In my pathetic Spanish – everyone in Sweetwater is Nicaraguan – I asked them to change my tire. Although I had trouble making myself understood, eventually they figured out what needed to be done and did it. “¿Por qué no habla español?” one asked, and I shrugged and said, “Yo estudio español en escuela en Nueva York por cuatro años pero no . . . remember.” “Recuerdo,” said the teenage boy next to me.
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Yesterday, when I went to fill out the car insurance forms, the woman at the office asked my occupation. I gave it as “writer,” but she misinterpreted my New York accent and wrote down “rider.” I guess maybe because this is Davie, she thought I was with the rodeo. Do I actually look like a cowboy?