As a teenager, I backpacked around Latin America with some friends. Due to some issues in Bolivia, we ended up taking the long way to Brazil, through Paraguay.

As a teenager, I backpacked around Latin America with some friends. Due to some issues in Bolivia, we ended up taking the long way to Brazil, through Paraguay. The contrast was stark. We crossed the border and changed buses. Instead of a truck converted into a bus, with rain leaking through the roof, we had a decent Marcopolo with AC. Instead of a dirt road, there was pavement. We arrived in Asunción late at night and grabbed a hotel not too far from the bus station. The woman at the front desk treated us like crap. So rude. We were exhausted and honestly didn’t care much, but man, I still remember that lady’s butt face. But then we handed over our burgundy passports. Her face changed; from what seemed like barely contained rage to instant guilt. “I’m so, so, so sorry, I thought you were Argentinean. I didn’t know.” She showed us the rooms and even had someone help us with our bags. Seems like the War of the Triple Alliance is still a source of hurt. We didn’t stay long in Asunción; we took the bus to Iguazú the next morning. The little we saw, we liked. It seemed to be moving in a better direction than La Paz, Bolivia. And while still a bit underdeveloped, it felt like a nice, welcoming city. Unless, of course, you happened to be Argentinean.