Don't Cry for Me, Argentina.

People love to say “you’ll laugh about it later.” That’s what I kept telling myself somewhere between the three missed flights, no sleep, vanished luggage, and food poisoning. Now that “later” is here, I still don’t know if I’m laughing, but I can admit it was a beautiful disaster.

If you looked at my Instagram, you’d think I spent two weeks twirling through Patagonia, sipping Malbec in Buenos Aires, and channeling some kind of hot, adventurous aunt energy across the southern hemisphere. And I did… for about 30% of the time. The other 70% lived somewhere between a logistical nightmare, emotional whiplash, and a revolving door of small miseries. Wet socks included.

But let’s rewind.

The Missed Connection (Literal and Metaphorical)

It started with a storm. The perfect storm. We were descending into Atlanta, already a little delayed, expecting to meet our friend so we could fly together to Buenos Aires. Team spirit, we thought. What could go wrong?

Everything.

Peeking out my window, I could see the lightning, but I didn’t expect we’d suddenly re-ascend, fly in circles, and then touch down in Birmingham, Alabama. Alabama. A place I had never once considered in my life. We spent six hours on the tarmac, unable to deplane. Our connection? Adios. The one we rebooked? Good one. The luggage? Lost somewhere in the purgatory between Delta and American Airlines. It was a masterclass in character development. I would have preferred a nap.

By then, delirium and hanger had completely taken over our free will. We inhaled McDonald’s for our first meal in sixteen hours, seated directly across from the sushi spot we were supposed to experience midair, courtesy of our friend. Instead, we stared at it from the food court, chewing McGriddles with the quiet resignation of people who had also been through it. That’s when it hit me: the version of this trip I’d packed for was already gone.

The panic had peaked when I officially lost it, and my friend gently but firmly shoved the Xanax into my mouth. With no other options, we were rerouted to Miami. That flight? Delayed. And just like that, we were 3 for 3. We spent the night in an airport hotel, each of us in our own room, thank God. I love my friends, but after a day like that, I needed the world to stop happening.

Buenos Aires (Finally, Kind of)

By the time we finally made it to Buenos Aires, it was two days later than planned. Our itinerary had dissolved, and our suitcases were still MIA. Which felt especially fitting, considering we’d just spent the night in Miami. I had both the Atlanta airport and Ezeiza memorized by then. Honestly, if I’m ever out of a job, I feel qualified to work at either. Thankfully, a friend in the city lent me clothes while we waited for our bags to catch up. I still owe her.

San Telmo, Buenos Aires

Not the End of the World

Ushuaia was next. "The end of the world," they call it. And for a moment, it kind of felt like it. Nothing was going according to plan. Still, the show went on. We readjusted, recalibrated, did what we had to do.

Right before heading to the airport, our friend realized his crossbody was missing. Everything in it. Well, everything except his passport. AirPods, credit cards, nearly 1K in cash, and a dozen little things you never want to lose. He figured he’d left it back at our friend’s apartment, so we flipped the place. Nothing. We had a flight to catch, so that was that.

By this point in the trip, my brain was fully rewired into survival mode. So I did what I do best. I remembered the cleaning lady I befriended at our first Airbnb. We’d kept in touch, mostly because I was the only one who could translate, so I messaged her and asked if she could swing by the apartment lobby to take a look. Without hesitation, she said yes.

And then we waited. Mid-flight. No service. No updates. Just a stale croissant and a missing crossbody. One of us quietly spiraling the entire way.

As soon as I caught service after landing, a WhatsApp photo came in: the bag, fully intact, fished out from the gap between the elevator and the shaft. It was a Christmas miracle. While losing the bag wouldn’t have been the end of the world, we were literally flying to it, and just needed one good thing.

Later that week, we met up with our hero, gave her a big tip and an even bigger hug. Things were finally looking up.

Ushuaia, Argentina

The Bright Side (I think)

Then came Ultra Festival.

I wasn’t planning on going, but if this trip had a theme, it was that plans meant nothing. So, of course, I went.

What I didn’t know? Black is the unofficial uniform in Buenos Aires once the sun goes down, especially at music festivals. Everyone just knows.

And I, of course, showed up in full denim like I was auditioning for a Levi’s campaign. I stood out like a light-washed, sore thumb.

Other highlights: we got stuck in an elevator with our luggage right before a flight. I flooded the first floor of the Airbnb trying to troubleshoot a broken washer we weren't warned about. I got food poisoning from a steak tartare dish and somehow nursed myself back to health in time to eat more steak because… priorities.

Steak, wine, and everything fine.

Final Boarding Call

Even with the broken plans, detours, and damp socks, something about this trip cracked me open.

Maybe it was being far from everything I knew.

Maybe it was how each day unraveled in its own way.

Or maybe it was the reminder that I didn’t need this trip to change my life. It was enough that it reminded me I was still in it.

But for every hiccup, there was a silver lining.

Hiking a glacier in Patagonia? Unreal. Like staring into a desktop background. Dancing barefoot and falling through a loose floorboard at our impromptu house party? Still proudly sporting my scar. With red wine-stained lips, I hugged trees and laughed until I choked. One night, we ordered 20 empanadas instead of going out.

It all started to feel worth it. The kind of trip that reminds you you're not in control and that's half the fun.

Oddly enough, there was barely a time difference. Just an hour ahead of New York, but it felt like Bizarro World. We left spring and landed in fall. Touching trees in Buenos Aires, I imagined my dad back home touching one in Queens. Like we were on opposite ends of the Earth, and we kind of were. It felt like stepping into the Upside Down, where everything was reversed, but somehow still familiar.

And if nothing else, I finally learned to pack extra socks.

Would I do it again? Probably, but with a direct flight.

Absolutely disgusting.