The Paris of South America

Argentina has been described as a nation of Italians who speak Spanish, dress as though they are French and like to think they are British.  Famed for steak and mate, polo and plastic surgery, tango and gauchos, Patagonia and the Pampas, Malbec and Torrontes, Iguazu Falls and the Andes, gnocci and gelato, Evita and Diego Maradona, arrogance and generous extravagance, this is a great big country with flamboyant personality.

Having left the beach and flown through Mexico City (with only a few hours to take in Diego Rivera's murals in the Palacio Nacional and one final late-night taco run), we arrived in NYC to celebrate Thanksgiving with family. A brisk walk through Central Park gave us a taste of autumn and the Rockefeller skating rink was open for the holidays. I thoroughly enjoyed entering my little brother Matthew's world in Brooklyn and the creative hive that is the Opera Lofts:  artists, poets, actors, business savants, hipsters and one massive great dane named London share a shabby-chic set of lofts in Bushwick. I spent Thanksgiving morning with this inspiring crowd making the rounds of a progressive dinner.

Thanksgiving afternoon, I dined with Christian's family and dashed to catch the flight to Buenos Aires.  Twenty-four hours later we enjoyed our first asado feast of Bife de Chorizo Mariposa (rump steak butterflied) washed down with Malbec - mind you, at an prime outdoor table at midnight with a line still waiting to get in.  First impression of B.A.:  the city really doesn't sleep and it does indeed echo elegant Paris with wide boulevards, sidewalk cafes and neoclassical architecture, yet there is also a hint of sultry spring-time Sydney with Jacaranda trees everywhere blooming purple.