They continued walking, crossing a massive square. On one end, a large pink building surrounded by gates, and on the other, a wide road encircling a monument. In front of the building, dozens of protesters with large banners had camped out, yelling inaudible things into megaphones and banging something metal around, even as a song wafted from speakers. More came down the road, like this spot was the end of a march of some kind.

She looked at the banners, but she couldn’t quite read them through the mass of people, and the wind was blowing them at the wrong angle. She turned to Fabricio. “Are there a lot of protests here?”

He nodded. “Many people remember what it was like to not have a voice, so they use it whenever they can. We’re very politically active. We protest, we vote, we talk politics a lot.”

Someone walked by selling ice cream and water, and then they were across the plaza and into one of the smaller streets. From this angle, she had a clear view of one of the protest signs, but it was all catch phrases and talking points she didn’t have the cultural reference points to understand.

Nita found herself asking, “What are they protesting?”

Fabricio jerked away and continued walking. “What am I, your prisoner or your tour guide?”

Nita tilted her head. “Can’t you be both?”

He glared at her.

Kovit sighed. “It’s not important. Let’s just get to the apartment.”

They continued walking, and after a few moments Fabricio said, “They’re protesting the rules around claiming veteran’s benefits for soldiers of la Guerra de las Malvinas.”

Nita knew of the war. In the 1980s, Argentina invaded the British-occupied islands after negotiations to return them to Argentina broke down. Argentina was thoroughly routed.

“Guerra de las Malvinas?” Kovit repeated, mangling the Spanish.

“The Falklands War,” Nita translated.

Fabricio’s eyelid twitched, and his jaw clenched when he heard the F-word, and Nita immediately wished she hadn’t said anything. Her father once told her that the surest way to get in a fight with an Argentine was to claim the Islas Malvinas weren’t theirs. Nita had a rule about the Falklands—keep her mouth shut. She didn’t want to get in a fight over something she only had the barest understanding of, especially when most of what she knew was from her Chilean father who had little love for Argentina.

She needed to change the subject, and quickly.

“Nice weather today, right?”

Wow. She was really great at this.

Fabricio gave her a mildly exasperated but also a little amused look like he knew exactly what she was trying do. Kovit looked at her like she was speaking gibberish, since he had no idea what a minefield topic this was.

“You should try alfajores while you’re here,” Fabricio said, pointing at a display of white cookies in a bakery window. “They’re delicious.”