By Isabelle Lagarde of Argentina’s Travel Guide

The sun was rising, the air was cool, and the quiet streets of Puerto Madero were dotted with kissing couples clinging to the night. My friend and I stumbled, exhausted and tipsy, along the peatonal, singing pop songs in Spanish and doubling over with laughter remembering the strange and utrageous moments of the night before. It had been another all night marathon of dancing, drinking, partying nd socializing; it was six in the morning and we were finally heading home.

Buenos Aires has a reputation as a party city, and only the truly eclusive would argue otherwise. If you are going to even bother going out, you best be prepared for the Buenos Aires nightlife. Bars don’t get going till 12 or 1 and clubs don’t even open their doors till 2, which is fine since most Argentineans don’t eat dinner till around 11 anyways. Everything is pushed back a few hours, and then elongated into the morning. So wear comfortable shoes, try to squeeze in a late afternoon nap, chug a Redbull and get amped for what is sure to be a memorable night on the town. (more…)

A motorcycle trip through Spain’s slightly untouched backcountry

By Ian Middleton

The winds were blowing savagely against my body as I fought to stay on the bike and maintain some control over its movements. It was the beginning of January and normally this time of year most people choose to leave their bikes tucked away in a dry garage. Normally, I would be no different, but I had decided to take my Maxim 650 and head for Spain’s Mediterranean coast. I just hoped that I would make it there in one piece. With the weather the way it was, I was glad that I had been sensible enough to avoid going through France, and book passage on the ferry instead. It hadn’t cost much. For about £100, I bought a one-way ticket for a P&O ferry, that included bike carriage and a cabin, to Bilbao. All I had to do was get to Portsmouth. That was easier said than done.

The worst part of the journey was the crossing from the motorway into Portsmouth. There was a vicious cross wind that slowed me to 25 mph and blew my bike into a forty-five degree angle. But I made it, and got safely onboard the ship. In the terminal I had befriended another biker who happened to have the same name as me. He had bought a brand new Honda for a trip to Pau, Southern France. Ian told me that he had ridden from Manchester that day. I had, up until that moment, felt quite proud of myself for battling the forces of nature for a distance of fifty miles. But after hearing about Ian’s ride, I suddenly felt quite humble. (more…)