We’ve taken refuge for the weekend at a lake house tucked into an untouched oasis that somehow still exists an hour from Manhattan. After 48 hours of swimming, reading, kayaking and eating anything put in front of me, the caffeine flushes from my pores, the city grit lining my nose sheds away and the dull pounding behind my eye sockets finally subsides. I lie on the dock spread-eagled, staring at the sky, roused after a few hours by voices from the family next door stopping by to greet us. Not wanting to seem rude, I rise stiffly from my wooden mattress to find a girl, about ten years old, facing me with an inquisitive expression. She’s wearing a stylish tankini with turquoise stripes, her thick dark hair spreading down her back almost to her waist. She stands with perfect posture, shoulders back, hip slightly cocked, as if she knows exactly how gorgeous she is.

“Hi, I’m Iris,” she chirps with an endearing wave. “We have the house next door, me and my dad.”

“Hi there. I’m Melissa, nice to meet you. Are you guys from the city too?”

She nods confidently. “Yes. We live in the Greenwich Village, near Washington Square Park. I go to P.S. XX, it’s just two blocks down the street. So I can walk to school in the morning. It’s right by Citarella, so I can get croissants on the way to school,” she chatters, revealing no discomfort conversing with an adult.

“Do you like it out here? Have you been having fun?” I ask.

“I love it. My dad takes me out on the boat and I sunbathe while he fishes.”

“That sounds great, I love fishing. I never catch anything though. Do you ever eat what he catches?”

She scrunches her tiny features in disgust. “I don’t like fish. Only branzino.”

“Uh, really? I think I had that once.” I struggle to remember the fish, a fancy type of sea bass, typically grilled and served whole.

She skips the five feet to my side and sits cross-legged beside me on the dock. “I had it in Paris every night, my dad would have the chef make it for me special. He was there doing a shoot, and I went there with him. It’s my favorite fish of all, but only the way they make it in Paris.”

Her sophistication socks me in the face, as does the realization that a ten-year-old likely knows Paris better than I do. “Wow. How long were you in Paris?”

“Nine days. Then I flew all by myself to India, where my mom was. They served fish on the plane, and I told them I didn’t like any fish but branzino, and they didn’t have any, so,” she lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “so they gave me ice cream instead. For dinner. I could have as much as I wanted.”

She giggles as I imagine crisp first-class flight attendants doling out heaps of ice cream, all while cooing over those huge brown eyes. I don’t think I learned what branzino was until a few months ago. Not to mention the fact that I never left the country until my teens. Or ate anything but Cheerios for breakfast. Or flew alone until legal adulthood.

“So you like living in the Village? It’s a beautiful area,” I say, changing the subject. That’s all I need, a reminder that I’m less cosmopolitan than a ten-year-old.

Her eyes shift and her shoulders shrink inward. “Well, actually, I live in two places. The Greenwich Village and Long Island.” Her voice gets smaller, for the first time sounding like a child.

I nod and shoot her a warm smile, understanding instantly. “So your mom lives in Long Island and your dad lives in Manhattan?”

She nods back, grateful that the situation needs no further explanation.

“I had that too, when I was your age. Two houses, one for my mom and one for my dad.” We exchange a grin, forming an instant bond. Branzino, trips to India and Citarella croissants or no, some parts of childhood are the same everywhere.