Exploring an empty city does have its perks, you see buildings differently and you feel you own the city. I kept on wondering about the logistic of shutting down for four or five hours in the middle of the day.
Argentina’s political history is complicated. I’m not judging. I just want to understand.
I took a quick look at the bus station—dark, dirty, muddy with a few plastic chairs in the waiting area and tube TV sets mounted on the wall. We had just stepped into another world, another Argentina, off the beaten track.
North America has the famous “PB&J” sandwich, Argentina goes by the initials “J-y-Q”— jamón y queso, ham and cheese.
My pocket map of Rosario is torn along the lines, a few street names faded and I marked the hotel’s address with a big black dot.
Once again, it started at the Retiro bus station, in Buenos Aires. This time, we had our gear with us. Destination? Rosario, Santa Fe, Central Argentina.
Life in Buenos Aires is like a game of heads or tails—assuming you find a coin to flip, change is hard to get.
It was only a two-hour flight from Santiago to Buenos Aires, but the vibe and the people are very different.
I asked someone for directions to the city centre. The guy paused. I felt sorry for him—giving directions is never easy, let alone in La Plata where you can easily send innocent travellers like us in the wrong diagonal.
Usually, the first question of the day is “where do we go?” For once, we know: San Telmo, for the weekly Sunday market.
Leather is surprisingly cheap. Then you realize how much meat Argentinians eat and suddenly you think turning cows into belts, jackets and bags makes sense.
The last night in Buenos Aires was less relaxing than I would have thought—it was…
In one swift motion, I dropped off the bag inside the bin and jumped back onto the sidewalk.
I can’t claim I’ve been everywhere but I think we visited all the main attractions and walked in every barrio. Hell, I can even find my way without a map.
Plaza de Mayo is not your usual boring plaza featuring a statue of a dude on a horse: it is a hub of political life.
We are standing at the entrance of the famous Cementerio de la Recoleta, a picturesque yet slightly creepy landmark that is famous for containing the graves of, among other notable people, Eva Perón and presidents of Argentina.
Traveling is like stumbling on a new movie set every few days, except that you weren’t given the script and you aren’t sure what part you’re playing.
It was quick. And brutal. This was the kind of flight were the seat belt sign stays on for the entire time and no one walks in the alley, including flight attendants.
The airport tarmac offered the first stunning view on the mountain range. I loved it. I grew up by the sea, mountainous landscapes are exotic to me.
No more jumping on beds. Seriously, guys…
I felt bad for Córdoba so after we booked the tickets, I decided to explore the city better and give it another chance.
Sometime, backpacking is like a masochist adventure between The Truman Show and The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
Coming back to Buenos Aires felt like putting on one of your favourite old pair of jeans—I just didn’t know if they still fit.