My neighborhood jeweler, H. Stern

I was studying abroad in Rio de Janeiro, and every day, on my walk to school, I’d pass a jewelry store with a very stern-looking facade and an equally stern-looking security guard at the door. The store was aptly named H. Stern. It was 2003, I was a small-town girl who came to Rio from southeastern Pennsylvania, and I had no clue about anything. Anything. Least of all, luxury brands.

My first instinct was that H. Stern stood for Howard Stern. That’s the only H.Stern I’d ever heard of. Hey, this neighborhood jeweler must have a sense of humor! He named his store after Howard Stern! But as the weeks went by and I passed that store twice a day, I decided that that couldn’t be it.

I need to gather the courage to get past that stern-looking security guard and enter what had to be the coolest jewelry shop in all of Rio, the place where I’d be able to find a ton of quirky, authentically Brazilian pieces to take home as souvenirs to my mom and my college girl friends.

One day, looking particularly chic in my black statement tank (which, as my Portuguese teacher explained, said something along the lines of “Not even paying attention!”) and my rubber Havaianas flip-flops, I boldly made eye contact with the security guard and yanked open that heavy door like I meant business. I went it, straw beach tote in hand, with plenty of room in it for all of the jewelry I was about to buy.

You know the rest. H.Stern turned out to be far from the artisanal Brazilian jeweler I had envisioned. In order to buy anything in the store, I would’ve had to work four jobs for the next forty years. I walked out mortified. But as with all situations life throws at us, there was a lesson to be learned. A year later, when I moved to New York City, I was savvy enough to know that Louis Vuitton wasn’t the local purse-maker.