There's a lot invested in what a person is called, a lot of meaning wrapped up in a name. A friend of mine, going through a bitter divorce, was filling out paperwork to rechange her name and decided to make up an entirely new one. Another friend, facing the competitive marketplace of New York City actors, goes professionally by the nickname her father picked up from Russian houseguests in her childhood (and which also suits her very German surname). A third goes solely by her last name, because it stands out as much as the brash personality it describes, and a fourth uses an abbreviation she adopted at age 11.
No matter whether someone embraces the name they're given or chooses another, there is a very conscious creation of identify in the way we introduce ourselves to the world. Further, as we continue using a name, it becomes invested with a reputation beyond our control as a shorthand for whatever it is that we make of ourselves.
From a very small age, learning to read, I was delighted that my name began with "V", a rare and magical letter. I hated Vincenzo, though, called thus by my mother's side of the family. It's ironic that I've embraced it so much that it's now a fundamental part of who I am and the monicker I use in my biggest hobby, the SCA.
I think, when I'm in Argentina, I'll stay Vincenzo. I've never cared for Vicente, and I'm not in the market for a new identity: I quite like the one I've built.