Buenos Aires: capital of Argentina, scene of a turbulent socio-political 20th century, birthplace of Diego Maradona awaited us as we sped across the River Plate on our ferry from Colonia Del Sacramento in Uruguay.
For once our journey ended too soon. The on-board entertainment was Robbie Williams' 2003 Knebworth concert and I don't think I've seen Kerry so rapt since our early 'tete a tetes' over lunchtime hot chocolates in Sidwell Street.
Incidentally, the River Plate is an anglicisation of its true moniker which is Rio De La Plata, correctly translated as the River of Silver.
I'm not a fan of translations of place names; a name is a name is it not?
You don't get it with football clubs, Manchester United are known as such the world over, so I don't know why it occurs with cities etc.
And how dull River Plate sounds against Rio De La Plata - I know which one I would rather chase a limping pocket battleship up, forcing its disgraced commander to scuttle it and then commit hari-kiri.
Arriving at the port in La Boca was very exciting. BA's buildings loomed large and there was an undeniable buzz about us simply for being here.
Every now and then Kerry or I will say to the other: "Oh my god, we're in {insert evocative sounding place} and this was one of these occasions.
Having dreamt of this trip for so long, mere words can never do justice to what we have felt on these occasions.
We travelled the couple of miles to the city centre and began the tedium of sourcing a room. Our first choice was either $80 for a private room or $40 for two bunks in a six man dorm.
Despite previously reporting that an economy drive is now in place we couldn't face the malodorous snore-fest of the shared option and felt 80 dabs was a tad too high for a hostel.
We adjourned to McDonald's for an ensalada and to make use of their wi-fi, delighting in finding a 4* hotel just around the corner for $57 on booking.com.
Well, there's 4* and there's 4* and this one was at the lower end of that particular spectrum. The lobby was beautiful, so nice in fact that I felt quite out of place with my bedraggled and unkemp self peering back at me from the mirror behind the receptionist.
The room, however, was a serious letdown. I can't imagine when this hotel was rated, nor by what halfwit, but it couldn't have been any time recently.
We took a walk and were immediately struck by how western it felt here and, once we'd negotiated our way out of the pedestrianised street we were on, what a grand and magnificent city it is.
If you like architecture then BA will be right up your alley and it reminded me a lot of Paris.
We found our way to the Plaza de Mayo, a lovely square surrounded by beautiful buildings, not least the Casa Rosada, the pink presidential mansion from where Juan and Eva Peron would address the baying hordes in the '40s.
The Plaza is also home to a demonstration about the Falklands and there are memorials to the fallen, around which, when asked by a chap from whence we came, we were German.
On Friday Kerry got to indulge her passion for a city bus tour, admittedly the best way to see the main sights without getting utterly cream-crackered by yomping for miles.
Without wishing to repeat myself I must stress how wonderful a city this is, easily appreciated from the top deck of an open-top bus.
Wide boulevards, fancy-schmantzy architecture, clear skies and beautiful people all combined to make this a very pleasant tour.
The highlight for me was Stop 8 and the Museo del Boquense.
This is a museum dedicated to Boca Juniors football club but even better, the admission included entry to the stadium, the famous 'Bombonera'.
I would have loved to have seen a game here but unfortunately it's the close season. Nevertheless, it gave me goose bumps just to think about the legends that have played in this wonderfully compact little stadium:
Canniggia, Riquelme, Rattin, Tevez and of course, Diego himself.
Other notable sights on our tour were: the congress building, the Teatro Colon, a huge metal flower which closes at night, the district of Palermo, the obelisk, an image of Evita on the side of a skyscraper and the cemetery at Recoleta. It was, in short, a great few hours.
We spent Saturday morning planning our next move which meant a trip to the bus station.
We opted to buy tickets to Mendoza on what would be our final long-haul of the trip; 15 hours overnight on Sunday.
Mendoza is wine country and we liked the sound of the "Bikes and Wine Tour" on offer there, despite them sounding as compatible as George Best and Mother Theresa.
With that chore completed we then booked a night out to see a professional Tango show, a visit to BA without which is surely incomplete.
This followed our stumbling across a street show of Tango the night before near our hotel. Whilst it was really good (and free) we were aggravated by the lack of dancing and the emphasis on the "Where are you from? A round of applause for Spain/Germany/Colombia/Brazil etc etc nature to proceedings so we figured a pro show would sate our (Kerry's) unfulfilled desires on that score.
