Arrival. The Move2Argentina Journey Begins.

The journey begins where I grew up, at my dad's rural property in Southern Illinois, USA. It's the Northern Hemisphere, where winter is about to set it. Most of the leaves have fallen from the trees. Very few of the pleasantly-loud summer birds and insects still sing. This half of the natural world is shutting down for its long annual sleep. But I'm not fleeing winter.

My 3 flights from the middle of the USA to the middle of Argentina cost about $950, one-way, with connections in Atlanta and Buenos Aires. Total travel time is over a day due to a 12-hour layover in Buenos Aires.

Beginning my air journey in the St. Louis airport, there's a great reminder warning of why I'm immigrating to the other end of the planet. The "Free Speech Booth" has been an Orwellian presence for years here. They have two of them now, to allow for more free speech.

My big flight is 9 hours overnight on which the passengers are served a hot dinner and a hot breakfast. Accustomed to getting the absolute minimum customer service on domestic USA flights, international is a relative treat. The passengers are almost entirely Argentinian and absolutely everyone seems to be either happy, tired or both. It's a reminder of how much a relief it always is to cross the southern borders of the USA, to distance oneself from the creeping madness of the Dark Fiat Empire(DFE).

Thanks to ear plugs, eye mask and a little blue pill I'm reasonably rested for my 13-hour layover in Buenos Aires. This is a good thing because the day turns out to be an unexpectedly wonderful adventure. There are no fees or visas required for US passports to enter Argentina at this time, just a very long line in my case. The immigration agent only asks a single brief question about where I'm going, absolutely nothing more. A fingerprint, a photo, and I'm on my way in 90 seconds.

My checked bag, however, didn't enjoy the same good travel experience as me. It's nowhere to be found. A Delta agent interviews me about the appearance and content of the bag. In a strange bit of foreshadowing I imagine how it might feel similar if I was filing a missing persons report for someone who would never be seen again. Customs scans my small carry-on backpack without asking anything, then it's official, I'm here!

A former coworker has been telling me for years of his uncle in Buenos Aires, who also fled the DFE, 20 years ago. Uncle Bob and his teenage son are at the arrivals area waiting for me as I exit customs. They've already waited two hours but are still full of energy and ready to show off their city. I've only ever been across Buenos Aires on a bus before, shuttled between the two main airports. So today is a treat for many reasons.

The three of us spend the day together, happy with utopian blue springtime skies. Uncle Bob has brought me a 3-inch stack of cash in exchange for 10 of my $100 bills. Due to accelerating hyperinflation the "Blue"(black) market rate is now almost 300 pesos per dollar! Using a international card results in everything costing nearly twice as much, so cash is king for foreigners in Argentina.

The airport is at the agricultural edge of this huge metropolis, meaning a 30-minute+ cab ride to Uncle Bob's apartment. It's a downtown neighborhood that could pass for a Western European city. Sunday vendors and shoppers fill the stone-paved side streets. The scene is laid out under a canopy of big trees filled out with the kind of divinely green leaves that can only be found in springtime.

We get two electric bikes and an electric unicycle from the apartment then ride them down to a riverfront park for lunch. Gangs of young men on BMX-style bikes give us amused looks, blaring rap from big speakers tied to their handlebars. One of our electrics is a high performance dirt bike. We take turns riding it at high speed in a dirt straightaway at the edge of the park. What an amazing invention. In some ways humans are getting so much smarter, but in other ways so much dumber. Everything must balance in the end I guess.

Back at the airport I'm briefly amused by a juice vending machine full of fresh oranges. This fruit has gone and gotten itself in quite a situation. I'm in full zombie mode by the time my 9:30PM flight leaves for Bariloche, 1,500km to the southwest.