The next day was spent trying to get our newcomer up to speed on the incredible cities, of which we ourselves had only begun to scratch the surface. After a coffee and submarine at the supremely elegant cafe Biela in Recoleta, we explored the Recoleta Cemetary, an incredibly beautiful burial
ground for all of Argentina's rich and famous, including the saintly Eva Peron, whose grave is surprisingly simple and unglamorous. The cemetery, though, is staggeringly beautiful, long corridors of mausoleums and great trees shading constructions of stone, iron, and glass. The sculptures of angels, owls, dragons, and fair maidens are worthy of a museum and the whole places seems like a palace of homage and less like a place of death. It is stunning, a new world pere lachez. 
After a lunch of spectacular homemade pasta (ravioli especially) and massive ice cream (they don't mess around here but give you heaping piles of gelato). Staggering after this crippling lunch, we make our way down to the center of town, via an avenue of shockingly gaudy jewelry and watch stores. We stop for a quick nap and read in a park (not as pretty as the BG but fewer evil security guards). After another tour of the center, casa rosada, and agenda florida, we ride the sweaty subway back to Palermo. After a charming bartender lures us into a dark, jazz filled bar to serve us 15 year old whiskey on ice, we continue for the thing most present on our minds, dinner. The meal that evening was one of the finest we have known. Back (of course) to Las Cabras, where we snag the last table under the trees and then watch portenos queue around the block as we greedily order malbec (the best I have ever tasted, or any of us in fact) and three beautifully adorned steaks. Somehow this place manages to outdo the fancier restaurant in food quality and after that the battle is won, lovely decor, lighting, ambience, and the three of us, really and simply three of the very best old friends, long time traveling companions and veterans of adventures and escapades in Mexico, Canada, and every corner of the US, not to mention family members, laughing and telling tales and feasting and enjoying the life craved by so many, in this sweet city of runaways and metamorphoses and wilderness and culture, in circumstances none of us would even be bold enough to dream into being, and yet into which we have somehow stumbled, anticipating the coming days and reveling in adventures ranging from years ago to hours ago, savoring the Alegria de Argentina, y la Alegria de Amistad. 

The next morning, exhausted by the various demands of the city, we make our way out to a nearby rivertown. We travel by train, bumping along through endless suburbs, and arrive in the estuary of the Rio Parana, the vast river that combines with the Rio Uruguay to form the vast Rio de la Plata which eventually flows to the sea. On the banks of the estuaries main vein is the small, quiet, and (after BA) heavenly tranquil town of Tigre. It is by now means a resort town, or even much of a tourist town, but is in fact a getaway for locals who get driven out of the city by heat and the intensity of the metropolis. The weather closes in as we arrive and, after checking into a sweet little hotel and having a lunch of piping hot freshly made empanadas de carne, we arrive at the river banks as rain begins to trickle down. We had expected a wash of tourism, trekking and boating, but it is midweek and the town is quiet (not necessarily such a tragedy). We hop into a water taxi and take a long loop through the delta, up and down various arms of the endlessly interconnected river. The river is lined with everything from the crumbling mansions of portenos with failed plans and the slyly hidden cottages of runaways (hard not to imagine Nazis and on the run criminals in a place as secluded as this), to adventure camps and run down trash-heaps, the whole this is in the tangle of sub tropical river delta jungle. The rain streams down, lending the whole thing a hard, unfriendly gleam of grey, but it is a fascinating exploration none the less. Disembarking, we make our way to the conspicuously huge and splendid museum of white colonnades. The art is enjoyable, the solitude lovely, and the respite from the rain a huge relief. We stumble across one truly brilliant painting. A masterpiece of the usage of light and focus, it depicts a retreat of defeated cavalry running from a ruinous battlefield. There are also a series of excellent ship paintings in the early (and thrilling) historical days of Buenos Aires. 
As evening falls and we head home, we are sidetracked by an understated Naval Museum, which turns out to be one of the greatest historical museums any of us has ever seen. With an incomparable collection of huge, intricate model ships (ranging from Egyptian crafts to Viking longboard, Spanish galleons, English frigates, WWI battleships and even some unrealized designs) and a vast history of Argentinas naval exploits (summed up cruelly. if accurately, by Tom Stubbs, "One ship, and oh look, it was sunk by the English") and an incredible collection of huge tanks, anti aircraft guns, ordnance, and even huge aircraft in an otherwise very abandoned warehouse. It is staggeringly well presented, excellently laid out, and, most enjoyably, totally empty save ourselves.
