelled me to enjoy breakfast there this fine morning. Tucked in between two larger business buildings, this was the kind of quaint, local coffee shop where everybody knows everybody and the barista starts your order as you walk in the door. In the less than 5 minutes I was there, a small flurry of things happened:

1. The barista asked me how my week was going so far. Considering that it’s only Tuesday (and how much damage could be done in 1 day?) I responded “Fine, thank you. and yours?”

2. An old man turns to me, as if greeting and old friend, and says, “Well how are you doing?!” I reply in standard, if slightly surprised, courtesy, “I’m well, thank you.” He extends his hand and introduces himself. I return the hand shake and introduce myself.

…

He won’t let go of my hand.

What do I do? This is soooo uncomfortable. I’m standing here with a complete stranger who won’t let go of me. It goes from impromptu introduction to unexpected panic in less than 20 seconds. He says he’s a regular and has never seen me before. He tells me that I’m very pretty. He says he’s 79 and going strong. He tells me I look like a teenager. He tells me that I’m raising his good cholesterol. He tells be that he hopes to see me again.

I feel suddenly sick to my stomach as a rush of memories washes over me: of old men hitting on me, as a guy five times my age stands behind me in aerobics class to watch me and then asks me out to dinner, of men in cars who honk at me as I walk home from high school, of the seething shame and embarrassment I have felt under the gaze of men. I HATE straight men. I always assume their best intentions, so why do they always ruin it for me?

I politely explain that I need to get in line and order so I’m not late to work.

3. I turn around to get in line and there is David Beckham. Actually, it’s not David Beckham. It’s an Italian- looking guy who is, despite his not-Beckham-ness, quite appealing. Heellllo I purr under my breath …wait, what am I thinking? I just established that I hate men….

4. I order a big scone and a latte.

5. As I wait, a mother walks into the shop and stands in line. She holds an baby girl in her arms and a little boy hovers at her feet. The baby smiles and gestures towards me. This means a baby likes me. Children never like me. I coo at the baby in mutual happiness with our exchange.

The mom doesn’t notice me much, but the little boy does. He emerges from behind his mother’s legs. He stares right up at me and declares, “I’m 5!” I wanted to say “I’m 21!” I didn’t. Instead, I say, “that’s great!”

6. I grab my latte, douse it with sugar, and walk out of the coffee shop.

This all happened in less than 5 minutes. I went from happiness, to openness, to politeness, to anger, to intrigue, to quasi-maternal instincts, to cool camp counselor, to disinterested yuppy–all in 5 minutes.

I am reminded of what a strange and beautiful place the world is.