Fernando is very nervous. He is surrounded by a crowd of couples moving swiftly in every… Fernando is very nervous. He is surrounded by a crowd of couples moving swiftly in every direction. His young mother holds both of his hands tightly, then gets on her knees and pulls his small arm around her waist. She leads him in a dance, but he soon gets frustrated and runs off the wooden platform and onto the cobblestone street.

Fernando and his mother might not be ready to tango in San Telmo, but many others are: fathers with daughters, mothers with sons, lovers of all ages, friends and strangers. I stand on the edge of the platform for barely five minutes before a young girl asks me to dance with her. We can barely speak to each other thanks to my poor Spanish, but nobody is without a partner in San Telmo.

The barrio, or neighborhood, is a visual jewel in Buenos Aires, Argentina’s capital city. San Telmo was a very wealthy neighborhood until a few decades ago, and its slow decline created a beautiful mix of tango clubs, bars, and shops of varying shapes and sizes.

Argentina is on the rise again as a nation, having nowhere to go but up from its financial collapse three years ago. The banks were run into ruin and the Argentinian peso became nearly worthless. The crisis left thousands of Argentinians penniless, but the restructured economy is slowly recovering.

An old man stands with several boxes of fruit for sale near the city center. I ask for a pear, but when he sees a U.S. dollar emerge from my pocket among the pesos, he points to it and offers me the whole box. Years of relying on the dollar as dependable currency are still with many Argentinians.

Buenos Aires has developed in a checkerboard pattern. Yellow and brown row houses occupy blocks beside skyscrapers, all next to open parks and ruined businesses.

Some people wander through the city with herds of dogs, bound to them by leashes that form a spider’s web. There is a good living to be made as a dog walker in Buenos Aires, especially near the Embassy District, where the small plazas of grass and monuments are big enough to accommodate the animals.

The buildings appear more European than South American, with classical construction on Avenue de Libertador and aspects of villas among the embassies. Stylish stores and clubs with large windows boast their products and customers.

A few blocks west, the streets seem less refined and more quaint, with small convenience stores, newsstands and specialty shops. One man stands in front of his watch repair business, displaying his skill by working on a timepiece in the light of the sun.

In the Rio de la Plata, the northern border of Buenos Aires, casual fishermen dot the shoreline with poles hung over the walls like furled flags. The edge of Uruguay, the country on the east side of the river, is little more than a dark haze on the horizon.

The smell of roasting meat wafts along with the breeze from the water, as food stands create pockets of heat in the walk along the river. The sounds of light traffic and the lapping of waves are drowned by the occasional roar of an airplane as it passes over the bank from the nearby national airport.

Along the fence line to the airport, an occasional art deco sculpture appears, dedicated decades ago. Many of the older buildings in Buenos Aires were built in the art deco style, its harsh lines and defined curves providing perfect contrast under the city’s ever-present sunlight. One of Buenos Aires’ more than 100 museums is an enormous art deco museum in the central district, with an unexpectedly classical exterior.

Just east of the central district, Buenos Aires seems more intimate. Often laden with flowers, the cemetery in the Recoleta barrio serves as the final resting place for two centuries’ worth of the city’s most notable people, including Eva Peron, one of Argentina’s most loved figures. Approaching the memorial, I almost feel like I am trespassing.

But the people around me seem as open as the spaces in Buenos Aires, nodding short greetings and going about their business without any glares of disapproval.

Outside the cemetery, I find a cafe called La Biela, where the Recoleta’s impeccably dressed ladies and gentlemen sip drinks and read newspapers. I am distinctly out of place, but I sit to take in the atmosphere anyway. This is the boundary of the old city, where the memories of Argentina under Juan and Eva Peron still live in a cool fondness.

Inside Recoleta, the new Buenos Aires begins. Men wear open shirts and women sport bright colors to match the city’s perpetual warmth. Shops and art galleries have a new generation of goods and culture on their walls.

Amid the collapse of bureaucracies, buildings and banks, Buenos Aires’ one constant has been its dance. Tango exists as a living, breathing entity, evolving and growing like a species. It displays the Latin, European and native American components of Argentinian culture in a series of sensual movements.

I end the day in a tango club, watching dapper men and brightly dressed women move up and down the dance floor, with the occasional flourish of a twirling skirt or a reverse in direction. If I had the time, I would return to San Telmo and learn more of the steps, but, like a person, tango requires a lifetime to appreciate fully.