We fly into Buenos Aires for the fourth time over the murky Rio de la Plata estuary, like a large bowl of milk chocolate or the Argentinians' beloved dulce de leche, the last of 6 internal flights, always waved through security with bottles of water, overweight cases and extra hand luggage without a word, it seems generally accepted here that rules are only there to be broken.

Our guided tour takes around the usual tourist sights, colourful but tawdry, run down La Boca, running the gauntlet of Maradona lookalikes and tango dancers trying to grab you for an expensive photo op, the San Telmo market becoming like any other.

We walk for miles through a city of contrasts, grand old buildings from a prosperous past, some crumbling sprouting bushes and trees, squares, parks, statues of heroes, shanty towns, dashing across roads up to 12 lanes wide, flash Mercedes and black exhaust belching bangers, new buildings and bridges but pot-holed pavements a constant trip hazard. Recoleta Cemetery the city of the dead, a tent camp of Indians demanding land justice, brightly clad young people handing out leaflets and balloons for one of the hundreds of candidates up for election this year, Evita everywhere loved and hated.

No longer just the land of beef, soy beans have proved more profitable, all diets are now catered for including gluten free. Portions are enormous, the chicken the tastiest anywhere, food best in local places often like school canteens filled with local families, children up till late, some asleep at the table. Good coffee, perhaps the Italian influence, served with a glass of fizzy water, plenty of wine but beer is better, from microbreweries or the back shed out in the country.

What's the best thing here? Apart from stunning natural beauty, it's the people, apart from the rare gruff waiter out to fleece a tourist and depressed pharmacists, they are warm friendly helpful, with self deprecating humour and fierce national pride. The Plaza de Mayo is the heart of the city, Saturday it's taken over by tartan, bagpipes, kilts, Spanish speaking Argentinians of Scottish descent marching, orders still given in heavily accented English. Sunday it's Calabrese day, much more of them than the Scots, all still speaking Italian.

In the Plaza itself our first evidence of anti-British hostility over those disputed islands. Large banners with emotive demands to avenge their comrades' blood shed in the war. Up till now we have been careful to be sensitive, but the dispute has been ignored, shrugged off, laughed off, the folly of a discredited military. I pause at a simple but moving memorial to the 29 killed in the bombing of an airfield on the Argentine mainland itself, a reminder of the senseless loss on both sides. Without thinking I translate the dedication out loud not realising Martin has wandered off with his camera. A middle-aged woman next to me says, 'They are the Malvinas, not the Falklands'. She is smiling, but she doesn't look amused.