To be honest, I had begun to wonder if travelling was still for me. I could still remember the complete ecstasy of actually setting foot in a place I had previously only dreamed about, reveling in every little detail, the smells, the sounds, the tastes - any point of difference to my well-trodden, comfortable life at home. But in my attempts to feed this high, travelling became my sole priority, to the point that nothing seemed new or exciting anymore. Perhaps I had used up all my 'firsts' and the fire had gone out. However, following a long and wrenching break-up, a girl’s trip seemed inevitable, and a cheap package deal to Buenos Aires irresistible, so on I went with my BFF hoping to find fire again. And then there we were in the sun, the image of Evita Peron proudly gazing down from imposing buildings. We were immediately bustled by the 'guide' type overseer onto on an unavoidably generic introductory tour (the type of overview I secretly find super interesting anyway). I was surprised to learn he was of Italian heritage, like many Argentinians. We learned that Argentinian natives weren't to be seen anywhere in the sprawling, highly populated city and were of very low numbers elsewhere - a sobering reminder of brutal Spanish colonization. Going out for dinner that night I was also surprised to have a lot of trouble ordering or saying anything at all - English wasn't as widely understood as I had assumed it would be in such a popular destination, and my BFF's high-school Spanglish just wasn't holding up. As an English-speaking tourist, I had become lazily accustomed to people all over the world speaking MY language, and didn't expect to need to peep out from my comfort-zone and vulnerably mispronounce an unfamiliar language. So far, Argentina was intimidating. But with some quick google translations we stepped beyond the immediate language barrier, and through our efforts soon felt more immersed in the vibrant city atmosphere, and less like awkward tourists spectating. Growing in confidence, we ventured beyond the colorful, crazy city to explore the slower-paced Tigre delta, a kind of 'Venice of South America’, or that was the plan. Kicked off by a tense taxi trip through gridlock traffic, we found ourselves running aimlessly around an industrial area, frantically asking at curiously empty offices for directions. This culminated in a desperate and not so elegant sprint in heeled boots to the elusive dock, ten minutes past departure. A decidedly casual Carlos greeted us, calming our mania instantly with his observation that the other passengers still hadn't arrived – ‘Argentinian time’ serving as a sweet reminder that life doesn't always have to be as fast-paced and stressful as it often is back home. Carlos, our guide, had also instantly decided that we were to be his new friends, two young(ish) women were clearly not his usual clientele and this appeared quite the opportunity. Over tapas and one-liter bottles of beer the three of us laughed, learnt about each other's day-to-day lives, and enjoyed spontaneous mini lessons in Spanish and English speaking respectively. This, we found, was the essence of Argentina. Enjoyment in eating and drinking, meeting and socializing, laughing and honest questions – unadulterated joy that is so often lost in the daily grind, as we eat leftovers for lunch at our desk, text instead of meet, and return home to mindlessly binge the latest Netflix series. In Argentina all that slipped away as we become absorbed into the intoxicating color and vibrancy. Carlos’s plan succeeded and he joined us later for drinks in Palermo, a stylish, hipster-type area full of alternative bars and restaurants. We strolled the lively streets, framed by beautiful kaleidoscopic graffiti, symbolizing the tumultuous political struggles of the people. Here, aided by cheap beer and pizza, we met more friends. However, these were not tour-guides trained in English, these were locals with absolutely no understanding of our now confident attempts at Spanish. Phones became a necessity for communication, continually handed back and forth with bungled google-translations, accompanied by many giggles and confused replies. We ended our night and our trip with two locals trying desperately and earnestly to communicate a seemingly hilarious joke in which 'soap' and 'radio' somehow came together to form the punchline – and in all this effort it became the funniest joke I have ever heard. Listening to laughter, gazing around at ornate buildings in the dark night, I could feel the warmth of the fire again.