A night out at such a club necessitated a shopping expedition for your heroine. It simply wouldn't do to turn up in grubby attire and flip flops so there followed (what seemed like an interminable) two to three hour search for a suitable dress. Of course, as all women and their weary partners will know, once the dress is sourced then one needs shoes, a belt and possibly a bag.
Sympathetic to my increasingly animated displays of impatience, Kerry located dress and shoes in the same shop, decided against a belt and that a bag she already possessed would do the job.
I'm aware I got off rather lightly and the transformation from hippie-chick traveller to sophisticated lady about town was remarkable and slightly disconcerting after all this time.
To my shame I'd forgotten how beautiful she is and it almost felt intimidating to be taking her out in my trekking trousers and trainers.
We went to a small club on the other side of town and were seated at a table on the mezzanine with a great view of the stage.
The story, told through song, was obviously in Spanish so it largely passed us by but the dancing was great and the live orchestra added greatly to it all.
We were free on Sunday until our bus left at 1700 so we had a walk up to congress before splitting up for a few hours.
Kerry was feeling a little dicky in the stomach again so just wanted to sit quietly and I took the opportunity to visit another football stadium, the Monumental (pronounced Mon-u-men-tarl) of River Plate FC.
It turned into a bit of a balls ache and expensive sweat-fest but, overall, it was worth it.
For someone who works in the field I do I managed to make quite a pigs ear of my journey to the Monumental.
I failed to read the metro map correctly so ended up missing my stop.
This saw me walking 400 yards to a different metro station before taking a train to 'Retiro', the railway station.
Here I purchased a return ticket to Belgrano, nearest station to the Monumental and a bargain at 50p.
Unbeknownst to me there were two Belgranos and, of course, my train took me to the wrong one.
This necessitated my taking a taxi to the stadium and another back to town after my visit because I'd run out of time and couldn't afford to be faffing about looking for buses.
Despite all that grief, the expense and the associated ear-bending at that expense, to see the pitch where Argentina won its first world cup, where Kempes scored those beautiful goals and where the Argentinian team was greeted with the famous ticker tape reception was spine-tinglingly exciting.
And so to the bus station. I won't go into too much detail, you must be as tired of hearing about bus journeys as we are of making them, but the main point is that we decided to continue past Mendoza and head straight to a Chilean beach for our final week on American soil.
This meant arriving at Mendoza after a 15 hour journey and then finding a bus on to the coast, another 8 hours according to the Lonely Planet.
The night bus was a bit of a disaster for me personally. My seat was broken so if I leant back my head appeared in the lap of the person behind me and if I reduced my weight in any way then I would shoot forward and headbutt the seat in front - not conducive to a satisfactory night's sleep.
There was also a chap opposite who saw fit to snort every five seconds by way of clearing thick mucus from his sinuses. I hadn't heard him until Kerry pointed it out and once she had done I simply sat there waiting for each new evacuation.
And there was a young child in front, one behind, there was a film on TV that I didn't want to watch, I went to the loo and there was someone in there with their knickers around their ankles who hadn't locked the door causing acute embarrassment for both of us.
God! How I have come to hate buses.
At Mendoza I found a bus leaving in an hour heading for the Chilean resort of Vina Del Mar.
The ticket agent told us the journey was seven hours in length so, leaving at 0930, we looked forward to arriving by 1630.
What he'd omitted to mention to us was that the Argentine-Chilean border is as officious as they come and it took fully three hours of luggage searching, paperwork processing and groin sniffing by Golden Retrievers before we saw the "Bienvenidos a Chile" sign.
Whilst still in Argentina a film was shown on the bus. Of all the films in the world to show to a bus load of Argentinians I'm not sure a biopic of Margaret Thatcher is the best choice.
We slunk into our seats and kept our voices down, especially during scenes depicting the Falklands War where Maggie described Argentinians as scum.
In case anyone missed out on being offended first time round they then showed it again.
I couldn't help wondering how a bus load of Brits would react if the tables were turned.
That long delay at the border saw us pull into Vina Del Mar at nearly 2000 hours, 27 hours after boarding in BA.
Whilst that is an horrific statistic I am almost deliriously happy to tell you that that is almost it with regards to bus travel.
We will hole up here for a while and chill out before making for Santiago at the weekend, a mere bagatelle at only two hours away.
Then we fly to Oz for an emotional reunion with the estranged lamb chops.
First though, there's a Pacific Ocean to laze beside on white golden sand.
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