On the road to the Río de la Plata

Buenos Aires – The journey begins

First stop: Buenos Aires.

Some departures don’t ask for permission. They simply impose themselves. This was one of them. I had let the years slip by, the “not now”s, the files to finish, the obligations to fulfil. And then one day, nothing. No more excuses. Just one question going round in circles:

What if I went far away?

From idea to action, it took just one click. A ticket. A route. A dream itinerary: Buenos Aires, Salta, Iguazú, El Calafate, Ushuaia. All planned. In theory, at least. Because between plans and me, there has always been this tension… gentle, but real.

January 31st, 9 pm. Buenos Aires airport.

Thirteen hours of flying. A heavy body, eyelids on alert. And yet, as soon as I set foot outside, a gust of humid air hits me. Heavy, dense, alive.

I love that feeling. Being far away. Being alive.

An Uber, then the city rolling by. Blurred. Vibrant. A first contact through the window.

Destination: Casa de Bulnes, a guesthouse with colonial charm, as if escaped from another century. The host is waiting for me. Smiling. Warm. He shows me around the way you welcome a friend. I drop my bag. Breathe. And head out again. But not to wander. Not to toast my arrival. No. First mission: a pharmacy.

Because yes, I decided to start this trip with a raging toothache. A pain pulsing like a drum. I stop a passer-by. He answers with that sing-song accent I already love. He points me to an address. And that was my first contact with Buenos Aires: a humid night, a tooth on fire, a house full of stories… and an urgent goal.

The journey had begun.

Palermo. Breakfast. The real start.

The next morning, waking up is gentle. The pain has eased, the sky is clear, and Palermo opens its arms. I stumble upon a little neighbourhood café, like so many here. Simple, good, honest. Black coffee. Medialuna. Silence.

Google Maps in hand, I let myself be guided. First obvious stop: the Casa Rosada.

Here, the metro is called the “Subte”. Not that complicated. Just a few lines (A, B, C, D, E, H), well connected. The stations are clear, colourful, accessible. A little bonus: it is the first metro in South America, opened in 1913. An old line that smells of history.

I come out at Plaza de Mayo. And there… first impression: the Casa Rosada is less impressive than in the photos. But the square… The square tells the whole story.

Mothers walking in circles, in silence. Voices you can still sense in the stones. This is where everything happened: the shouting, the anger, the revolutions. I think of the Madres de Plaza de Mayo, their white headscarves, their stubborn steps.

Then on to the Obelisk. On Avenida 9 de Julio, a huge artery, you feel tiny. This monument, raised in 1936, celebrates the city’s 400 years. The ultimate symbol. Paris has its Eiffel Tower, New York its Statue of Liberty, Buenos Aires has this.

And then… a small folly.

I buy a ticket for the red tourist bus. Yes, that one. Hop-on, hop-off. Proud tourist.

San Telmo. Asado. Heat.

First stop: San Telmo. The bohemian soul of Buenos Aires. A covered market, antiques, the smell of grilled meat. My stomach rumbles. I spot a stall. The waiters are dancing, the music is loud, so is the laughter.

I take a look around… but my instinct brings me back there. Always follow your first impulse.

I order an asado. 300 grams of happiness. With chimichurri, of course. A beer. One bite. Then another. And then… tiredness.

But no time for a nap.

Tomorrow, we take a bus.

Destination Gualeguaychú. Or at least… that’s what I think.

Gualeguay – Chance has a taste

The plan was Gualeguaychú. Three hours by bus, heading to one of the most famous carnivals in the country. We were motivated, excited, convinced we were in the right place at the right time.

— Is this the bus to Gualeguaychú?

— Yes, yes, you’re at the right platform.

And indeed, we were at the right platform. But… not for the right destination. My ticket said Gualeguay. Not Gualeguaychú. Not the giant carnival. Not the huge floats or the wild crowds. Another place. Unknown. 45 minutes away.

And you know what? I had also booked accommodation in Gualeguay. Fate had planned it all. No turning back. So we went.

Gualeguay. Deep Argentina.

