Buenos Aires...

Some very close friends invited me to their wedding in Buenos Aires, which instantly became the perfect excuse to finally visit the city for the first time. I stayed a full week, so wasting days wasn’t an option. Another close friend was also invited and had arrived a month earlier, so I stayed with him. A wedding abroad is already a privilege. A wedding abroad with your people is something else entirely. Expectations were high.

A few days before the wedding trip, the planners reached out to make sure everything was set and to offer help if I needed anything. That level of care was new to me. It felt intentional and generous, like the city was already extending a hand before I had even landed.

Naturally, we started planning our nights. After a couple of days, one thing became clear, Buenos Aires doesn’t rush. Argentinians seem to prioritize quality over quantity when it comes to partying. Fewer nights, but better ones. I wasn’t expecting the city to outpace CDMX or Madrid, but I was curious to see how it played its cards.

Two of my favorite DJ duos are Argentine, and I was quietly hoping one of them would be playing while I was there. No luck. One was touring outside the city and the other played on the same day as the religious ceremony. Timing, undefeated as always.

I’ve always believed the best club recommendations never come from lists or guides. They come from locals who actually love the night. So I asked an Argentine friend where to go. I told him I wanted house music. It’s the safest bet when you don’t want to gamble with sound, and it’s the genre I enjoy the most. His answer was immediate: Afrika, downtown.

To double check, I asked the wedding planners too. They told me to give them a few minutes and that they would put together a plan. For context, they organize events for very "famous" local people, which means their circle doesn’t just know nightlife, they know where things actually matter. When she got back to me, she recommended a place for dinner and pre drinks, and then the club. Same answer. Afrika. At that point, you stop asking questions.

We had dinner around 10 p.m., pacing ourselves and aiming for a midnight arrival. Everything went according to plan, until we got there. We joined the rope line and a few minutes later security told us it was still too early and that we should come back later. Midnight. Too early. That was a first for me.

So we did what everyone else was doing, drinks nearby, killing time. The place was full of people orbiting the same idea, waiting for the night to properly begin. The table next to us was a big group, and one girl kept casually locking eyes with us. When we returned to the club later, she turned out to be the host. Buenos Aires definitely has a sense of humor.

We didn’t have a reservation, so we lined up like mere mortals. At the front, the question came:
“Do you have a reservation?”
We said no.
She recognized us, smiled, and said we could get in if we bought a bottle between the two of us. Easy. Thank God.

Then came the menu, and with it the realization that liquor culture here plays by different rules. After a brief scan, we went with champagne. Not my usual choice for a club. I’m not typically a fermented grape on the dance floor person. But it turned into absolute chaos. Fun chaos. Too much chaos. I loved it.

Inside, the night escalated quickly. The DJ was Nacho Scoppa, from Rosario, someone deeply present in the local scene and surrounded by serious expectations for his future. The following week he was playing with Marco Carola, a legend of the underground scene, just to give an idea of his sound. The party was organized by his label, something I learned gradually while making friends on the dance floor.

At the peak of the night, dancers appeared, Ibiza OG style. Elevated platforms right next to the DJ, completely visible to everyone. Untouchable, undeniable. Not decoration, but ritual. The energy shifted instantly. That moment when the room locks in, looks up, and moves as one. Afrika stopped being just a club and became a spectacle.

The crowd skewed young. Later, the producers told me the dance floor wasn’t especially demanding, which made perfect sense. You could feel it. People dressed to be seen, to pose, to be part of the image as much as the sound. Less devotion to the DJ, more devotion to the moment. And honestly, that’s fine. Buenos Aires doesn’t pretend to be one thing. It offers everything. You just have to choose your version.

I left around 6:30 a.m. Outside, the sun was already up, casually announcing that the day had begun. Right by the rope, prostitutes waited for anyone unwilling to let the night end. At the same time, people were out jogging. Kids were walking to school. It felt surreal, almost utopian, in that way only vacations allow, when you get to observe reality without having to participate in it.

Culture shock? Definitely. People felt warmer and more approachable, less armored both physically and emotionally. There was a strong sexual energy in the air. Flirting felt natural and unforced, and open mindedness wasn’t something people performed, it was simply the norm.

Argentinians moved with an ease that made desire feel visible and unashamed. The girls were incredibly beautiful, effortlessly so, confident and present, fully aware of the effect they had and comfortable owning it. Even the atmosphere felt more relaxed overall, without the heavy presence of security you’re used to in places like CDMX.

And then there was the most shocking detail of all, the dance floor. People openly smoking weed, right in the middle of everything. Completely normalized. The smell was scandalously delicious. In a space so curated, so posh, so cool, it completely broke my brain. It felt like being with Boca’s ultras, smoking so openly and calmly that I forgot I was standing in one of the most exclusive clubs in Buenos Aires.

This city doesn’t rush the night. It lets it happen. It stretches it until morning shows up and life keeps moving around you. Luxury next to chaos, freedom next to control, all sharing the same sidewalk.

It’s a truly underrated city. Maybe it’s even my favorite so far. It feels close to perfect, without ever pretending to be something else. It still carries that Latin American edge, the mess, the warmth, the contradictions, and that’s exactly what makes it work.

That night at Afrika wasn’t about chasing the best DJ or hearing the deepest track. It was about being inside a city that doesn’t pause for the party.

The night doesn’t escape reality here.
It lives right in the middle of it.