"Hola, soy Molly." Hello, I'm Molly. Seems simple enough, yeah? It is only the statement I have said approximately 5.7 million times in the years I have spent living and traveling throughout this fabulous yet apparently hard of hearing country.
"Modi?"
"Molly."
"Como? Moni?"
"MoLLy!"
"Modi?"
If I do not give a flying fuck about the person who is insisting on calling me Modi/Moni/Morocco, at this point I say, "Si, Modi," brush it off my shoulder like any good rap star, and continue on with my evening (while, of course, simultaneously racking my brain to figure out why the Spanish cannot distinguish the difference between my pronunciation of L and D). If the person is even suspected of being pertinent to my future social life or work opportunities, this goes on for a while... until I remember my new found, mythical weapon that does not amuse me at all.
"Sabes... Molly Malone...?"
"Ahhh, claroooo!! Moli!"
Aaand there went my dignity out the window. Being compared to a fish-selling Irish legend chick accused of prostituting on the side. Would you like a happy ending with your trout? Sweet dude! The most unfortunate side effect? This is officially my nickname for some of Pelayo's family members.
Hey, at least you're not name Ezequiel... where people call you Esquivel, ezeqoiel, ezkiel, zekiel, and the list goes on and on and on :)
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