On the first day of my logistics internship, the northern chill whipped around my face and forced me to pull my Eskimo hood around my ears. Indoor heating greeted me with a warm embrace, sheltering me from biting iron taste of the Massachusetts winter. “Bose” was written across the wall at the back in gold letters, but the weather did not feel golden at all. Silver would have been a better word, with the sugar crust of frozen syrup dripping from the rooftops. I was garrisoned in a stony gray cubicle, charged with stacks of bills of lading and tax returns to catalogue by the neighboring giant who peered over the divider. I read over each of the shipping contracts I was told to file and stepped away with a savory feast of knowledge. My superiors gave me literature on international and domestic trade, with a special emphasis on NAFTA. The woman I drank coffee with on break came from the company’s production branch in Mexico and gave me a gift of chili powder with a hint of lime before I left.

“Communication,” she dictated with a slight accent, ”is the most important part of business.” At the end of my three weeks, I went out for a lunch of sweet cranberry salad with all three managers.

“It’s all about networking,” they all agreed. “You’re efficient and quick. We have been very impressed with the maturity and poise you possess at sixteen years of age.” The kind advice and feedback had a dulcet flavor that pleasantly mellowed the whirlwind learning process.

I was once involved in an International Summerstays program in Costa Rica and stayed for two weeks in early July. It was winter then, as well. The host family was comprised of three strong women. The middle generation supported both her mother and her own daughter. The ancient tica took my hand and pointed to her different spices.

“Linasa, canela, pimontón dulce,” she listed the names of each alchemical powder. They reminded me of the women. The grandmother had honey hair and skin like papyrus, the mother and daughter having dark chocolate curls and clay-like epidermis. In the middle of the night I heard cargo planes bound for the US flying over the cloud white house with turquoise windows. I wondered if the planes were filled with coffee beans. Maybe one day they would be filled with shipments of my own design.

My art teacher holds up a sketch from my fashion portfolio. Golden beads of amber drip down the model’s fingertips.

“How would this speak to an audience in South America?” she quizzes, transporting the main focus from the art to the viewer. The mouth of the art opens, speaking in a clear, crisp tongue that reaches farther than words, stretching across all languages.

“I will be an asset to your wardrobe. How much will you pay for me?”