Design Diary: Buenos Aires
A love letter to the land of tango, Malbec and non-automatic import licenses
Before my first trip to Buenos Aires, I sobbed the entire way to the airport. My sweet dad tried to console me, reassuring me that I didn’t have to go if I didn’t want to. Through heaving sobs, I brushed him off: of course I had to go, I was expected to begin my internship at the US Embassy in a few days, and I’d already cashed the generous stipend check from my university. Even with a puffy face and swollen eyes, I was going.
In hindsight, perhaps choosing a summer internship on a continent I’d never been to, in a country where I only passably spoke the language, and in a city where I was responsible for finding my own housing (this was the pre-Airbnb era) and knew literally no one, was a touch aggressive.
On living la vida porteña
Luckily, I settled into Porteño life remarkably quickly: I spent my work days translating commercial sector reports, helping with events at the US Ambassador’s residence, a Parisian-style mansion inspired by Versailles, and having boozy lunch-and-learns with career diplomats.
I spent my free time cavorting around town with my fellow interns: on Monday nights, we’d sway to the drums at La Bomba de Tiempo, enormous plastic cups of beer in hand. On Thursdays, we were regulars for wine tasting at Lo de Joaquin Alberdi, a family-run wine shop in Palermo Soho. Other nights, I’d wind down in my cheerful studio apartment, pouring myself a glass of grocery-store Malbec and polishing off a few alfajores as I read or chatted with friends.
And on weekends, we’d switch things up (or not): braving a 14-hour overnight bus ride to Mendoza, catching the ferry to Montevideo, or - when we weren’t traveling - partying until sunrise at Kika, a notorious nightclub where we could afford to order bottle service thanks to the favorable exchange rate.
By the time I left Buenos Aires 10 weeks later, I felt practically unrecognizable: I could confidently take phone calls in Spanish (¡Finalmente!), rattle off the difference between automatic and non-automatic import licenses, and reliably identify a Malbec without looking at the label.
I had made friends - my fellow interns and I still keep in touch, 15 years later! - and perhaps a few foes. I’m not sure Josie, an ancient commercial advisor who worked in my office, ever forgave me for ruthlessly red-lining her translated sector report, on our boss’ orders. I even had a favorite taxi driver, Enrico, who I kept on speed dial on my secondhand Movistar dumbphone and who deposited me at the airport for my flight back to the States, teary-eyed for entirely different reasons.
On returning nearly 15 years later
When I left Buenos Aires, I was convinced that I’d be back to visit in a year or two; little did I know it would be more than a decade before I finally returned. I was thrilled to be back - and even more thrilled to stay in an Airbnb on the same very block I’d lived on at 21.
Some things felt exactly the same as when I’d left: the embassy’s 1960s Brutalist facade clearly hadn’t been upgraded; the dog walkers with upwards of a dozen leashes strung over their arms; the smell of choripan and empanadas, fresh from the oven, wafting down the sidewalk. Somehow even the lobby of my Airbnb smelled exactly the same as my apartment building’s lobby had a decade prior.
But other things felt completely different: the December weather was hot and humid, especially compared to the mild winter days of my internship. I couldn’t believe how lush and green the city’s parks were, how the dappled sunlight filtered through leafy, tree-lined Palermo streets, how on every block I’d see tiny apartment balconies crowded with potted tropical trees and urban home gardens.
Streets that felt sleepy during the heat of the day came to life after sundown, when suddenly every patio on Palermo Soho’s cobblestoned sidewalks and plazas was packed and buzzing with well-heeled locals and tourists alike. This was a sharp contrast to the wintertime weather I experienced as an intern: when temps dropped below 60 degrees, the Porteños pulled out their fur coats and boots. Josie chided me on warm days when I’d show up at the office wearing a pencil skirt without tights.
On my last day, I felt obligated to make the trek back to Kika - not for a raging late night despedida like the one my friends had thrown for me 15 years earlier, but this time in broad daylight as I headed back to Palermo Soho after my detour to Mercado de las Pulgas.
It’s a good thing I was following Google Maps - my muscle memory didn’t extend to late night haunts like Kika - as I would never in a million years have recognized it unprompted. I laughed as I snapped a selfie.
On coming full circle at La Cabrera
On my first night in Buenos Aires, my fellow interns and I descended on La Cabrera for a veritable feast of perfectly grilled steaks, too many steaming side dishes to count, and of course, flowing bottles of the house Malbec. It became one of only a handful of restaurants in Buenos Aires that I returned to multiple times during my stay.
When I returned to Buenos Aires last year - with my sister, brother-in-law, cousins and aunties in tow - I arranged our Christmas Day dinner reservation at La Cabrera, hoping and praying that it would be just as good as I’d remembered. By Christmas morning, I was feeling the heat: our Christmas Eve dinner in El Calafate had been a comedy of errors involving just one menu for our party of 7, cold entrees, and walking out of the restaurant at the precise moment the chef threw scraps of meat onto the sidewalk to appease the town’s stray dogs.
Thankfully, I had nothing to worry about at La Cabrera: we were in excellent hands with our handsome waiter, Ismael. Every time a new dish arrived, Ismael pulled out his laser pointer to give us the details: from the light-as-air rolls sprinkled with sea salt to the dozens of tiny bowls of dips, to our perfectly-grilled steaks.
By the time the final bill landed, I assumed we’d spent a small fortune - but even with a generous tip, the total came to just $65 USD per person. Even better? When Aunt Mary - who is unapologetically opinionated and has the discerning palate of a professional food critic - declared it the best Christmas dinner she’d ever had. I’ve never been more proud.
