When the weather's warm you’ll often catch glimpse of a mosquito buzzing around your head, legs or bare arms, looking for a spot to land. You watch it buzz. You know if you lose sight of it it’ll pick a spot, land ever so softly and feed.

The man standing between Ellen and I looked a little like a balding Ward Cleaver from Leave it to Beaver, but he operated like a mosquito. He had a rain jacket draped over his arm. As the subway came to a stop, the man started pushing past me towards the door. I’d been holding my left arm close to my left pant pocket, where my wallet was. I don’t know exactly what the man did, but he created a distraction, a subtle distraction. The next thing I knew, my left hand wasn’t guarding my wallet. It was beneath the man’s draped jacket. Then I felt an ever so soft touch on my wrist—like that of a mosquito. I pulled back slightly and felt a firm tug on my wrist watch. He had hold of the clasp. Then I pulled back hard and yelled loud enough for everyone on the crowded subway car to hear. The man stood back, then showed me a rip in his jacket and accused me of causing it. With my arm down once again, guarding my wallet pocket, I wondered if I should guard my watch with my right hand. I told him to f&#@ off.

About three weeks into our travels through Argentina, Ellen and I came to the same conclusion. Argentines have the unique ability to be both humble and classy, all at the same time. Add friendly to that and what more could you ask for. They don’t seem to know arrogance. Under different conditions, had I perhaps met the subway thief on the street and asked for directions, the thought of stealing my watch might never have occurred to him.

Buenos Aires has been referred to as the Paris of the south. This city of thirteen million people has the architecture of Paris, the cosmopolitan feel of New York and the friendliness you might expect of a smaller city, like Vancouver. Close your eyes and sip an espresso in any of its old world cafés and you might feel you’re in Venice. Order a glass of wine from a chic bar and the smiling waiter will fill it right to the brim—good if you’re thirsty, not so good if you want to experience the bouquet—oh well.

Ellen and I had been told that the people of Argentina don’t have their dinner until ten o’clock at night. Since that’s way past our bedtimes, we simply thought our legs were being pulled. Neither of us had eaten red meat in almost a year, but with all the hullabaloo about Argentine steak we decided we’d have a go. We chose our final night in the trendy San Telmo district. It was ten on the button when we pulled up our chairs at a table at El Desnivel, an already busy spot on a street named Defensa. We both selected the beef tenderloin, a single side order of mashed potatoes and a bottle of Malbec to wash it all down. When the waiter set down a plate of meat in front of Ellen, she took one look at the steak and said she couldn’t do it. I thought at first she was talking about eating red meat period. Then another plate arrived. The waiter set it in front of me. I gasped, then fumbled, trying to explain to the waiter that we’d only ordered food for two. He was busy and had no time to try and decipher my gibberish. We were stuck with the two massive hunks of grilled beef, each piece weighing half, maybe three-quarters of a kilo. The single order of mashed potatoes arrived next, enough for a family of four or five. The only item that came in a normal size was the wine. I suddenly clued in. For the past three weeks we’d been served cakes and other assorted sweets each morning for breakfast. Argentines wait until morning for dessert after their late night beefings.

The meat was so tender I could easily have cut it with the dull side of my steak knife. And the flavour was fabulous, like nothing that I’d ever tasted. When I finished my pound plus slab, I looked towards Ellen’s plate, hoping for leftovers. No such luck. With great food she’s a far stronger eater than I am.   

It was twenty minutes past eleven when we left the restaurant. By now more than fifty were lined up right out into the street, waiting for tables to be vacated, their plates to be filled. The evening was warm; the streets were busier now than they had been an hour and a half earlier. We stopped at a cozy bar on Avenida Chile. What the hell, it was our last night and already way past our bedtimes. A cocktail in Buenos Aires is about the same price as it is in Toronto. But you get about three times the alcohol. By midnight the streets were filled with eaters and drinkers alike. It was one-twenty when we started wobbling our way through the mass of hungry, thirsty, humanity, back towards our hotel room. We went to sleep that night enlightened. In a few hours we wouldn’t be having our usual unhealthy breakfast. It would really just be dessert.

Buenos Aires was all the European style, mega-city I expected. But the people, how can you ever really anticipate human beings? Watch thieves aside, Argentines are the most hospitable people Ellen and I have ever encountered. It’s a land we’ll always remember.