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Shop Until You Drop! London Style

Call me materialistic. I don’t care. Why? Because it’s true, this girl loves her things. I blame my mother, really. As a young girl, I was fascinated with her collection of beautiful treasures. She used to catch me sneaking into her closet, desperately searching for the elegantly adorned boxes that contained all of the hats, post cards, jewelry, rocks, sea shells, tickets, photos, and books that had accumulated over the years, all originating from whole other worlds she managed to visit throughout her lifetime. After sufficient begging, she would agree to sit down with her boxes at the edge of her bed and show me through her things once again.             “And this bracelet? This is the one I bought in Bolivia with your father” she would say, dangling the shiny chain in front of my wide, glistening eyes. “This book, here, I bought in a little libreria in Mexico City! And this hat,” she would add, smiling, placin...
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So, What Are You?

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When I was six years old, I was given blonde hair for Christmas. My family spent the holidays that year visiting my father’s side of the family in his home country, Bolivia. During this time, I grew very close to my cousin Angela, and as a parting gift, she insisted she draw my portrait before I left, using the brand-new pencils my mother had placed under the tree for her.             “Hold still, Vale!” she directed, pressing her colored pencils to her Hello Kitty sketch book with such intensity, as if she believed the pages might fly away and escape her colorful lead. I sat on the swing, holding my breath, pretending my smile and arms had turned to still wax. Angela is a whole year older than me, therefore a more experienced artist and much better at drawing people than I was. With every curve that she traced, I imagined how perfect I would turn out—a true masterpiece, I hoped.        ...
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