Little bits of Argentine magic, captured at random:
– At Don Julio’s, after scarfing down a basket of bread knots soaked in spicy tapenade, a platter of butterflied sirloin, and a serving of chocolate mousse large enough to have its own ZIP code, the youngest nephew, Walter, laid his head on the table and, exhausted from the flight, went almost instantly to sleep. One of the waiters — the younger guy with longer hair and a crooked grin — spotted this, tiptoed over, put a gentle hand on Walter’s shoulder, and began to sing: “Silent night … holy night …”
– Walking the streets of Palermo Soho. The temperature of the afternoon air is perfect. The facades and streets are awash in golden summer light. I am eating a single piece of chocolate: a shiny, monogrammed shell packed with dark chocolate liqueur. I step out of the bookstore, and spy Clyde and his dad, sitting side by side on a concrete bench. My heart skips a beat, and I hope I’m still traveling with Clyde when we reach his father’s age.
– By the time I flossed and brushed and showered and got ready for bed, Clyde, bless him, had set up our electronics hub, plugged in all the converters, added power strips … and, on top of all that, he even put a chocolate on my pillow. My husband is the most amazing man in the entire world.
– I wake up at 5:30, fully rested. Rather than beat myself up with thoughts of “Gotta get more sleep!” I just lie there for an hour, enjoying the sound of Clyde’s breathing and the delicious warmth of being under a down comforter in a dark, icy room. At 6:15, I get up, shower, and get dressed. At one point, on its own, the door to our balcony opens; when I step over to close it, I am greeted with the sight of Palermo Soho in the early morning: a blue-white sky, wispy clouds, a jumble of buildings awash in green leaves and bright blossoms.
– I sneak downstairs to write. The night shift inn keeper — a lanky, dark-haired young man — says nothing, but as I sit down in one of the two red-orange chairs, he efficiently and unobtrusively removes hotel literature from a table and repositions it so I can easily rest my laptop there. It’s a small gesture, but a nice one — and very typical, I might add, of the kind of service we’re getting from everyone at the Miravida Soho.
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