When I was a little girl my father would put me to sleep while reciting a poem. From a creaky wooden rocking chair, he would read the verses as my eyes grew weary and I fought my best to stay awake. Nonetheless, each night I would succumb, my eyelashes gently growing heavier as the familiar cadence ambled forth. It was the melodic tale of a girl who wore her pink shoes to the seaside—"Los Zapaticos de Rosa."