Three and a half hours through an Argentina I didn’t know yet. Vast. Flat. Real.

When you arrive, everything is slower. Simpler. No noise. No chaos. A village, not a city. The bus station is tiny. The sun is beating down. We jump into a taxi.

— First stop? The cash machine.

Here, cards don’t work, there’s no Uber, no mobile payment. Here, it’s cash or nothing. The driver drops us at our accommodation.

The owner, José (Pepe), welcomes us with rare warmth. Sincere. He speaks slowly, smiles a lot, offers help straight away. He gives us a few places to eat. He even calls a restaurant to make sure we can still order at this hour. Without knowing it, he would become one of the most beautiful encounters of this trip.

Lunch at 40 degrees.

We walk ten minutes. Not much, but under this sun it feels like an hour. We find the restaurant (or a restaurant, who knows?) and sit down. The waitress is lovely. I order the dish of the day, Julie orders from the menu. An ice-cold beer, and off we go.

The plates arrive. Huge. Generous. Overflowing. Here, they don’t joke about portions. You eat for five. You laugh. You slow down.

Then comes the blunder of the day: I leave my ID card and my bank card on the table. But the waitress — her again, always lovely — runs after me down the street to give them back. You see, that’s Gualeguay. Disarming kindness. Another rhythm. Another life.

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Evening falls. The square wakes up. We settle on the main square, a drink in hand, hot empanadas on the table. Cars cruise slowly, teenagers show off, families chat. We feel good. A little Spanish air floats around. The heat of the day gives way to the softness of the evening.

I feel at home. Truly.

And right there, I know it.

My life will never be made for northern Europe.

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Between two carnivals. The next day, we’re still hesitating.

— What if we went to Gualeguaychú after all?

We book tickets, thinking we’ll party there and come back early to catch the bus to Buenos Aires. But Pepe, him again, tells us:

— The Gualeguay carnival is smaller, but much more authentic. More local. More festive, in its own way.

He can even get us tickets for the corsódromo. And come with us. So we keep our tickets for the other town… But in the back of my mind, doubt creeps in.

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Pre-carnival, secret pool. On carnival day, nothing moves. The town is silent. No buzz at all. I start wondering if I made a mistake by not going to Gualeguaychú. And then Pepe calls.

— Fancy a swim? In a slightly special pool?

We say yes, obviously. He comes to pick us up.

Here we are on an airfield a few kilometres away, with… a pool in the middle of nowhere. An improbable place. Calm. Surreal. A suspended afternoon. Before the party. Before the feathers. Before the drums.

Final act in Gualeguay – The carnival

Night falls and we head to the corsódromo. It’s my first time at a carnival like this one. No stress. In this little town, I feel good.

I feel at home.

When we arrive, the euphoria has already started. People are pouring in, firecrackers burst in the sky, fireworks colour the warm air. The car park is packed, but Pepe, him again, finds us a spot with no trouble. He knows everyone here.

We settle in. And suddenly, the electricity of the moment grabs us. Foam cans are passed around, burst, sprayed in every direction. Kids, adults, everyone is dazzled. And we, of course, are no exception.

The parade begins. Five comparsas follow one another. Each has about 45 minutes to take over the track. Sumptuous costumes, frenzied dances, bright colours, rhythm, fire, heart. It’s intense. It’s vibrant.

We’re carried away. And I don’t regret for a single second not going to Gualeguaychú.

End of the night

Foam in our hair, clothes soaked, grinning from ear to ear. Eyes full of images, ears full of rhythms, heads full of memories. I think it was there, that night, that I lived one of the most beautiful adventures of this trip. An unexpected moment, simple and powerful. A real human encounter, the kind you rarely get to live.

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Tomorrow, we’ll have to hit the road again. Back to Buenos Aires. Then on to the Iguazú Falls. But before that, one last thought:

Thank you Pepe. Thank you Gualeguay. For this interlude. For this moment of letting go. For this unexpected party, and that kind of intensity you can’t invent.

📌 Useful info – Buenos Aires & Gualeguay

• Guesthouse in Buenos Aires: Casa de Bulnes – very warm welcome, colonial style.

