When I was a music student in New York, my father would periodically come to see me, arranging   his visits around his occasional business trip from Colombia to the U.S. These were momentous occasions for me and I anticipated and relished them to such a degree that I would nix outings with boyfriends in favor of solo time with my father.
“Muñequita,” he’s say over the phone, “I’ll be going there in two weeks. Here’s my credit card number, go get us tickets to a good show.”
It was such a privilege, such a rush to have my dad’s credit card information!  I would pick whatever I wanted, all those things I couldn’t afford on my student budget—“Cats” (Yes, I loved “Cats” I confess),  “Tango Argentino,”  “A Chorus Line,” which we caught at the end of its run—or we’d go to the New York Phil or the ballet. We would meet at the front of the theater: He, a towering, immaculate man in his suit and tie, perfectly ironed shirt with the cufflinks peeking out from under his jacket; I, barely reaching to his chest, dressed in my New York City student best: A dress or slacks, never jeans, never mini skirts, which my father considered “not very elegant.”  Afterward, we’d have dinner at Cafe Des Artistes, a traditional French restaurant that served decadent food and where the music was never too loud, a sign, my father said, of quality:  the best restaurants allowed for conversation.  At the end of the evening, he would place me on a cab to take me uptown to 116th street and Riverside Drive, eons away from his midtown hotel. The next day, we would go shopping for my mom. We were the same size, she and I, and my father would sit outside the dressing room at Henri Bendel’s while I modeled outfits, and invariably, also scored something cute for myself.
Looking back, I realize there was nothing extraordinary about my father’s visits: Dinner, theater, a show. But their impact on me was indelible. This was the time when I had him all to myself, in a way that was never possible at home, not even when we were alone. In New York, my father was all mine. I was the reason he was there, and his pride in having me beside him, my hand nestled in the crook of his arm when we walked, was palpable. “This is my daughter,” he would state to maitre d’s, to business acquaintances, to the hotel staff, and my heart would swell with happiness.
A few months ago, I read with regret that Café Des Artistes  had shut down. It  brought to mind all those luscious dinners from long ago and the image of my father—now dead 15 years—lingering over a cigarette and the last coffee of the evening.  And it made me wonder what new places we could have discovered together if he were still around.
Happy Father’s Day, papi!