In which all the broken things in the world only need a bit of glue.

Three months after moving across the world to Spain, I went to a convenience store to buy some super glue to fix my broken right shoe, which had sadly come apart in the front. A plump elderly woman with blue eyeliner and a forest green wool overcoat listened in on my request, hobbled together in broken Spanish; "I am looking for a liquid that repairs things that have been broken - quickly and efficiently".

"Oh, super-glue!" says the store clerk.

The woman interjects, "I know exactly the brand you want, it's called 'lotici', it fixed my son's sneakers better than the condition they were when I bought them! Shall I write it down for you?"

The store clerk stands with his super glue brand in his hand, stretched out to me, and says, "This works just the same, it's very strong, like magic, fixes everything."

I politely decline her offer to note down her suggested superglue brand saying, "I'll go ahead and purchase this superglue here for 70 cents, and if it doesn't fix my broken shoe, then I'll look for your brand."

"But do you remember what it was called?", she asks.

"Locotu?". She finger tsk's at me and says, "Lotici". I pay the 70 cents, converse politely with the store owner, listening to his instructions on making sure the shoe is perfectly clean and ready to be adhered to itself and head out of the store, pleased for making the morning productive.

All of a sudden from behind me, I hear someone saying, "Pssst!! Hey you!"

I ignore it until it gets louder. "PPSSTT!!! HEY!!" And gosh darn if it isn't the same woman in the forest green coat: "You must make sure that it is clean, thoroughly, before you apply the adhesive. Are you sure you don't want to write down the name of the brand?" 

I say, "Oh, I remember it. Locotiti, right?"

"No, lotici", she fixes me with a determined, chastising stare.

"OK", I smile, hobbling away on my broken right shoe.