• Transport: the Subte is easy to use; Uber works in Buenos Aires but not in Gualeguay.

• Health: pharmacies stay open late, but bring a first-aid kit.

• In Gualeguay: everything is paid in cash. There are cash machines, but they charge a fee.

• Carnival: choose Gualeguay if you want a local, immersive and friendly version.

✈️ Back to Buenos Aires – Heading for Iguazú

The next morning, waking up was easy. We hadn’t overdone the alcohol, and we weren’t leaving until noon. The bus to Buenos Aires was waiting.

Pepe — always him — had offered to drive us to the bus station. One last warm, friendly hug. A sincere goodbye to this corner of Argentina that had adopted us, and off we went to Buenos Aires.

The Iguazú Falls were waiting.

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Three hours on the road, same route as on the way in. I slept, filmed a little, let the landscapes slip by. At the bus terminal, we jump into an Uber to the airport — the one for domestic flights (yes, Buenos Aires has two airports: Ezeiza for international flights, Aeroparque for domestic ones). Once there, a few quick searches to find our gate, then one mission: find food.

Here, eating is part of everyday life. All the time. Everywhere. And honestly, I think I’ve put on a few kilos since the start of the trip… But never mind. We find something filling, and it feels good.

Boarding is on time. Three hours of flying separate us from Iguazú. That’s Argentina. Colossal distances. Hours of road, or sky, between each stage.

Arriving in Iguazú at night

We land late at night. But no stress. I had already arranged transport with our host. As soon as we leave the airport, our driver arrives. Perfect. The ride is pleasant, but it’s pitch dark. Impossible to see the landscape, although… something strikes me: the vegetation.

Behind the shadows, I can make out thick, dense shapes. The jungle isn’t far. I chat a little with our driver, Junior. A discreet guy, but efficient. Friendly. Available. I tell him about the falls, ask him how to get there, and without hesitating, he offers to take us the next day.

Simple, natural generosity. We arrive at the apartment. Our host is waiting, standing at the door. The place looks nice, but it’s too dark to really tell. We’ll see tomorrow. After paying Junior and setting a time for the next morning, we finally go in.

A bed, a shower, and rest. Tomorrow, we’re off to see one of the greatest treasures of the continent.

Iguazú – On the edge of the world

Waking up that morning was anything but ordinary. No alarm. No artificial light. Just birdsong, that humid heat settling in from dawn, and the feeling that something is waiting for me out there. A promise of green, of grandeur.

I pack my camera bag, the essentials, nothing more. A message is waiting for me. It’s Junior. He can’t come after all, but he has arranged everything. Another driver will take over. That guy, really… a guardian angel at the end of the world. At the agreed time, the new driver is there. Discreet smile, sing-song accent, kind eyes.

We hit the road. And what a road. Walls of greenery on each side, thick, devouring vegetation. The jungle in its Sunday best. We cross a piece of Argentina, but you can already feel Brazil, sense Paraguay. We’re at the triple border. Three countries for a single emotion: being somewhere else, completely. He tells me he lives a few kilometres away, that everyone here knows the falls but nobody ever tires of them. I quickly understand why. After about twenty minutes, we reach the entrance of Iguazú National Park.

And then… a shock. Coming from our isolated hotel, lost among the trees, I feel like I’ve just walked into Disneyland. Full coaches, guides with signs, whole families dressed alike. Crowds. Lots of people.

But after all, that’s normal. It’s one of the seven natural wonders of the world, isn’t it? It’s a place that draws you in. That calls you. So we breathe, we adapt. We head to the ticket office.

🎟️ Entrance fee (2024):

• Foreign tourist: ARS 20,000 (about CHF 20)

• Card payment recommended (cash isn’t always accepted, and the queue is faster).

• Shuttles inside the park included.

Tickets in hand, heart pounding. Ready to walk, ready to marvel. The Iguazú Falls are waiting.

