Just wait till you get to Argentina. Arriving in Buenos Aires is like jumping aboard a moving train. Outside the taxi window, a blurred mosaic of drab apartment blocks and haphazard architecture whizzes by as you shoot along the freeway toward the center of town. The driver – probably driving way too fast while chain-smoking and talking incessantly about government corruption – finally merges off the freeway. Then the real city appears, the cafés, the purple jacaranda flowers draped over the sidewalks, stylish porteños (residents of Buenos Aires) walking purposefully past the newspaper stands and candy kiosks and handsome early-20th-century stone facades.

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