“Which one is Sabrina?” my dad asked, surveying the crowd which had gathered around the boombox. It was 11 p.m. on our first Friday in Argentina, and the night was as young as my father was befuddled.
“There is no Sabrina, dad,” I laughed. “We’re here to see his ‘sobrina,’ Gustavo’s niece. Clearly, your high school Spanish never took you much beyond ‘madre’ or ‘padre.’”
Not that I could blame him for being so baffled. After all, one second we’re in a cab on the way back to the hotel; the next, we’re crashing a Friday night rendezvous in the middle of Mendoza’s Plaza Italia. Let’s just say it’s not exactly what Mr. Frommer had in mind when he directed us to our dinner destination that evening.
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