WITHIN hours of crossing the land border from Brazil to Argentina, I already lost track of the number of Lionel Messi shirts I have seen.
In the capital Buenos Aires, the signs of World Cup fever are everywhere. In Palermo, restaurants have large TV screens that show the football action as tourists, digital nomads, and locals alike sip Malbecs and slice thick cuts of famed Argentinian steak. In various parts of the city, entire squares have been converted into public viewing areas, but in any case, it is impossible to miss the football action. Even while I was aboard the plane to Patagonia, in the country’s far south, the captain animatedly announced that the air traffic controller had sent an important message: “Gol de Messi! Vamos, Argentina!”