Day three at immigration. I've become a regular. The lady at the information desk smiles in recognition when she sees me. The gap-toothed man near the door waves, saying, "I remember you!" Even the cool reserve and flat affect of Mr. Marcelo over at window A2 have melted considerably. He drops formality and takes the Sharpie from my hand as I'm writing. He turns it over and over, appraising it, finally nodding with the kind of appreciation that only a man who fills out as many forms as he does could have. "Nice pen." Later, he offers to wait just beyond the permissible time so he can review my forms again and make sure everything is in order. Foreigners often complain that their immigration forms can take months or even years to be processed, but Mr. Marcelo assures me I'll have everything in hand within 30 days. "Seguro que si," he assures me with a wink as I look at him with raised eyebrows.

Sweet. I'm in like Flynn... sort of.

But my name isn't Flynn, which might be easy. It's S-C-H-W-I-E-T-E-R-T. And that's hard, especially in this corner of the world. The reason I'm here for the third time in as many days is because the lady in charge of ensuring that applicants have paid their fees is having trouble with my name. The print on the bank receipt I've brought her--the third sheet of a triplicate form--is tiny and faint. She wears glasses and uses a magnifying glass, and I feel bad about contributing to the permanent wrinkle that's creased into her forehead. Her colleague types as she spells; they attempt various combinations and pronunciations of my name as if I'm not present. They keep switching the "I" and the "E" and I try to help but only make things worse. "Spanish 'I'?" she asks (which, to complicate matters, is pronounced "ee."). I say yes, I show them my passport, point to my name, but they assure me it doesn't matter how I spell my name... it's how the bank spells my name that interests them. Finally,the computer makes a pleasant beeping sound, the typist lets out a sigh and the sight-challenged colleague drops the magnifying glass with a thud. "What kind of name is that, anyway?" they ask.

An odd one. One that starts conversations. And one that occasionally causes bureaucratic blips.

Perhaps I should have learned the language of my last name, should have started my path into the world by getting my passport inked by a string of German-speaking countries. But the first time I crossed an international border, it was headed south and I was hooked. My life is totally tied up in all things Spanish. Only my last name, sometimes, suggests otherwise.