Our hotel thankfully agreed to hold our bags while we explored and waited to shower on a quiet morning in Buenos Aires. We had just arrived after an 18-hour odyssey and walked from the hotel in an ever-widening spiral, block-by-block. I struggled to understand snippets of conversation in unique Argentine Spanish, “Castellano,” before surrendering to the moment. Taking in clean streets, 19th Century architecture, and warm weather in early July (winter in South America), we felt utterly safe, exhausted, and strangely energized. We snapped photos of the Obelisco and Casa Rosado. Built in 1873, the Casa Rosado serves as the Presidential Palace and reportedly gets its color because white paint was mixed with cows’ blood to protect the building from humidity. Stumbling along, we found a tree-lined street and chanced upon the Rigoletto in El Centro at Calle Rodríguez Peña 1291. As we entered through what turned out to be the restaurant’s rear area, signs directed us to descend a funky, industrial, spiral staircase. Placed at a table on the second tier by a young, hipsterish male, we faced views over-looking the front and main dining floor. I recognized many items on the Spanish menu. My wife, fluent, was able to converse with the waiter; I understood their every third word. Haltingly, I requested the wine list. Upon inspection, the extensive list appeared to hold great values regardless of exchange rate. With feigned confidence, in Spanish I ordered a bottle of Rutini Cabernet (Sauvignon) - Malbec Bordeaux blend (2003). That was a fantastic introduction to Argentine wine. An American sat about twenty feet from us, dining alone. He made no effort to engage staff in Castellano or any language save English. My wife, Équaan, was first to speak, asking him how long he was in Buenos Aires. The shaved-headed man said 18 months. I almost choked. Eighteen months and speaking Spanish? My wife, being more direct, asked, “You don’t speak Spanish?” Jeffrey answered, “No. Not with the Argies. That’s what I call them.” He gulped down the rest of his wine. I looked at my wife, who softly shrugged. Grabbing the Rutini, I rose from our table. “May I offer you a glass of wine?” “Sure, thanks.” He pushed his wine glass toward me and I poured about five ounces. After returning to our table, I raised my glass, “Salud,” toasting him in the air and clinking my wife’s glass Jeffrey responded by raising his glass and saying, “Cheers.” We met Jeffrey at his apartment later that night, after showers and solid naps. He lived in a two bedroom, 19th Century flat overlooking a park. For reasons he never explained, despite living in Buenos Aires for 18 months, Jeffrey never liked it much. Emailing for a few years after that day, we learned Jeffrey had moved to Bolivia, fallen in love with a Columbian woman, and built a house (his own piece of paradiso). Équaan and I have gone back to Buenos Aires every year. In addition to regions of the country, we explore different barrios in Buenos Aires: Palermo, San Telmo, Belgrano, Puerto Madero, Recoleta, and Monserrat. In March 2018, my kids and I celebrated Équaan’s 45th birthday in Buenos Aires. We invited her with about 15 friends. Our French neighbors, who had never been to South America, joined us as did our friends from San Rafael (Mendoza, Argentina – not Marin County). Friends and relatives from Oakland and Baltimore flew to Buenos Aires and spent five days with us. Most of us stayed at the San Telmo Luxury Suites. All rooms are split level, and many have two bathrooms. Breakfast is served daily. The cost was $75 USD per night. Streets are cobblestone, art is ubiquitous, and on Sunday the Feira de San Telmo (San Telmo Fair) stretches for what seems like miles. You can buy antiques, jewelry, art, collector’s items such as old movie posters and magazines, souvenirs, accessories, clothes, and more. The Fair is centered on Defensa Street (Calle Defensa); snacks and lunches are available. I opted for a lomo (ojo de bife, or rib eye) sandwich from the merchant’s parrilla (wood-fired grill); on what looked like a toasted ciabatta roll, it was perfect on a beautiful day. . . .