This spring, I returned to my dearest Buenos Aires after some of the most difficult years of my life. I returned with hunger and hope, with a longing for home… And I found it: ever as warm, as welcoming, as wonderful. Hours into my trip, my heart had already synched up with the city’s rhythm. For two weeks, it beat fully, effortlessly. I embraced each day, soaked each one up and savored every moment. Here, I relive each memory in my latest piece for Darling Magazine.

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Published Aug. 15, 2017

I’ve barely been here an hour and already my heart is synched up and beating to the city’s sounds: its distinct rhythm, its scents, its temperature. If home is where the heart is, then this is where mine beats most fully, most effortlessly, where I can just be. I’ve returned to Buenos Aires after several long years — years that tested my sense of self, years that left me hungry for Argentina, craving a warm embrace of the familial.

As I ride through the city center alongside my uncle and cousin, as the wind briefly caresses my face and as I catch my reflection on the window, it’s clear that I’ve returned. My querido (dear) Buenos Aires has been here, waiting, all along.

With a dozen cousins in tow, we make our way to Asador Las Marias in Benavidez, the first of many visits to a traditional Argentine grill, complete with skewered beef, butterflied lamb, homemade sausages and an array of delectable cuts of meat, all meticulously cooked over smoldering coals — the grill itself an attraction before the food is served.

While beef is the star of any good parrillada, I take to the sides of radicheta, ensalada rusa, morrones and fresh, yet crusty, Italian bread dipped in chimichurri with the excitement of a child, before the family-style board of assorted meats gets to the table. This traditional asado is the country’s most beloved celebratory ritual, and it’s alongside the fire that our bonds are rekindled. Conversation and Malbec flow freely.

Stuffed but optimistic, we all agree that it’s time for dessert (el postre being an integral part of any family meal), which can only mean one thing: helado (ice cream). With heladerias being a staple on every city block, it’s not long before I’m reacquainted with a large cone of my favorite combo in the entire world: dulce de leche and sambayón (a mixture of egg yolk, sugar and sweet wine). I savor the sweetness of the moment. My visit has just begun.

As we make our way to El Tigre, the scent from roadside choripan stands reminds me of my parents. Trust me, you’d want a bite of this simple, delicious, tried-and-true Argentine staple, too: a freshly grilled sausage, sliced down the middle and pressed between two doughy slices of bread (I decide that’s what I’ll be having for dinner—or maybe as a snack—hours later).

Just north of Buenos Aires proper, the town of El Tigre is the gateway to the Paraná Delta’s rivers and home to the storied Puerto de Frutos (fruit harbor), the city’s iconic, bustling craft market where visitors from around the world come to experience Argentina’s vibrant artisanal culture. Just outside the market, we find a patch of grass to claim and sit down for a national afternoon date with mate, a hot infusion of dried Yerba Mate, served in a gourd and sipped through a metal straw.

Across Argentina, mate is a warm accompaniment to the ambiance, an instrument for hosting, sharing and toasting. And toast we do: to a day of food, of family and of, finally, being home.

The days that follow over the next two weeks are a blend of walking, eating (homemade pastas, pizzas, provoleta, empanadas, milanesas…), talking, embracing, laughing, crying, drinking, toasting and celebrating — the latter being Argentina’s second language. No matter the current economic state of affairs or the fleeting morale of the disappearing middle class, celebration is a way of life, no matter how humble. Family and friends gather weekly, the kitchen and living areas bustling with conversation, preparation and togetherness. It’s a warmth so palpable and distinct, it’s difficult to describe in words, an intoxicating joie de vivre that spills onto the city’s most beloved streets.

Walking through San Telmo, I’m reminded of childhood day trips — Mami in a flowing skirt, her kitten heels clicking on the cobblestone streets, the smell of garrapiñadas (browned, sugar-coated nuts served in paper cones), the sound of a melancholic accordion playing in the distance. We stop at Librería de Ávila, the oldest bookstore in Buenos Aires, and my heart flutters at the array of exquisitely curated Spanish-language tomes: Borges, Marquez, Lugones, even Shakespeare.

We stroll Calle Florida, Buenos Aires’s iconic pedestrian shopping street, melodically moving to the sound of tangos being performed on the square, street performers drawing smiles, restaurants setting up for the afternoon merienda rush — countless cups of coffee being served in outdoor patios, fresh facturas (traditional Argentine pastries) sensuously peering through café windows. As the sun sets, the Obelisco stands watch over Avenida 9 de Julio, the world’s widest street; imposing, it lights up for the perfect photo.

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The following week, four hours away, I find myself on Buenos Aires’s stretch of Atlantic Ocean in La Costa. A handful of my parents’ ashes in my pocket, my godmother by my side, I dip my toes into what was once the only shore I knew. The ocean breeze caresses me, a subtle greeting. The blinking sun gives me the okay, and with each wave, the ashes make their journey into the infinite. They are home. I’m more at home today than ever.

My last meal in Buenos Aires is, fittingly, an asado prepared by the men of the family who meticulously prepare the fire over the course of three hours. It culminates in a celebration, complete with a round of applause, some chimichurri, homemade fries, sides and a glass of Malbec — a toast to home. The ride to the airport is marked by cumbia playing on the radio, by my uncle’s singing, by an exchange of memories and a promise to come back soon.

As I settle into my seat and the plane steadily takes off the runway, I feel peacefully rooted. Today, as I sit here, sipping on mate — from a gourd purchased in San Telmo — I dwell on the irony of roots, on how beautifully they ground us, while simultaneously grooming our wings. I will fly home soon again. For now, it’s housed in these memories, in this deliciously shared moment between us.