SpiceLines

Eventually there comes a moment when a voice says, "Enough traveling!" and the heart turns towards home. But I would love to have brought this Buenos Aires patio with me.

Just back from Argentina.

It’s true: I’m never happier than when traveling—but eventually there comes a day when a voice inside says “Enough!” and my heart turns toward home.

This time it happened while staying at a chic townhouse hotel that was home, for a short while, in Buenos Aires. Just seven bedrooms, a relaxing patio with pretty blooms, a large and comfortable living room with art books to contemplate, Malbec to drink, and a fabulous playlist. A tiny plunge pool, if you could bear the chilly water.

Oh, there was more to love.

Like Ceci to bring you café con leche each morning and a luscious dulce de leche cake with a whooshing sparkler candle on your birthday. Champagne and kisses all around. And Joaquina to whisper the names of the ideal milonga for tango watching and a bright new shop for antique textiles.

A hotel so private that for five days, we were the only guests. Really!

Mercado Central, Mendoza, Argentina: A tower of eggs at the poultry counter.

How many eggs does it take to make...

Portenos like nothing better than to while away a few hours at a cafe. On a Sunday afternoon in Palermo Soho, friends gather at the sidewalk tables outside La Salamandra.

It takes nearly 11 hours to fly the 5,289.81 miles between New York and Buenos Aires.

I can’t sleep sitting upright, especially not with a fully loaded plane of exhausted but chatty Argentines returning from trips to Europe.

So I read. A lot.

But in the darkened cabin, my eyes keep straying to the glowing screen that tracks our plane as it creeps down the east coast, into the Caribbean, across the Equator and over the hump of South America into Columbia near Medellin.

And that’s just the first 4 or 5 hours.

A group of schoolgirls on a field trip to El Cementario de la Recoleta. Since 1822 the imposing neoclassical cemetery has been the last stop for many of the Buenos Aires elite .

The girls were giggling, as all schoolgirls do.

No, they weren’t giggling about boys, or their teacher’s funky shoes, or even Justin Bieber. Yes, they know about Justin in Argentina.

No, the girls were happy because they were out of school. The sun was shining and Freddo, purveyor of delicious helado de dulce de leche, was just two minutes away.

But what they were really giggling about were all the icky dead people.