(cont.) The next day I wanted to take a day-trip to get out of the city.  After consulting my Lonely Planet, I decided on San Antonio de Areco, a small town about a two-hour bus ride west through the Pampas (the fertile lowlands surrounding Buenos Aires). As I waited for an hour for the bus in the city’s chaotic bus station, I struck up a conversation with an old woman who was seated to my left.  Given my limited Spanish, the conversation was pretty one-sided until a man to my right who looked like he played soccer professionally joined in.  As far as I could make out, we were talking about the lack of church participation and a general dislike for city life.  I was feebly attempting to protest, “Me gusta la ciudad!” when a bus pulled up several spots over from where mine was supposed to arrive.  After consulting my ticket, the old woman ambled over and spoke with the driver.  She motioned for me to get on the bus.  She and the man smiled and waved to me as I got on.  I waved back and slunk back into my comfortable, well air-conditioned seat for the short ride into the country.

We arrived around two in the afternoon to the outskirts of town, which, after entering, I realized was right in time for siesta.  After some wandering I found an open café where two dogs were sleeping near the entrance.  After a leisurely lunch I walked through Plaza Ruiz de Arellano -- a small park at the center of town -- on my way to Rio Areco, the river from which the town derives its name.  As I walked back I could tell that San Antonio was beginning to wake up, which, even at its most active, maintains a sleepy feel.  I darted into a nearby silversmith shop where the owner, an affable third-generation silversmith, showed me around his shop.

I picked up a mate cup and a llama sweater from a second shop and then I stopped at one last store near the center of town where the owner, Analisa, insisted I try some of her mate tea before she drank it.  Surprisingly, even on as hot of a day as it was, the tea was refreshing and flavorful.  I ended up buying the last of my gifts here and got back to the station near dusk, just in time to catch the last bus back to the city.

When I arrived back from San Antonio, a message was waiting for me at the desk from some friends from Ecuador inviting me out that night to the neighborhood just north of Palermo Soho: Palermo Hollywood (I know it gets a little confusing).  Fitz Roy, just a short walk north from the hotel, is the  neighborhood’s main street and it’s lined with numerous restaurants and bars that are a step-up in quality from those found in Soho.  Though Italian restaurants seemed to be the dominant style, I also saw French, Turkish, Japanese and Brazilian.  We met at a bar named Uniglo where we ordered Mojitos and listened to a mix of eighties and hip-hip mixed by a DJ who was suspended on a small platform hanging precariously above the bar.

The next morning I found that the sore throat I had been neglecting for the last week had worsened and the lack of sleep over the last few nights had started to wear on me.  I spent the day on the phone working out arrangements for my flight to Santiago, Chile, for the next day, which I somehow was able to procure despite barely hearing a word the Expedia agent was saying due to the poor connection.  Unfortunately, the only flight I could get was 5:30 a.m., so after making my way back to the hostel and a light dinner I headed to bed around 10, just when most people were heading out for the night.  As I dozed off I could hear cheers for the Argentina versus Columbia match that had just started.

I wished I could have joined in and watched.  “Next time,” I thought, for now it’s time for some much needed sleep, and next, Chile, to continue on with this amazing trip.

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