Iguazú – Gran Aventura, or how to dive into the throat of the world

Off to the falls. The crowd scatters in every direction, each with their own plan, their own pace. I move forward without really knowing where to start, and that’s when he appears. A salesman, beige shirt, sharp eyes, confident smile.

— Gran Aventura, señor?

I stop. He explains, with gestures: a 4×4 trip through the jungle, followed by a boat ride… right to the foot of the falls. I barely hear the end. He said boat and foot of the falls. I’ve already said yes in my head. It’s one of those moments that remind you that you came here to live, not to watch.

So let’s go.

I take the full package — the “Gran Aventura” in its complete version. Because this kind of thing, you only do once in your life, right?

🎟️ Gran Aventura – 2024 price

• Foreign tourists: about CHF 80–90 per person

• Book on site or online (often with set times)

• Included: 4×4 truck ride through the jungle + boat ride under the falls + access to some walkways

They hand me the tickets, and I can already feel the excitement rising. Off to the meeting point. It’s hot. Very hot. The air is thick, as if every breath went through a damp filter. I sweat. I laugh. I wait. But deep down, a little doubt creeps in.

Will it be hard? Lots of walking? Lots of climbing? My physical condition lately… how to put it… Let’s say I’m closer to the sloth than to the jaguar. But never mind. Today, I’m ready for anything. To be shaken, soaked, splashed, carried away. It’s not every day you get swallowed by the Iguazú Falls.

We climb into the truck. A big open 4×4, tropical safari style. About twenty of us on board, caps screwed onto heads, water bottles already half empty. The engine roars, and we’re off.

The track plunges into the jungle. The guide — mic in hand, beaming smile — tells us about the forest, the century-old trees, the hidden animals, the giant insects, the Guaraní myths. I listen, but my thoughts wander. I look around. I try to capture the essence of the place. That green spilling out everywhere. That feeling that nature here is at home, sovereign.

The ride lasts a good thirty minutes. Time to soak it in. Then we get off. A short walk, nothing hard. Wooden steps, marked paths, and in the distance… the noise. That deep, powerful, almost living roar.

This is it. We’re getting close. We reach the river. The Río Iguazú. Life jackets are waiting for us. Dry bags too, for phones, cameras, papers. Everything that can’t handle water. I’m like a kid. A little tense, but the good kind of tension. The kind that says you’ll remember this for the rest of your life.

We board. The boat is sturdy, the engines powerful.

The guide shouts:

— ¡Listos para mojarse!

Ready to get soaked?

The answer is a burst of laughter. Shouts. Pure excitement. And then… We’re off. The river is wide, calm at first. We glide over the water.

The falls are there, in front of us, majestic, almost unreal. Gigantic curtains of water, hanging rainbows, mist dancing in the air.

And then suddenly — we charge. The boat picks up speed. We get closer to one waterfall. Then another. And there, no half measures: we go right in.

Literally. The water swallows us. Tonnes of water on our heads. Screams of joy. We can’t see a thing. We laugh, we cough, we scream again. It’s cold, it’s strong, it’s wild. And I’m there, in the middle of it all, heart pounding, soaked to the soul.

We come out of the curtain of water the way you’d come out of a dream. Drenched. But alive. More alive than ever.

The boat slows down, the engines purr, and silence slowly returns. A strange silence. The kind that follows chaos, like a caress after the hurricane. People around me are laughing, all a bit shaken, hair stuck to their faces, eyes shining.

We get off. My trainers go splotch with every step. My shirt sticks to my skin. But I don’t care. I’m euphoric.

We take a small path. On foot this time. Towards the walkways. And there… the scenery changes. We’re no longer in the heart of the falls, we’re above them. We walk on metal walkways suspended over the void, over the river. We move on. And every step offers a new picture.

A new breath. And then… the view. The famous one. La Garganta del Diablo, the Devil’s Throat. An abyss. A scream. A black hole of water and noise. I stand there, frozen. Not a word. Not a move. Just… that. That gaping hole in the earth. That power that asks for nothing, that can’t be explained. A force that puts you back in your place. A tiny speck of humanity facing infinity.

