I’ve been asked more than once what my favorite country is. Unlike the impossible “favorite book” or “favorite food” or (God forbid) “favorite child,” the country question feels easy. But my answer has evolved over the years.

For a long time, it was simple: France. That love-affair began in my first high-school French class and intensified the first time I landed in Paris at 20. France remained my automatic answer until a few years ago, when I was flying home from Rome’s airport, and the stern-faced immigration officer unexpectedly popped the question, and without thinking, I blurted out, “Italy!” He broke into a warm smile, and I suddenly realized… it was true! Italy had joined France.

Since then Japan (which I’ve explored at least a half-dozen times since 1977) has not only made my list but shot to the top of it. Uganda (not any city but the country overall) now has a place too, along with Istanbul. My favorite-places list is still small but this week it acquired another member: Buenos Aires.

This is not some love-at-first-sight infatuation. Steve and I spent a couple of weeks in Argentina back in 2014, and we had a terrific time. Then, however, our time in Buenos Aires had a focused mission: immersion in tango. We’d been studying the dance in San Diego for several years, and while never good, we were hooked. On that first trip to Buenos Aires we danced at as many milongas (dance gatherings) as possible. We joined free open-air tango sessions. We took a lesson with a renowned local performer. I shopped for shoes at the most famous boutique for flashy footwear in the tango universe (hidden away on an upper floor of a high rise near the center of town.)

The visit we just completed was much shorter (only three nights), and it was much more aimless. We’d decided in advance there’s be no tango-dancing. We’re too rusty, and we didn’t want to take along the requisite shoes and clothes. Nor were we trying to tick off touristic highlights. We stayed in a little sixth-floor flat we secured with home-exchange points, on a cobblestone street in the heart of hip Palermo Soho.

Every morning we popped out to coffee shops less than a block from our front door, and took our cups back to eat with cereal and milk and fruit that we bought at the little grocery store across the street. We sat out on our tiny balcony and took our time to read news and go through email.

Wednesday I racked up more than 20,000 steps, as we prowled our neighborhood and some of the beautiful parks adjoining it. Thursday afternoon we spent a couple hours with a private guide at the MALBA (a sleek museum that’s home to one of the most important collections of modern and contemporary art in Latin America.) Jonathan Feldman, a university-level art professor and gallery curator, took us on a head-spinning tour of the permanent collection and the dazzling current special exhibition.

Then he led us out to nearby byways pulsing with street art.

Mature jacaranda and other trees grow thickly along most of those narrow avenues. They shaded us as we strolled past more bookstores than I’ve seen anywhere in a long time.

I took in the countless bars and restaurants, the barbershops and car-repair garages and hardware stores and tiny veterinary clinics. Professional dog-walkers wrangled their large peaceful packs past all this and more.

I saw such things on that earlier visit, but now the city looks more prosperous. At the moment, Argentina has the world’s only libertarian chief of state. Although the jury’s still out on how well Javier Milei and his government will do, some changes are evident. Inflation’s down from more than 200% per year to about 30% — still high but more bearable. The city’s dreadful housing shortage all but evaporated overnight, as the Milei regime ended BA’s price controls. The sidewalks seemed in better shape; sounds of construction projects, large and small, surrounded us.

On our last night, Friday, we did do something classically touristy; took an Uber to a tango dinner club just a few blocks from the Casa Rosada (the official seat of the Argentine government). The Aljibe club was packed with tourists but Steve and I got lucky and were seated at a table right next to the stage. Most of the show consisted of what I think of as performance tango. For this, exquisite looking young people show off the flashiest of moves.

It’s impressive and entertaining but not what you see on the floor at real milongas. But at least one number gave the audience a taste of that, and a singer crooned a few classic songs, and two older dancers demonstrated some gaucho moves.

This all was backed by a little four-man tango band: a pianist, bass player, guitarist, and a fellow on the little accordion-type instrument called a bandoneon.

It’s the bandoneon that gives tango music its unique flavor; that and the complex rhythms. Watching the show, I realized that during Steve’s and my tango years, I was drenched in that sound, that music. I’d forgotten how deeply it seeped into my mind and spirit. It’s emotional music, by turns expressing longing and pleasure, suffering and joy, the full panoply of life in a glorious place. That place is Buenos Aires, and for me, maybe because of the music, maybe because of everything else I find so lovable, Buenos Aires now ranks among those spots on earth I love the best.