The Paris of the South

I’ve been thinking about Argentina a lot lately, mostly because my fiancee and I are currently in the process of planning our honeymoon down there, and I can so trick myself into thinking that the escapist fantasizing is actually useful.

It’s been nearly seven years now since I’ve visited, but in my mind I can still make the walk from our old apartment on Cordoba y Azcuenaga to my office just past Recoleta, past graffiti, stray dogs and trash piles on the corner. I wonder often if the city’s changed much. Back then, it seemed very much an adventure, a cosmopolitan city with a rough edge at the end of the world. How much of this was my own youthful romanticizing is as yet undetermined. We surely had a lot of fun, and there was certainly an element of danger. But really, if you put a handful of 22 year-old kids in a foreign city, things are bound to get dangerous. Honestly, though, I don’t remember that. I remember waiting on the corner for a table at La Cabrera, drinking cafe con leche in the mornings, running down by the docks and dancing my ass off at night. Here’s to finally counting down the days (as opposed to the years) until I get to do that again.



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