I breathe. I close my eyes. And I tell myself I’m exactly where I was meant to be.

Iguazú – Back to earth, feet in the water, head in the clouds

We slowly make our way back to the park entrance. Hair still damp, legs a bit heavy, senses all over the place. I don’t talk much. I think I’m still back there, somewhere between the jungle and the falls. Still suspended in that feeling of being tiny and immense at the same time.

Junior — well, his replacement for the day — is waiting at the exit. Punctual as ever, with the same discreet smile. We get in the car, windows down. The air is still warm, almost sweet. I watch the trees go by, the sky already turning gold. And in my head, it’s all spinning. The images. The sound of the water. The screams. The green. The blue. The void.

We head back. But first, a little detour. Just around the corner, a tiny grocery shop lit by a pale yellow neon. We walk in, still soaked. Nobody blinks. This is Argentina. We grab what we need to celebrate: cold beers, crisps, a few olives, an unknown cheese with a sing-song name.

At the hotel, tiredness hits all at once. Like a wave. The body wants rest, but the heart still wants to vibrate a little longer. So, off to the pool. Nobody there. Silence, barely broken by a few cicadas and distant music. We sit on the edge, feet in the water, beer in hand. We toast without a word. Just a look. A smile. We know.

The sun goes down slowly. It paints the sky orange, then pink, then fire. And that sunset… It doesn’t taste like the others. That one tastes of water, of foam, of fear, of joy, of green and of infinity. It tastes of a moment we won’t forget.

Thank you, Argentina. For this day. For this gentle slap in the face. For this raw, wild beauty, impossible to capture. Thank you for this memory that has just been printed, there, deep inside.

The next morning, we wake up without rushing. No alarm. No noise. Just the light filtering through the curtains and yesterday’s memories still clinging to our eyelids. I think I still have water from the falls in my ears. Or maybe it’s just my memory replaying the tape.

Anyway. We can feel it’s the end. We pack our bags in silence, each in our own bubble. Not really sad. More that bittersweet feeling you get when leaving a place you loved, knowing it’s time.

We still had a few hours before heading to the airport. So we thought: “What if we went into town?” A message to Junior, of course. He replies within a minute. He picks us up, with that quiet efficiency that defines him. He drops us in the centre of Iguazú and arranges to meet us later for the ride back.

The town centre is nothing extraordinary. But it’s alive, simple, real. Small colourful shops, a few cafés, a damp heat that sticks to the skin. We walk without a precise goal. We buy an ice cream. We watch people. We savour. Just that. Being there, a little longer.

Junior comes back on time, as always. One last ride on the red roads of Misiones, a land that seems to bleed under the sun. As we get closer to the airport, silence settles in. We don’t talk much. But I know we’re thinking the same thing: we’ll be back. Maybe not here. Maybe not soon. But we’ll be back.

The airport is small and calm. Everything goes smoothly. We take off in the late afternoon, heading to Buenos Aires. And I’ll remember that flight. Because my eyes were closed almost the whole way. But in my head, it was all there. The waterfalls. The jungle. The foam. The screams. And the previous evening’s sunset, sitting on the edge of a pool, beer in hand, heart on fire.

We land in Buenos Aires as night falls. And in two days, a new shore awaits: Uruguay. But that… is another story.

Colonia. A name, a past.

Alarm at 5:30. The city is still asleep, smothered under a grey cotton sky. Outside, not a sound. Just the pale light of mornings with no promise.

But today, we’re crossing. An hour on the ferry, barely. That’s what we told ourselves. A hop across the Río de la Plata. An escape to the other side. Uruguay. Colonia del Sacramento.

A breakfast swallowed half-heartedly, eyelids still blurry, then the Uber. To the port, light bags but hearts full of a longing for elsewhere.

The sky, clearly, didn’t feel like playing along. Fog, drizzle, no light. One of those days.

The formalities are like at an airport. Passport, check-in, boarding. Everything goes smoothly, but in the waiting room the air conditioning is on full blast. A bad habit you find everywhere here: freezing people in the middle of summer.

