My thirty-something self is feeling disappointed at the sixteen year old model and also at the good hearted teacher who overestimated obnoxious adolescents by demanding a precocious read on García Marquez.  She used to call me Doña Bella, in reference to another book I didn´t read, but I was pleased with the nickname.  I was flattered actually.  The cover had the picture of a gorgeous woman in a red shirt and jeans with long dark locks on a horseback and, from in-class commentary, I gather she was some sort of femme fatale.  I have dark hair, but I was no temptress.  Although I did have a school romance she knew about and maybe she was in on the teen soap opera.  Our teacher wore rain protective gear indoors and refused to let a day go by without telling us we were ¨cabezas de alcornoques.¨  I was most certain I was, and if not so, then I was incredibly lazy for not going to the dictionary to understand the praise I was getting.  Today, I can describe myself as a daily writer.   Not saying I´m a good one, nor a funny one, but, in all honesty, I have to admit I wish I get close.  No writer can get by without being a reader and next on my to-do-list is Cien Años de Soledad.  

It´s no excuse, but I guess I was also discouraged at the sight of the Buendía Family Tree, mostly because I was having issues figuring mine out at the time.

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