The following morning, I called Juan, the taxi driver and his yellow and black “Fiat” pulled up at a curb outside the hostel. I carried a scribbled piece of paper as I read, “Yo quiero ir a Palermo.”
“De que parted de Palermo?” said Juan, looking to me across the console.
He saw my hesitation so translated, “Which part or Palermo?”
“Palermo Viejo,” I read from the paper.
“Palermo is growing every year?” Juan pressed the accelerator against his foot.
“How’s that possible?”
“The neighbourhood is like a brand name,” he replied. “Es muy chic, especially Palermo Soho.”
“Are you taking me to Viejo?”
“Yes,” Juan reassured. “They are just beside each other. Soho is like the Argentinean version of New York’s SoHo. It’s like you’re saying you’re wearing Gucci.” Juan turned his head to mine. “You know what I mean?”
The car speed ahead…
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