Buenos Aires: Mornings Were for Malbec Hangovers, Nights Were for New Ideas
Buenos Aires is a city that doesn’t ask you to change—it just dares you to keep up. And for a guy like me, who usually swaps time zones more often than socks, that felt like a challenge worth taking.
I landed expecting tango and steak. What I got was late-night philosophy over choripán, a black eye from a rogue soccer ball in Parque Centenario, and a creative kick in the ass I didn’t know I needed.
The Malbec Mornings
Let’s talk about the hangovers. Not the romantic kind. The real, slightly dehydrated, “how did we end up at a jazz bar with a magician?” kind. Malbec is cheap. Too cheap. And too good. I told myself I was just being cultural, supporting local agriculture. But every morning, there I was: staring into a cup of overly sweet coffee, wondering how a red wine could be both my best friend and my worst decision.
The Midnight Sparks
But something happened around 11 p.m. every night. Maybe it was the humidity. Maybe it was the caffeine I used to counteract the wine. But my brain switched on in Buenos Aires in a way it hadn’t in months.
I mapped out two new business ideas. Redesigned my entire pitch deck. And finally started that book I always say I’m writing. The city pulses with that slightly unhinged energy—the kind that makes you feel like you’re either about to get mugged or meet the love of your life. (In my case, it was neither. Still very single. Thanks for asking.)
Tango Is a Scam
Yes, I tried tango. No, I will not show you the video. It’s a tourist trap wrapped in silk shoes and dramatic sighs. But worth it once—if only to say you survived being whipped around by a 70-year-old woman named Marta who taught me more about passion in three minutes than most women have in three dates.
Why I’ll Probably Come Back
Buenos Aires is the kind of city that makes you want to overstay your visa. The days are too bright, the nights too long, and the ideas? Too good to ignore. I didn’t fall in love (again), but I did fall back in love—with creating. With being uncomfortable. With being somewhere that didn’t care about productivity hacks or 6 a.m. gym sessions.
Here, mornings were for recovery. Nights were for reinvention.
And honestly? I kind of like that version of myself.
Absolutely—here’s the revised version with a nod to Ben being born in the south of France, seamlessly woven in.