Dinner that night is an interesting affair. The food (porkchops and brochettes) and wine (duh, malbec) is great, though not world class like the previous night, and the restaurant and in fact the whole town, is totally deserted (it really is off-season in Tigre today it seems, eerily reminiscent of the deserted Valencian coast). But we need little ambience as we create most of it ourselves, and we do not want for laughter or good cheer. That night we begin a tradition which we all relish in. After dinner, very much on the edge of sleep but still reeling with warmth and wine, we make our way to the nearest ice cream parlor (which for some reason stay open till past midnight, they know me too well) and savor a few more laughs over a sumptuous gelato before speeding back to the hotel for sweet repose. (sorry for the language, evidence of a strange diet of Thomas Hardy, Donna Tart, and speaking Spanish). 
The next day dawns with coffee and croissants and all of us sitting at a caf by the river (all right it doesn't quite dawn that way but it eventually ends up that way). We head out in brilliant sunshine (which totally transforms Tigre) to a spot on the river where we are met by an amiable guide named Rodrigo in a beautiful wooden canoe. With him at the helm and the three of us paddling with impressive strength and militaristic precision, we cross the wide Tigre river and make our way into the narrow watery lanes of the inner delta. Four hours we paddle in relative quiet, through this strange water jungle. It is tranquil, with the sunlight filtering down through the vines and other locals speeding by in their own self-propelled boats (ranging from kayaks and canoes to one man rowboats). Occasionally we make out way up a deserted side river into what feels very much like unexplored territory. In the delta there are no roads, so the only mechanical sound
is the infrequent sound of a boat engine  quietly chugging past. We stop at the boat house for welcome tea and a snack and admire the handiwork or the master craftsman who makes the beautifully worked and painted Indian canoes. Slowly we make our way back but as we pass through a sun filled open glade we ask if we can swim. The water is brown but, in the sun is not particularly ominous. We have already been repeatedly informed that there are no piranhas (despite the name of the river, the unrelated parana) or crocodiles or anacondas. We ask to swim and rodrigo responds "I love to swim here." great, I respond, and strip off my life jacket and tshirts. Suddenly he is uneasy. What are you doing? he asks. And I realize he did not expect us to actually follow through. It is only once me and my dad are floating on our backs in the still cool water that he informs Casey that no one on his boat trips has Ever gone swimming in the river. It remains unclear, as we bid Rodrigo farewell half an hour later, whether he was withholding information about some dangerous river creature or whether he is simply afraid of water, which would certainly be odd for a river guide. 
Lunch is more fresh hot empanadas, this time enjoyed on a sunny riverbank, surrounded by other Argentines. With the sun out, and the weekend nearing, Tigre has transformed from a slightly grim suburb to an idyllic paradise. After lunch we swing by an amusing, but slightly ridiculous museum (think ten minute info video and the LOTS of gourds on display) where we are finally able to complete our own mate setup (consisting of the ground herb itself, a thermos for the hot water which has to be constantly replenished, a gourd and a bombilla, or intricate silver straw) so that we can now enjoy the life giving beverage wherever there is hot water (which, in this country of mate drinkers is Everywhere). Then we are back on the train, clattering drowsily towards Buenos Aires. After another divine afternoon in the Botanical Gardens (where we cleverly ensconce ourselves in a security guard free napping zone corner), we get a beer at Plaza Serrano and then go to dinner at the place Casey and I ate at when we first arrived. Another deserted restaurant but, with a funny waiter and great food, another wonderful meal. Then, in a fluster of exhaustion and anticipation we speed back to the hostel, throw our bags together and get in a taxi to the airport, in full anticipation of the fact that things are about to escalate seriously in terms of adventurosity (yes that's a word). After exhausting delays, as the warmth of food and wine wear off, we groggily board a midnight plane from this wild metropolis to the much wilder reaches of this land. We are going to Patagonia.