BUENAS NOCHES, BUENOS AIRES

IT’S A STICKY-HOT NIGHT IN BUENOS AIRES and I am walking endlessly toward dinner. I had set out an hour earlier from my hotel. I followed the western edge of the Río Dársena Sur north until it spilled out into the bay, then pivoted into the crooked streets of the Retiro district. I am carrying an umbrella. It rained earlier, a frantic, humid release, and you can still feel the threat of more in the air. I am stupidly wearing a blazer, which is light, but not light enough, and I am rotating through its placement options in 10-minute intervals, taking it off, draping it over my arm, or throwing it over my shoulder whenever the skin it is covering becomes too slick with sweat. I am not lost. The street with the restaurant I am looking for is somewhere off this road, Avenida Santa Fe. I have been paying attention to signs.

I am not lost, I am sure of that.

At the moment, though, I have no way to know if my certainty is justified.

Think about the last time you were ever truly on your own. I don’t mean simply solo; I mean disconnected from the portable, infinite answer machines we now carry with us everywhere. When was the last time you wanted information—an address, a route, a translation—and couldn’t simply ask your phone? Can you remember? That was how we used to travel. It wasn’t all that long ago. It feels like forever.

I’ve come to Buenos Aires to try it again. I remember it, a decade ago. In Paris, without the help of a smartphone, walking tangled roads until I understood their logic, picking restaurants because it looked like people inside were