Furnishing Mishap

It wasn't until after I returned from Ikea (ee-KAY-ah), set up my living space, and took a step back that it occured to me....

I have THE BREAST COMFORTER EVER.

No K-names in Spain

When I moved to Madrid, I became a different me. The change is only subtle, but regardless, in at least a few ways, I am new.
In order to realize and embrace the change, I have published this blog under a new name.

And there is a little story behind it...

When I first arrived in Madrid, I found that it is nearly impossible for the madrileños to pronounce my name correctly. In fact, many interactions went something like this:
"Como se llama?"
"Soy Kristen."
"krees-TEEN?"
"No, no. Kristen"
"Sí, krees-TEEN.
[uncomfortable laugh] "Kristen."
"Ah! Vale! kree-STEE-nah!"

And--
The few times I gave in and went to Starbucks, the barista handed me a coffee with the name "CRISTINA" scribbled in magic marker.

I like my name. I like the way it sounds, the way it's spelled with a 'K' and not a 'C', or a 'CH', which always made me think of a boy's name or Christmas. I like that towards the end I have an 'E' instead of an 'I' , which to me looks more juvenile. This 'E' that I have, this 'E' is so much more...sophisticated.
I thought about all I had learned as a practicing teacher in New York State--the stories about students who came to the US from other countries and lost a piece of their culture when they were unwillingly given an 'Americanized' name in school. I remember a friend from college introducing himself to me as Josh, when even at the time I knew his name was Josue. "Why is he rejecting his cultural background," I thought.

I was angry that the madrileños refused to call me Kristen.

But then I got to thinking about it. Why do they refuse to call me Kristen? Is it because they don't want to, or because they cannot produce the sounds? I mean, it's not like I don't want to roll my Rs. My mouth is physically incapable.
I developed a new understanding of why a person would change his or her name, or at least let the mispronunciations slide. I can imagine why Josue began referring to himself as Josh. It's annoying having to repeat your name five times, every time you meet someone new.

I didn't come to Spain to live like an American. I came to embrace the Spanish culture. I came to live like a local. Here we go.


Besitos,
Cristina

Al Principio

His looks are quite mild. Dried, sand-colored strips of skin peel away from his bottom lip, and around his eyes bitter-yellow circles revolve like turning leaves.

Seated across my kitchen table, he takes his Swiss Army knife to the cork. Lips rest on a translucent rim. Glass slides on the wet table-top. We ease into an early evening.

I make him laugh, and his teeth are washed in mauve like two rows of harvest berries. Now I’m self-conscious about my own.
“Are they purple?” I ask, scrunching my nose, struggling to lift my lip high enough to expose my teeth. A $9 bottle of Shiraz Yellowtail. I bought it earlier believing it was blush.
“Not at all.”
Then, clinking his own teeth together, “How ‘bout mine?” he asks nearly inaudibly. And my laughter says it all.

This is how it usually goes. We sit and chat about our day: the threat of snow, the presidential race, the football game he saw last week.
“Kristen—" he leaves it hanging in the sky for a moment, "when we graduate,
let’s visit Spain.”