I was barely six. We moved into our new house after moving to Venezuela and spending a few months in a temporary house. There was a park across the street and whilst the moving was going on my parents let my sister Lib and I mosey over to the playground. Lib had just turned three. Yes, I know what you're thinking, my parents put a six year old in charge of a three year old and sent them to the park, alone, in a foreign country. Ah, the good old days! Ask me sometime about how Lib and I used to go play with our friends in the barrio,* none of whose families my parents had ever met, completely unsupervised.
*This was the word we used for the "poor neighborhood" in Venezuela. I remember large extended families crowded into tiny houses with no doors, occasionally just a length of fabric hung in doorways or windows. We were fairly far out in the country though, so it wasn't exactly like a slum.
My spatial abilities had not yet developed to the point where I had any directional sense at all (I'm still waiting on this.... still... not yet....) so when I got turned around and made my way to the edge of the park where my house should have been on the other side of the street only to be met by a completely unfamiliar sight, I did the only logical thing. I sat down and cried. That's how they found us. I was reassuring Libby through my terrified sobs while she played happily, completely unconcerned, next to me.
My parents, to their credit, reassured me for at least five minutes before starting a lifetime of teasing about the time Jessica was so dumb she got lost in the park across the street. I'm telling ya, people, it's like we were raised by wolves.