We board. The ferry is modern, quiet. The sea — or rather this immense river you could mistake for the ocean — is calm. No waves, no rolling. Just the discreet hum of the engine, and that dry chill from the air conditioning seeping into your bones.

I look out of the window, but everything is white. The world has evaporated into the mist. We move forward blindly, between two shores, between two times.

Colonia in the rain

The streets were empty. Wet, shiny, almost silent. A few tourists ran from one porch to another, looking for shelter or a dry photo. But we walked. Slowly. Because even drenched, Colonia deserves that you take your time.

Every alley seemed to come out of an old film. Uneven cobblestones, low houses with peeling walls, bougainvillea bending under the raindrops. There was something melancholic, something gentle. A town like an old memory that refuses to fade.

We walked past the Calle de los Suspiros — the street of sighs. Even its name seemed whispered by the rain. Some say this is where prisoners breathed their last sigh. Others that lovers kissed here in secret. The legends mix, as always, but it doesn’t matter. The place is enough on its own. And that morning, it was sighing for us.

A restaurant, a break, a paella

Soaked and a bit fed up, we ended up taking refuge in a small restaurant that had caught my eye on our first walk through the centre. I had read somewhere that they served paella — and I don’t know why, that day, in the rain, that’s what I wanted. A paella. Like a call to the sun from the other shore.

The place had charm: wood, white walls, a low ceiling. A soft warmth floated in the room. They had just opened for service, so we could pick the best table. The waitress brings the menu, a cocktail and of course… the famous paella, which seemed to be giving me a mocking wink from the corner of my eye.

On principle, I still asked:

— ¿Es una verdadera paella valenciana?

He said yes. A yes that was too quick, too sure, too easy. And at that moment, the charm of the place cracked. Not completely, but enough for me to start doubting.

The dish arrives. And there, no more doubt. It was anything… but a paella valenciana. The rice had no bite, the flavours had got lost somewhere between continents, and the bottom of the pan, that famous crispy socarrat, only existed in my memories of Valencia. I still ate a little. But I shouldn’t have. It was the first time in the whole trip that I didn’t enjoy a meal. And honestly, it dented my mood a bit.

So we carried on with the grey-day theme. A day with no postcard. No blue sky. No sunset. And now… no good paella. But that was fine. Because Colonia doesn’t need to shine to move you. It embraces you without a sound. It seeps in gently. Like the rain sliding down the windows. Like that silence, so rare, that we shared, the two of us, in a corner of the world far from the noise.

Colonia – Last steps before leaving

We left the restaurant a bit groggy. Not really full, not really disappointed. Just… on pause. The rain had eased a notch, as if it wanted to let us go without too much drama.

We walked a little longer, hands in pockets, eyes between puddles and rooftops. One last detour by the water, one last photo of the lighthouse — even though there wasn’t enough light anymore.

And then it was time to go. Not to Buenos Aires. No, this time we kept going. Next stop: Montevideo.

On the road, in silence

We caught a bus right there at Colonia station. A simple, local bus, a bit tired like us. But it was exactly what we needed. No need for luxury, just to keep moving. Slowly. Watching the country roll by through the window.

Flat fields, trees twisted by the wind, a few cows, silences. Three hours on the road, maybe a little more. But in my head, it was a blur. I dozed between two thoughts, between two scraps of memory. The falls, the cobblestones, the moss on the roofs. And now… the unknown.

Montevideo

A name that sounds like a poem. Like a promise. We’ll get there at sunset. Or maybe a little after. But who cares. It will be a new page. Another rhythm. Another shore.

Montevideo – First steps, empty stomach, curious heart

We arrived late. The bus station was big, a bit messy, full of life despite the hour. We jumped into a taxi without thinking too much, eyes still full of the road, bodies numb from the kilometres. Off to our Airbnb. A small, pretty, cosy apartment, well located. No luxury, but the kind of place where you instantly feel at home. Light walls, a soft sofa, a balcony over a quiet street. Perfect to drop the bags and say: OK, we’re here. We made it.