On Argentina’s economic reality
By the time I started my internship in 2011, the aftershocks of Argentina’s 2001 sovereign debt default were still rippling throughout the Argentine economy. I saw the effects firsthand in my work at the embassy, as the Argentine government tightened up import and export policies in an effort to shield domestic production from foreign competition, alienating many American exporters and straining relationships with their Argentine customers in the process.
And I saw the impact in my personal life too: I flew to Buenos Aires with more than three thousand dollars in cash stashed in my money belt, because my landlord required upfront payment in US dollars, as a hedge against the ever-weakening peso. I still remember the day that the price of a cup of coffee in the embassy cafeteria rose from 4 pesos - roughly $1 in those days - to 5 pesos. Though the impact on me personally was practically nil - especially since I had easy access to US dollars, via the employees-only ATM in the embassy’s dingy basement - I knew that a 25% jump in prices for everyday items was significant.
I’ll be the first to admit that I didn’t closely track Argentina’s economic development after I left in 2011, but I knew that things weren’t great when I read that the US had agreed to a $20 billion currency swap with the Argentines. My eyes practically bulged out of my head when I checked the exchange rate a few days before I arrived in 2025: hovering around 1,400 pesos to the dollar, a 350x drop in valuation from 2011.
Conditions on the ground in 2025 seemed similar to 2011, though even neighborhoods like Palermo and Recoleta that had once seemed insulated from economic hardship were showing signs of strain. My heart broke when a young boy approached our sidewalk table outside one of San Telmo’s most famous bares and politely asked if he could have our leftovers.
The currency crisis felt much more pronounced in 2025, too: in 2011, it was easy to get pesos from an ATM, subject to the same withdrawal limits as most banks in the US. By 2025, getting pesos from an ATM was a fool’s errand, with low cash availability, minuscule withdrawal limits, and outrageous fees: I spent a frustrating afternoon ducking into what felt like every ATM in Recoleta, only to have my card declined because there was not enough cash on hand to withdraw even $20 USD worth of pesos.
And ATMs are not the only victims of the cash crunch: even Western Union outposts throughout Argentina are notorious for running out of cash reserves, especially late in the day or during busy travel periods. I was lucky to be able wire myself a few hundred thousand pesos - roughly $250 USD - when I was running low on cash; for locals whose savings are in pesos, the stakes are considerably higher.
On Eva Perón’s enduring legacy
During my internship, I was deeply immersed in current events. Every morning from my cubicle, I inhaled the embassy’s editorial roundup - an email newsletter synthesizing the latest developments in Argentine politics, economics, global affairs, and more. I geeked out on the intricacies of trade policy and the behind-the-scenes access to the US diplomatic machine. On a weekend trip to Rosario, my friends and I even stumbled upon then-President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner giving a speech at an economic development event.
But I left Argentina in 2011 with a gigantic hole in my understanding of Argentine history: though I of course saw Eva Perón’s likeness in every souvenir store in Argentina and could hum the chorus to Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina, I didn’t fully appreciate how large she looms in Argentine memory, even nearly 75 years after her death, until my visit in 2025. Clearly, a visit to Museo Evita was in order.
The museum, which takes visitors through Perón’s short life chronologically, is housed in Casa Carabassa, a 1920s Spanish Colonial-style mansion that was built for a wealthy family of bankers on a leafy, tree-lined street in Palermo. In the 1940s, it was acquired by the Eva Perón Foundation and used as a refuge for women and children in need; many of the museum’s rooms are still arranged as they were during this time.
While it was fascinating to see Perón’s life writ large in her speeches, political posters, and other memorabilia, I found her personal effects to be the most moving objects on display. Her collection of designer dresses - including several by Christian Dior - hats and accessories cemented her status as a fashion icon. I was struck by just how tiny her dresses were: her larger-than-life persona belied her petite frame.
Her national identity card - the first ever issued to a woman in Argentina - is a moving tribute to her commitment to women’s suffrage. And perhaps the most personally revealing: the love letters that her husband, Juan Domingo Perón, wrote to her in 1945, when he was held as a political prisoner on Martín García Island, with remarkable tenderness.
On what I couldn’t leave behind - at 21 and 35
In my twenties, my shopping strategy could be summed up as “buy now, ask questions later” - and it shows in my souvenir haul. I came home from my internship with 2 enormous suitcases bursting with goodies: a jarra pingüino, a traditional Argentine wine carafe shaped like a penguin; a permanent collection catalog from MALBA; a drawing from the San Telmo market that is ultra-touristy, depicting a pair of tango dancers overlaid with the score to “Buenos Aires, Mi Querido”; two leather purses that I genuinely couldn’t afford and that I still love and use to this day; and a few bottles of wine from Dante Robino - a favorite winery that I’d visited in Mendoza, whose Gran Dante Malbec 2021 was awarded the Best Malbec in the world - that I’d picked up at the grocery store for about $10 USD a pop.
I like to think I’ve become more discerning as I’ve gotten older; I’d argue that I came home from Buenos Aires in 2025 with fewer, better items. This time, my goodies were more practical: a few pieces of clothing from the boutiques in Palermo Soho (I especially loved Las Pepas), a copy of Eva Perón’s autobiography (in Spanish, no less!), and - the crown jewel - the églomisé mirror that took me on a wild goose chase across Buenos Aires to find.