Everything
@sergio writes in his initial post may be true but it is not everything. It's a bit like the enigma of trying to describe the death, damage, destruction and devastation of the London blitz during the Second World War without mentioning that many people who survived - perhaps most people - look back on it as the happiest time of their lives.
There are at least six beginnings to the story of my relationship with Argentina and I tell it differently every time. Today's version begins in England, in early 2002, with a woman in Argentina screaming at me that I just don't understand: that I couldn't understand unless I saw what was really happening there for myself.
A few weeks later, Easter 2002, I got off the plane right in the middle of all that turmoil. The man who you may all remember from the rolling TV news as the peacemaker, calming down the flag-burning protesters in the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel is still a dear friend of mine. The bishop I cooked dinner for that weekend has since retired. The people I met in the subsequent weeks, the ones feeding the newly homeless from their own kitchens; the medics helping the sick and injured with ever scarcer resources; the young family with a new-born living in a tin hut on a muddy, waterlogged track at the edge of town, what all of them -
all of them - had in common was the bitter disappointment in the succession of governments which had failed them so miserably and a determination to pick themselves up and do a better job themselves.
I've loved Argentina ever since.