We’ve hit a roadblock. A delicious garlic-encrusted doughy roadblock.
I had dinner tonight with a lovely couple, Miguel and Cheryl, friends of friends, who had both lived in Spain for several years. Cheryl was asking me all kinds of questions about what my plans were for next year--who I was living with, where I was going to visit--when she finally asked me what I was going to choose as my Spanish name.
“Well, when I went I had to change my name. They couldn’t say Cheryl, so I went by Charo.”
Well, I thought, Spaniards don’t seem to have too much trouble with my name. It’s a little difficult, but they get through it just fine. And I can’t just be another person for the entirety of next year, right? I mean, assuming a Spanish name would just be silly...
At this point, her husband Miguel chimes in: “...and you know, Colin means ‘breadstick.’”
What. Whaaaaat. Not “shark hunter”? Not “excessively date-able”? Not “kind of nerdy at first, but you warm up to him”?
“...and you can’t be going around Madrid telling people your name is ‘breadstick.’”
The wizened Spanish man is right. I don’t want people thinking I’m as tawdry as those oily treats they indiscriminately hand out for free at the Pasta House. That’s no way to make friends. Except in the Pasta House crowd (Italians).
So now I’m on a spirit quest for a new identity. I’m leaning towards “relámpago” or “terremoto,” but I’m sure the right name will speak to me at some point during the next couple of days as I make a metaphorical journey through the desert.
So why, in my entire semester in Madrid and the 30 hours of Spanish I took in college did this never come up? WTF, SLU?
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