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.