When I was probably, maybe eight, my grandmother gave me this bunny bank as an easter basket present. I started saving money for a trip to Europe. At that point in my life, I was amazing at saving money (ask my mom), but nonetheless, the bunny bank was not always ideal for serious cash hoarding, because it basically is just for coins, and even though I did manage to cram a bunch of Sacajawea dollars in there, the total never added up to all that much. Plus, I had a real savings account at a real bank made of buildings and humans, not a plastic rabbit, and in that bank account I was also saving money for a trip to Europe, but was doing much better. (That money ultimately got put toward my college education. Womp, womp.)
But! Even though I am no longer amazing at saving money (and am now, in fact, the worst) I am still amazing at saving all of the one million sentimentally valuable objects I have accumulated over my short life, and one of those is the bunny bank! And you know what? Every time I find loose change in my room, I still stuff it in there, even though it got pretty close to exploding toward the end there.
So hey, guess what eight-year-old Dana? Your dreams are coming true. After years of your lame, semi-adult self being singularly interested in Latin America, I’ve bought some ill-advised plane tickets to Paris itself (by way of some other places), and I’ve emptied the contents of the bunny bank into the gaping mouth of the TD Bank Penny Arcade. I’ll send a postcard back in time to you, if I have enough money for postage.
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