The island girl stepped off the ferry onto cement. Strange, in her village there was only sand. She saw pictures of streets, but never stood in one with a curb and sidewalk.
Entering a cafe, not sure how to sit on a chair at a table, always sat on the floor, legs crossed on a mat. No problem reading the menu. Tahitian, however, missionaries taught her French, English and some German and knowledgeable of Papeete history.
Not much use for math, no bills to pay, little to purchase, food on trees, in the ground and water, traded for what she needed. A man spoke to the island girl; she knew what that was about.