Buenos Aires, Argentina

Tick tick tick tick; it's just past 6pm, the second hand is counting down, the boarding cards are printing out and any minute now I have to leave. Grabbing my bags I'm out the door at double-quick speed, tangoing round the Circle Line to Paddington where I meet Alexander, editor of Metal Hammer magazine and my companion on this trip to Latin lands.

By the time we've cleared security at Terminal 5 we're ready for food and the first eaterie to appear is Gordon Ramsay's Plane Food establishment. Groaning at the terrible pun Gordon has inflicted upon his restaurant, I roam the terminal in search of alternatives, stopping at various bureaux de change to try and lay my hands on some Argentinian pesos. We'll need to hail a taxi when we get to the other side.

With no luck to be had for love or Amex, and no better options presenting themselves for dinner we return to Gordon's strip-lighted brasserie for a pricey meal, saved by a South African Syrah so bold and chocolatey that it banishes my disappointingly bland chicken from memory almost before swallowing.

With no currency, a 14 hour flight and a 7am arrival time ahead of us, I decide that negotiating with a taxi driver in halting, jet-lagged Spanish is going to be a bad idea so phone the hotel to see if they can arrange an airport pick up.

A rude shock awaits. It seems that our reservations aren't in their system. By now we're at the gate about to board but Annavela, the concierge at the Four Seasons, is adamant we aren't booked into the hotel. I plead with her to double-check but she insists there's no record of us due to arrive. Brandishing my A4 print-out in a futile gesture ten thousand miles away I tell her we must be expected, after all "we're with the band!". But sadly, no. Our travel company seem to have got lost in translation.

Annavela finally promises me she will check again with the reservations team and that if they find our booking, she'll send a car for us. But if not, we're on our own! With no idea whether we'll be penniless and homeless when we arrive, Alex and I board our flight. Fortunately it's only three-quarters full, with the back of the plane quite sparsely populated. Grabbing a row of seats each we settle down, the potential for stretching out and sleeping alleviating the anxiety of what awaits us when we arrive in Buenos Aires. A long walk and a hostel could be the order of the day...

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We touch down in the southern hemisphere just past 7am local time and are quickly ushered through immigration, gaining a huge blue stamp in the passport on the way, and bags taken from the carousel, emerge into the arrivals hall.

An anxious few moments later I espy a besuited man brandishing a Four Seasons hotel sign, and with a cry of 'Hallelujah', he turns out to be for us. Annavela has found our booking and sent a chauffeur. With gratitude we sink into the seats for the long drive into the city.

It's almost an hour before we get to the toll booth that marks the outer limit of the city, crawling along the congested 12-lane super-highway from the airport to the centre. And once we enter the city Buenos Aires reveals itself to be a grand European metropolis - this could easily be Madrid, Paris or Rome. Huge boulevards and avenues, plazas and piazzas, balconies and fountains abound, alongside sweeping parks and colonial statues, government palaces and designer boutiques.

Unlike other South American cities I've been to, this seems to have little indigenous flavour and none of the edgy chaos that can often be found, but is a well-mannered, well-heeled place... just with terrible traffic.

Eventually we pull into the Recoleta district, the chi chi-est part of town, which bar the odd palm tree and bougainvillea could be Knightsbridge or Sloane Square, and pull up at the hotel. Unfortunately our rooms aren't ready so we dump our bags and head off in search of breakfast.

A short walk away is a park which houses Recoleta cemetary, a key tourist attraction for its ornate tombs and mausoleums, made even more famous as it houses the remains of Eva Peron. Knowing Coman would never forgive me if I didn't pay homage Alex and I wander the labyrinthine passages until we find the flower-strewn black marble tomb where she and her family members are buried. Resisting the urge to belt out "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina!" I grab a quick pic and we wander off into the blazing sunshine.

By now it's close to 11am and feeling in need of sustenance we stop at a nearby cafe called La Biela, a long time haunt of writers and poets. Some toast, orange juice and the best coffee I've had in years are produced and we sit back in the glorious sun, both of us tapping away on blackberries to our London paymasters whilst luxuriating in the fact we're on the other side of the planet in such a fabulous town.

Once we're done, and with our rooms not yet ready, we wander over to the taxi rank to venture further afield. As we get into an elderly driver's car, one of his colleagues comes over, gestures for us to keep an eye on our driver and leers , "Omo-sessual!!!" as though it's some kind of warning. Well, my dear, that makes two of us, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it...

Our long-suffering and definitely un-gay driver weaves his way through the traffic, shouting at other vehicles as we go, and takes us west to the Palermo district and into its Soho Quarter, dropping us at Plaza Corazon. We wander down streets named Honduras, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Paraguay and - randomly - Armenia, all of which sport colourful cafes and bars. Funky shops selling clothes and bags, furniture and art sit in amongst the flowers and trees which offer shade from the beating heat.

It's a fabulous neighbourhood, part Haight-Ashbury, part West Hollywood and part Greenwich Village - all very different from the European grandeur elsewhere. After a little meander we settle on a restaurant named Cluny to grab lunch. Cluny is focussed around a courtyard and as we sit down to gazpacho and then a succulent pork chop with sweet potato and caramel, I'm aware that the languid, soulful sounds piped through the air are familiar. They're playing Corinne Bailey Rae's first album - which perfectly suits the relaxed setting, and takes me back a few years.

Over lunch I get a text from Rod, the manager, to say he's arrived into Buenos Aires with the band to follow shortly. We arrange a meeting in the hotel bar to plan the next few days of promo time and suddenly Alex and I both realise that it's 6pm UK time, which means we've been on the go for 36 hours with only a doze on the plane to keep us going. We hail a cab back to the hotel and rooms ready, we hit the sack for a power nap, ahead of the meeting to plan our interview slots. A mid-afternoon siesta... how very Latin America.