But… I was hungry. Really hungry. A slightly strange, very specific craving. Sushi. (Yes, I know… me and my pregnancy-style cravings, it’s a long story.) So we grabbed the neighbourhood map, put on our shoes still damp from Colonia, and went out exploring.

Food from the end of the world

After fifteen, twenty minutes of walking through the quiet streets of Montevideo at night, we found it: a small, discreet restaurant, softly buzzing. Kuei – Cocina Fusión Nikkei y Peruana

📍 Gabriel Pereira 3149, Montevideo, Uruguay

🌐 kuei.com.uy

💰 Average price: CHF 20 to 30 per person

The façade didn’t look like much, but inside… raw wood, soft lighting, an open kitchen. A scent of ginger, soy and lime. The menu is short, well thought out, and boldly mixes Peruvian and Asian influences. You’ll find pisco nigiri, ceviche rolls, rocoto-scented bao. A journey within the journey.

We order. We savour. And this time, I really enjoy the meal. The sushi wasn’t traditional, but creative and balanced. A surprise. Like an unexpected answer to my evening whim.

We walked back, hearts a little lighter, stomachs full, and the rain far behind us. Montevideo was slowly opening up. And I already knew we would get along.

Montevideo – The calm after the rain

The next morning, the light filtered gently through the curtains. A warm, clean light, almost soft after the previous day’s grey. Montevideo was waking up at its own pace — slow, steady, almost meditative. It was already very hot. One of those days when the asphalt turns liquid and the air sticks to your skin. But I was like a fish in water. I breathe better when the air is heavy. I walk more slowly, but more deeply. My body knows this climate. It curls up in it. It anchors itself.

Rambla, sea and breathing

First stop: the Rambla. The long promenade along the Río de la Plata, the true backbone of the city. Kilometres of concrete and wind, where joggers pass fishermen and lovers pass old friends. There is something peaceful here. A sea that isn’t one, but has everything of an ocean. Calm, almost empty beaches. And that immense sky, always there, even when it’s grey. We walked for a long time. Aimlessly. Just to breathe, look, feel. The heat carried me. Like an invisible sea.

Lunch break, sun break

At lunchtime, we stopped at a small seaside restaurant, unpretentious but full of charm. A terrace, a few parasols, and that very particular taste of a suspended moment. I can’t even remember what we ate. But I remember the sun on my skin, the wind in my hair, and the feeling of fullness. That was enough.

Carnival on the horizon

In the afternoon, we decided to find out more. Because in Montevideo too, it’s carnival season. But here it’s different. Longer, more theatrical, more rooted in Afro-Uruguayan culture. We went to the House of Culture, talked to a tourist officer, picked up a few flyers, noted some dates. The main parade, called the Desfile de Llamadas, wasn’t due to take place for a few more days. But there were already rehearsals, murga shows, neighbourhoods buzzing. And in my stomach, a little impatience settled in. I love that feeling. When something is coming. When the present is already starting to dance with the future.

Back to calm, waiting for the sea

In the evening, nothing crazy. No going out, no noise, no plan. Just the apartment, still warm from the day’s sun. A fan humming, a few clothes drying, and our legs a bit heavy from walking too much. We ate light, drank ice-cold water, watched the light slowly fall on the buildings next door. A simple evening, like an interlude between two rhythms. Because the next day, another world was waiting for us. Next stop: Punta del Este. A bus, a few hours on the road, and the ocean. The real one.

Conclusion – This trip, this blog, and me

I didn’t make this trip only to discover a country. I made it to discover a little more of myself too. I walked, I swam, I waited. I talked with strangers, danced with drums, ate too much, slept too little. And I loved every moment — even the misses, even the little slumps, even the long waits.

And above all, I wrote. I kept this journal. Not as a guide. Not as a map. But as a mirror. This blog is my way of keeping a trace. Of freezing the ephemeral. Of putting words on what sometimes only needs a look or a silence.

I know I’ll come back to Argentina. Maybe next year. Maybe to explore further, for longer. But one thing is certain… this land opened something in me.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for following along. See you soon for a new story.

— Nathan Kassidy ✨