Our guidebook warned us implicitly not to go near La Boca. We have even drawn a ring around it on the map to make sure we don’t stray into it ,American Werewolf in London style, and yet here we are, cycling through it’s streets, lined by houses made of corrogated iron, painted in a mishmash of colours, apparently born of necessity in the days when they were inhabited by immigrants just off the boats, boca meaning mouth of the river, and the only paint they had came from the port left overs.

Camilla, our guide for the day, scoffed at the idea we could be robbed in broad daylight although she conceded it may not be wise to be here at night. We have her for 6 hours, and it isn’t until half way through the day that I see we haven’t just hired her to show us the sites,but to pick a Porteno’s brains about vital questions we have like best restaurants, museums, sites to visit, and where to buy knickers (more of the latter later). She also gave us a potted history of Argentina from the perspective of a libertarian anarchist. If she had her way she’d occupy the cemetery, (although she says manifest rather than occupy, I don’t correct her as I have learnt from the daggers drawn looks Ana, our Spanish lodger, gives me when I do this) . She’d empty it’s crypts of coffins and make it a collective of bijou residences, as many of them are two stories high, and bigger than some peoples flats. She lives in La Boca with 8 other artists, musicians, and writers, 3 dogs and 3 cats. Their rent is half a million pesos a month – around £150 per person. She’s an artist, paints watercolours, which she doesn’t sell but barters. She wears nothing but vintage clothes, is a fount of political, literary, film and historical knowledge, and is all round fabulous. I ask why Eva Peron has just a little plaque in Ricoleta cemetary – she says that Peron, Evita’s husband, had her embalmed when she died at the shockingly young age of 32 from uterine cancer, and when a military coup overthrew his government a week later, the junta smuggled her embalmed body out of Argentina where she stayed drifting through Europe in hidden cellars to stop her becoming any kind of symbol for the Argentinians who adored her. By the time her body returned to Argentina Peron had remarried and rumours of black magic carried out on her body by his much loathed third wife perhaps explain her muted memorial. There’s an election coming up soon and one of the candidates (Javier Milei) is apparently a Trump like figure who against the odds might be voted in as a protest at the absolute mess the countries economy is in right now ( to our benefit, let’s be honest).

Later that day, my brain fried by the onslaught of information Camilla has machine gunned at me for 6 hours, we returned to out hotel and Clive started cursing like a navvy because of complications caused by an attempted fraud on booking.com a few weeks ago that meant he had to cancel the card he has booked everything on, and I mean EVERYTHING. I could hear music, drumming, and singing even with headphones on to drown out his shouting, which seemed to be happening just up the road from us. After scoping it out with my binocs on the balcony I decided to escape the shocking language and explore. I discovered the silent street we’d walked up not 2 hours ago now heaving with people, weaving about holding glasses of wine, children with balloons and candyfloss, a ballet dancer gyrating in a lighting shop window, drummers dancing wildly, smartly dressed Portenos sipping cocktails at drinks parties glimpsed through windows. I have no idea why, nor did the hotel. Where was Camilla when I needed her?

Ah, knickers. In case you are wondering, I am keen to replace my supply not because of any unseemly incidences, but because my pants are so darn heavy. I’ve gravitated towards them from the thong era of the 80’s through the M and S years, and these have just become my go-to’s. They-are-so-comfy. But I only have 15kg on some flights, 12kg if you take out the weight of my case, so every gram counts, and my case currently weighs 16kg. Interesting fact from Camilla while discussing pants – even she doesn’t wear vintage bloomers – one of the joys of BA is that there are no chain stores. No ubiquitisation of their streets. I won’t bore you with why but also there are no department stores. Devastating. So to buy lighter weight knickers I have to go into a tiny shop, where Clive cowers in the corner looking terrified, point at my arse saying “big bottom”, and they produce a pack of three size 4 ‘s. I love buying stuff abroad when I have no idea of the sizings so my inner troll can’t bombard me with derision. Anyway, doing a blind test Clive agrees they are MUCH lighter than my old pants (that’s a lie, he rolled his eyes and said he honestly didn’t think he could tell that much difference.)

Update : they are REALLY uncomfortable. I think I’m a size 5.