"You understand a lot. However, your grammar is [appalling]." - Mastering the art of Rioplatense Spanish.

Having had a wonderful time at dinner with the FT correspondent in her beautiful family home in Malabia, AND having disembarked bus number 24 for the very first time [in one piece], we simply couldn't help but rise from bed with confidence this morning of what, essentially, was our second day in this city of "Fine Winds." To our dismay, the rain was heavy and the sky was grey. In a typically english way, I had come prepared with wellington boots (as one does), which I was not shy about sporting as we made our way to La Universidad de Buenos Aires to enroll in a very much needed intensive spanish course.

As we passed through La Plaza del Mayo, I was reminded of Eva Peron by a string of graffiti on surrounding benches reading "Los Descamisados" or "The Shirtless Ones." Her Descamisados, as she famously called them during her husband's dictatorship, had once filled this particular plaza to hear their heroine and saviour, Evita, speak words of wisdom and kindness. Her connection to the poor of Buenos Aires is still very much alive over fifty years after her death and her image everywhere, in multiple forms from small picture cards in windows, to chalk drawings or grafitti around the city.

The final turn down road 25 de Mayo (home to La Universidad de Buenos Aires' department of "Filosofia y Letras") was a mere continuation of this reminiscence I felt for the city's past. The antiquated buildings glowered down at us as we walked in single-file through endless clouds of second-hand smoke. Finally reaching our port-of-call, the colonial style UBA building, I was overwhelmed by the Baroque-like interior: an enormous winding stone staircase with Parisian-style lanterns surrounding the bottom step. I was soon brought down to earth and into modern-day Buenos Aires by the matter-of-fact lady directing spanish-speaking hopefuls to the examination "area" where to my horror I was about to discover just how much my Spanish had deteriorated. A quick process, we turned in our completed tests to a table of lively female language assistants and waited in terror to hear our fate: would it be level three? Two? One? Please, not level zero... My name was called and a lovely portena asked me general conversation tidbits: "What did you do this weekend?" "Why Buenos Aires?" "What would you like to do with your Spanish?" I responded, shakily. "Ah," she concluded, "You understand a lot, but your grammar is... not good. I think level three would be best for you. It will be a challenge." And so my language learning fate was determined: level three it is. Perhaps as a graduate of Level Three, I will be able to decipher any phrase or word thrown at me in the Rioplatense dialect, (the most commonly spoken dialect here in Buenos Aires).

Or perhaps that's just wishful thinking.